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Mansfield Park, by Jane Austen (1775-1817)

June, 1994  [Etext #141]


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MANSFIELD PARK
(1814)

by

Jane Austen




CHAPTER I

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lady Bertram made no opposition.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, very."

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

"But, cousin, will it go to the post?"

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

"My uncle!" repeated Fanny, with a frightened look.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER III

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fanny was too much surprised to do more than repeat her aunt's words,
"Going to leave you?"

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

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

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

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

"I hope I am not ungrateful, aunt," said Fanny modestly.

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

"And am I never to live here again?"

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

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

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

"Indeed!"

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

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

"Oh, cousin!"

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

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

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

"I can never be important to any one."

"What is to prevent you?"

"Everything.  My situation, my foolishness and awkwardness."

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

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

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

"Oh!  I do not say so."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then you will not mind living by yourself quite alone?"

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

"I dare say you will.  You always do, don't you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER IV

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Henry bowed and thanked her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER V

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh yes!  I like Julia best."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mary, how shall we manage him?"

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

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

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

"Not always in marriage, dear Mary."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER VI

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"At sea, has she?  In the king's service, of course?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You are fond of the sort of thing?" said Julia.

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER VII

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

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

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

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

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

"And very ungrateful, I think."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The houses, though scarcely half a mile apart, were not within sight
of each other; but, by walking fifty yards from the hall door,
she could look down the park, and command a view of the Parsonage
and all its demesnes, gently rising beyond the village road;
and in Dr. Grant's meadow she immediately saw the group--
Edmund and Miss Crawford both on horse-back, riding side by side,
Dr. and Mrs. Grant, and Mr. Crawford, with two or three grooms,
standing about and looking on.  A happy party it appeared to her,
all interested in one object:  cheerful beyond a doubt, for the sound
of merriment ascended even to her.  It was a sound which did not
make _her_ cheerful; she wondered that Edmund should forget her,
and felt a pang.  She could not turn her eyes from the meadow;
she could not help watching all that passed.  At first Miss Crawford
and her companion made the circuit of the field, which was not small,
at a foot's pace; then, at _her_ apparent suggestion, they rose
into a canter; and to Fanny's timid nature it was most astonishing
to see how well she sat.  After a few minutes they stopped entirely. 
Edmund was close to her; he was speaking to her; he was evidently
directing her management of the bridle; he had hold of her hand;
she saw it, or the imagination supplied what the eye could not reach. 
She

must not wonder at all this; what could be more natural than that
Edmund should be making himself useful, and proving his good-nature
by any one?  She could not but think, indeed, that Mr. Crawford
might as well have saved him the trouble; that it would have
been particularly proper and becoming in a brother to have done
it himself; but Mr. Crawford, with all his boasted good-nature,
and all his coachmanship, probably knew nothing of the matter,
and had no active kindness in comparison of Edmund.  She began
to think it rather hard upon the mare to have such double duty;
if she were forgotten, the poor mare should be remembered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, I do not know--not if you want the mare," was her answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did you go out in the heat?"

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

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

"Fanny has been cutting roses, has she?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But were there roses enough to oblige her to go twice?"

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

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

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

"I wish Fanny had half your strength, ma'am."

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER VIII

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh no!  I cannot do without Fanny."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fanny will feel quite as grateful as the occasion requires,"
was Edmund's only reply, and the subject dropt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER IX

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes; I shall take orders soon after my father's return--
probably at Christmas."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you think the church itself never chosen, then?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Certainly," said Fanny, with gentle earnestness.

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

"I wish I could convince Miss Crawford too."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER X

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You think her more light-hearted than I am?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was again roused from disagreeable musings by sudden footsteps:

somebody was coming at a quick pace down the principal walk. 
She expected Mr. Rushworth, but it was Julia, who, hot and out of breath,
and with a look of disappointment, cried out on seeing her, "Heyday! 
Where are the others?  I thought Maria and Mr. Crawford were with you."

Fanny explained.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Miss Bertram thought you would follow her."

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

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

"I do not think him at all handsome."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XI

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

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

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

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

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

"Your father's return will be a very interesting event."

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

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

"Yes."

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

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

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

"My taking orders, I assure you, is quite as voluntary as Maria's marrying."

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

"Which you suppose has biassed me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I had a very apt scholar.  There's Arcturus looking very bright."

"Yes, and the Bear.  I wish I could see Cassiopeia."

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XII

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What a favourite he is with my cousins!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The couple above, ma'am. Do you see no symptoms there?"

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

"Four thousand a year."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XIII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Edmund smiled and shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XIV

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Miss Crawford must be Amelia.  She will be an excellent Amelia."

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XV

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"There, my dear, do you hear what Edmund says?"

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

"What!" cried Edmund, "if she knew your reasons!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Edmund said no more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XVI

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

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

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

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

"Yes, certainly."

"I want to consult.  I want your opinion."

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

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

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

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

Fanny could not answer him.

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

"No," said Fanny slowly, "not immediately, but--

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

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

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

"Yes, it will be a great point."

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

"No, I cannot think of anything else."

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

"Oh, cousin!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XVII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I will parody them--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XVIII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XIX

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Indeed! and what have you been acting?"

"Oh! they'll tell you all about it."

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

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

"Something must be done," said he.

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

Fanny told of their departure, and delivered their message.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XX

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It is about my uncle's usual time."

"When do you think of going?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XXI

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sir Thomas was satisfied; too glad to be satisfied, perhaps, to urge
the matter quite so far as his judgment might have dictated to others. 
It was an alliance which he could not have relinquished without pain;
and thus he reasoned.  Mr. Rushworth was young enough to improve. 
Mr. Rushworth must and would improve in good society; and if
Maria could now speak so securely of her happiness with him,
speaking certainly without the prejudice, the blindness of love,
she ought to be believed.  Her feelings, probably, were not acute;
he had never supposed them to be so; but her comforts might not be less
on that account; and if she could dispense with seeing her husband
a leading, shining character, there would certainly be everything
else in her favour.  A well-disposed young woman, who did not marry
for love, was in general but the more attached to her own family;
and the nearness of Sotherton to Mansfield must naturally hold
out the greatest temptation, and would, in all probability,
be a continual supply of the most amiable and innocent enjoyments. 
Such and such-like were the reasonings of Sir Thomas, happy to escape
the embarrassing evils of a rupture, the wonder, the reflections,
the reproach that must attend it; happy to secure a marriage which
would bring him such an addition of respectability and influence,
and very happy to think anything of his daughter's disposition that was
most favourable for the purpose.

To her the conference closed as satisfactorily as to him.  She was in a
state of mind to be glad that she had secured her fate beyond recall: 
that she had pledged herself anew to Sotherton; that she was safe
from the possibility of giving Crawford the triumph of governing
her actions, and destroying her prospects; and retired in proud resolve,
determined only to behave more cautiously to Mr. Rushworth in future,
that her father might not be again suspecting her.

Had Sir Thomas applied to his daughter within the first three or four
days after Henry Crawford's leaving Mansfield, before her feelings
were at all tranquillised, before she had given up every hope of him,
or absolutely resolved on enduring his rival, her answer might have
been different; but after another three or four days, when there
was no return, no letter, no message, no symptom of a softened heart,
no hope of advantage from separation, her mind became cool enough
to seek all the comfort that pride and self revenge could give.

Henry Crawford had destroyed her happiness, but he should not
know that he had done it; he should not destroy her credit,
her appearance, her prosperity, too.  He should not have to think
of her as pining in the retirement of Mansfield for _him_,
rejecting Sotherton and London, independence and splendour,
for _his_ sake.  Independence was more needful than ever; the want
of it at Mansfield more sensibly felt.  She was less and less able
to endure the restraint which her father imposed.  The liberty
which his absence had given was now become absolutely necessary. 
She must escape from him and Mansfield as soon as possible, and find
consolation in fortune and consequence, bustle and the world,
for a wounded spirit.  Her mind was quite determined, and varied not.

To such feelings delay, even the delay of much preparation, would have
been an evil, and Mr. Rushworth could hardly be more impatient
for the marriage than herself.  In all the important preparations
of the mind she was complete:  being prepared for matrimony by
an hatred of home, restraint, and tranquillity; by the misery of
disappointed affection, and contempt of the man she was to marry. 
The rest might wait.  The preparations of new carriages and furniture
might wait for London and spring, when her own taste could have fairer play.

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

Mrs. Rushworth was quite ready to retire, and make way for
the fortunate young woman whom her dear son had selected;
and very early in November removed herself, her maid, her footman,
and her chariot, with true dowager propriety, to Bath, there to parade
over the wonders of Sotherton in her evening parties; enjoying them
as thoroughly, perhaps, in the animation of a card-table, as she
had ever done on the spot; and before the middle of the same month
the ceremony had taken place which gave Sotherton another mistress.

It was a very proper wedding.  The bride was elegantly dressed;
the two bridesmaids were duly inferior; her father gave her away;
her mother stood with salts in her hand, expecting to be agitated;
her aunt tried to cry; and the service was impressively read
by Dr. Grant.  Nothing could be objected to when it came under
the discussion of the neighbourhood, except that the carriage which
conveyed the bride and bridegroom and Julia from the church-door
to Sotherton was the same chaise which Mr. Rushworth had used for
a twelvemonth before.  In everything else the etiquette of the day
might stand the strictest investigation.

It was done, and they were gone.  Sir Thomas felt as an anxious
father must feel, and was indeed experiencing much of the agitation
which his wife had been apprehensive of for herself, but had
fortunately escaped.  Mrs. Norris, most happy to assist in the duties
of the day, by spending it at the Park to support her sister's spirits,
and drinking the health of Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth in a supernumerary
glass or two, was all joyous delight; for she had made the match;
she had done everything; and no one would have supposed, from her
confident triumph, that she had ever heard of conjugal infelicity
in her life, or could have the smallest insight into the disposition
of the niece who had been brought up under her eye.

The plan of the young couple was to proceed, after a few days,
to Brighton, and take a house there for some weeks.  Every public
place was new to Maria, and Brighton is almost as gay in winter
as in summer.  When the novelty of amusement there was over,
it would be time for the wider range of London.

Julia was to go with them to Brighton.  Since rivalry between the sisters
had ceased, they had been gradually recovering much of their former
good understanding; and were at least sufficiently friends to make
each of them exceedingly glad to be with the other at such a time. 
Some other companion than Mr. Rushworth was of the first consequence
to his lady; and Julia was quite as eager for novelty and pleasure
as Maria, though she might not have struggled through so much
to obtain them, and could better bear a subordinate situation.

Their departure made another material change at Mansfield, a chasm
which required some time to fill up.  The family circle became
greatly contracted; and though the Miss Bertrams had latterly added
little to its gaiety, they could not but be missed.  Even their
mother missed them; and how much more their tenderhearted cousin,
who wandered about the house, and thought of them, and felt for them,
with a degree of affectionate regret which they had never done much
to deserve!



CHAPTER XXII

Fanny's consequence increased on the departure of her cousins. 
Becoming, as she then did, the only young woman in the drawing-room,
the only occupier of that interesting division of a family in which she
had hitherto held so humble a third, it was impossible for her not
to be more looked at, more thought of and attended to, than she had
ever been before; and "Where is Fanny?" became no uncommon question,
even without her being wanted for any one's convenience.

Not only at home did her value increase, but at the Parsonage too. 
In that house, which she had hardly entered twice a year since
Mr. Norris's death, she became a welcome, an invited guest, and in
the gloom and dirt of a November day, most acceptable to Mary Crawford. 
Her visits there, beginning by chance, were continued by solicitation. 
Mrs. Grant, really eager to get any change for her sister, could,
by the easiest self-deceit, persuade herself that she was doing
the kindest thing by Fanny, and giving her the most important
opportunities of improvement in pressing her frequent calls.

Fanny, having been sent into the village on some errand by her
aunt Norris, was overtaken by a heavy shower close to the Parsonage;
and being descried from one of the windows endeavouring to find
shelter under the branches and lingering leaves of an oak just
beyond their premises, was forced, though not without some modest
reluctance on her part, to come in.  A civil servant she had withstood;
but when Dr. Grant himself went out with an umbrella, there was nothing
to be done but to be very much ashamed, and to get into the house
as fast as possible; and to poor Miss Crawford, who had just been
contemplating the dismal rain in a very desponding state of mind,
sighing over the ruin of all her plan of exercise for that morning,
and of every chance of seeing a single creature beyond themselves
for the next twenty-four hours, the sound of a little bustle
at the front door, and the sight of Miss Price dripping with wet
in the vestibule, was delightful.  The value of an event on
a wet day in the country was most forcibly brought before her. 
She was all alive again directly, and among the most active in being
useful to Fanny, in detecting her to be wetter than she would
at first allow, and providing her with dry clothes; and Fanny,
after being obliged to submit to all this attention, and to being
assisted and waited on by mistresses and maids, being also obliged,
on returning downstairs, to be fixed in their drawing-room
for an hour while the rain continued, the blessing of something
fresh to see and think of was thus extended to Miss Crawford,
and might carry on her spirits to the period of dressing and dinner.

The two sisters were so kind to her, and so pleasant, that Fanny
might have enjoyed her visit could she have believed herself not in
the way, and could she have foreseen that the weather would certainly
clear at the end of the hour, and save her from the shame of having
Dr. Grant's carriage and horses out to take her home, with which
she was threatened.  As to anxiety for any alarm that her absence
in such weather might occasion at home, she had nothing to suffer
on that score; for as her being out was known only to her two aunts,
she was perfectly aware that none would be felt, and that in whatever
cottage aunt Norris might chuse to establish her during the rain,
her being in such cottage would be indubitable to aunt Bertram.

It was beginning to look brighter, when Fanny, observing a harp
in the room, asked some questions about it, which soon led to an
acknowledgment of her wishing very much to hear it, and a confession,
which could hardly be believed, of her having never yet heard
it since its being in Mansfield.  To Fanny herself it appeared
a very simple and natural circumstance.  She had scarcely ever been
at the Parsonage since the instrument's arrival, there had been no
reason that she should; but Miss Crawford, calling to mind an early
expressed wish on the subject, was concerned at her own neglect;
and "Shall I play to you now?" and "What will you have?"
were questions immediately following with the readiest good-humour.

She played accordingly; happy to have a new listener, and a listener
who seemed so much obliged, so full of wonder at the performance,
and who shewed herself not wanting in taste.  She played till
Fanny's eyes, straying to the window on the weather's being
evidently fair, spoke what she felt must be done.

"Another quarter of an hour," said Miss Crawford, "and we shall see
how it will be.  Do not run away the first moment of its holding up. 
Those clouds look alarming."

"But they are passed over," said Fanny.  "I have been watching them. 
This weather is all from the south."

"South or north, I know a black cloud when I see it; and you
must not set forward while it is so threatening.  And besides,
I want to play something more to you--a very pretty piece--
and your cousin Edmund's prime favourite.  You must stay and hear
your cousin's favourite."

Fanny felt that she must; and though she had not waited for
that sentence to be thinking of Edmund, such a memento made
her particularly awake to his idea, and she fancied him sitting
in that room again and again, perhaps in the very spot where she
sat now, listening with constant delight to the favourite air,
played, as it appeared to her, with superior tone and expression;
and though pleased with it herself, and glad to like whatever
was liked by him, she was more sincerely impatient to go away
at the conclusion of it than she had been before; and on this
being evident, she was so kindly asked to call again, to take them
in her walk whenever she could, to come and hear more of the harp,
that she felt it necessary to be done, if no objection arose at home.

Such was the origin of the sort of intimacy which took place between
them within the first fortnight after the Miss Bertrams' going away--
an intimacy resulting principally from Miss Crawford's desire of
something new, and which had little reality in Fanny's feelings. 
Fanny went to her every two or three days:  it seemed a kind
of fascination:  she could not be easy without going, and yet it
was without loving her, without ever thinking like her, without any
sense of obligation for being sought after now when nobody else was
to be had; and deriving no higher pleasure from her conversation than
occasional amusement, and _that_ often at the expense of her judgment,
when it was raised by pleasantry on people or subjects which she
wished to be respected.  She went, however, and they sauntered about
together many an half-hour in Mrs. Grant's shrubbery, the weather
being unusually mild for the time of year, and venturing sometimes
even to sit down on one of the benches now comparatively unsheltered,
remaining there perhaps till, in the midst of some tender
ejaculation of Fanny's on the sweets of so protracted an autumn,
they were forced, by the sudden swell of a cold gust shaking down
the last few yellow leaves about them, to jump up and walk for warmth.

"This is pretty, very pretty," said Fanny, looking around her as they
were thus sitting together one day; "every time I come into this
shrubbery I am more struck with its growth and beauty.  Three years ago,
this was nothing but a rough hedgerow along the upper side of the field,
never thought of as anything, or capable of becoming anything;
and now it is converted into a walk, and it would be difficult
to say whether most valuable as a convenience or an ornament;
and perhaps, in another three years, we may be forgetting--
almost forgetting what it was before.  How wonderful, how very
wonderful the operations of time, and the changes of the human mind!" 
And following the latter train of thought, she soon afterwards added: 
"If any one faculty of our nature may be called _more_ wonderful
than the rest, I do think it is memory.  There seems something
more speakingly incomprehensible in the powers, the failures,
the inequalities of memory, than in any other of our intelligences. 
The memory is sometimes so retentive, so serviceable, so obedient;
at others, so bewildered and so weak; and at others again, so tyrannic,
so beyond control!  We are, to be sure, a miracle every way; but our
powers of recollecting and of forgetting do seem peculiarly past
finding out."

Miss Crawford, untouched and inattentive, had nothing to say;
and Fanny, perceiving it, brought back her own mind to what she
thought must interest.

"It may seem impertinent in _me_ to praise, but I must admire
the taste Mrs. Grant has shewn in all this.  There is such a quiet
simplicity in the plan of the walk!  Not too much attempted!"

"Yes," replied Miss Crawford carelessly, "it does very well
for a place of this sort.  One does not think of extent _here_;
and between ourselves, till I came to Mansfield, I had not imagined
a country parson ever aspired to a shrubbery, or anything of the kind."

"I am so glad to see the evergreens thrive!" said Fanny, in reply. 
"My uncle's gardener always says the soil here is better than his own,
and so it appears from the growth of the laurels and evergreens
in general.  The evergreen!  How beautiful, how welcome, how wonderful
the evergreen!  When one thinks of it, how astonishing a variety
of nature!  In some countries we know the tree that sheds its leaf
is the variety, but that does not make it less amazing that the same
soil and the same sun should nurture plants differing in the first
rule and law of their existence.  You will think me rhapsodising;
but when I am out of doors, especially when I am sitting out of doors,
I am very apt to get into this sort of wondering strain.  One cannot
fix one's eyes on the commonest natural production without finding
food for a rambling fancy."

"To say the truth," replied Miss Crawford, "I am something like
the famous Doge at the court of Lewis XIV.; and may declare that I
see no wonder in this shrubbery equal to seeing myself in it. 
If anybody had told me a year ago that this place would be my home,
that I should be spending month after month here, as I have done,
I certainly should not have believed them.  I have now been here
nearly five months; and, moreover, the quietest five months I
ever passed."

"_Too_ quiet for you, I believe."

"I should have thought so _theoretically_ myself, but," and her eyes
brightened as she spoke, "take it all and all, I never spent so happy
a summer.  But then," with a more thoughtful air and lowered voice,
"there is no saying what it may lead to."

Fanny's heart beat quick, and she felt quite unequal to surmising
or soliciting anything more.  Miss Crawford, however, with renewed
animation, soon went on--

"I am conscious of being far better reconciled to a country residence
than I had ever expected to be.  I can even suppose it pleasant
to spend _half_ the year in the country, under certain circumstances,
very pleasant.  An elegant, moderate-sized house in the centre
of family connexions; continual engagements among them; commanding
the first society in the neighbourhood; looked up to, perhaps,
as leading it even more than those of larger fortune, and turning
from the cheerful round of such amusements to nothing worse than a
_tete-a-tete_ with the person one feels most agreeable in the world. 
There is nothing frightful in such a picture, is there, Miss Price? 
One need not envy the new Mrs. Rushworth with such a home as _that_." 
"Envy Mrs. Rushworth!" was all that Fanny attempted to say. 
"Come, come, it would be very un-handsome in us to be severe
on Mrs. Rushworth, for I look forward to our owing her a great
many gay, brilliant, happy hours.  I expect we shall be all very much
at Sotherton another year.  Such a match as Miss Bertram has made
is a public blessing; for the first pleasures of Mr. Rushworth's
wife must be to fill her house, and give the best balls in the country."

Fanny was silent, and Miss Crawford relapsed into thoughtfulness,
till suddenly looking up at the end of a few minutes, she exclaimed,
"Ah! here he is."  It was not Mr. Rushworth, however, but Edmund,
who then appeared walking towards them with Mrs. Grant.  "My sister
and Mr. Bertram.  I am so glad your eldest cousin is gone, that he
may be Mr. Bertram again.  There is something in the sound of
Mr. _Edmund_ Bertram so formal, so pitiful, so younger-brother-like,
that I detest it."

"How differently we feel!" cried Fanny.  "To me, the sound of _Mr._
Bertram is so cold and nothing-meaning, so entirely without warmth
or character!  It just stands for a gentleman, and that's all. 
But there is nobleness in the name of Edmund.  It is a name of heroism
and renown; of kings, princes, and knights; and seems to breathe
the spirit of chivalry and warm affections."

"I grant you the name is good in itself, and _Lord_ Edmund
or _Sir_ Edmund sound delightfully; but sink it under the chill,
the annihilation of a Mr., and Mr. Edmund is no more than Mr. John
or Mr. Thomas.  Well, shall we join and disappoint them of half
their lecture upon sitting down out of doors at this time of year,
by being up before they can begin?"

Edmund met them with particular pleasure.  It was the first time
of his seeing them together since the beginning of that better
acquaintance which he had been hearing of with great satisfaction. 
A friendship between two so very dear to him was exactly what he
could have wished:  and to the credit of the lover's understanding,
be it stated, that he did not by any means consider Fanny as the only,
or even as the greater gainer by such a friendship.

"Well," said Miss Crawford, "and do you not scold us for our imprudence? 
What do you think we have been sitting down for but to be talked
to about it, and entreated and supplicated never to do so again?"

"Perhaps I might have scolded," said Edmund, "if either of you
had been sitting down alone; but while you do wrong together,
I can overlook a great deal."

"They cannot have been sitting long," cried Mrs. Grant, "for when
I went up for my shawl I saw them from the staircase window,
and then they were walking."

"And really," added Edmund, "the day is so mild, that your sitting
down for a few minutes can be hardly thought imprudent.  Our weather
must not always be judged by the calendar.  We may sometimes take
greater liberties in November than in May."

"Upon my word," cried Miss Crawford, "you are two of the most
disappointing and unfeeling kind friends I ever met with! 
There is no giving you a moment's uneasiness.  You do not know how
much we have been suffering, nor what chills we have felt!  But I
have long thought Mr. Bertram one of the worst subjects to work on,
in any little manoeuvre against common sense, that a woman could
be plagued with.  I had very little hope of _him_ from the first;
but you, Mrs. Grant, my sister, my own sister, I think I had a right
to alarm you a little."

"Do not flatter yourself, my dearest Mary.  You have not the smallest
chance of moving me.  I have my alarms, but they are quite in a
different quarter; and if I could have altered the weather, you would
have had a good sharp east wind blowing on you the whole time--
for here are some of my plants which Robert _will_ leave out
because the nights are so mild, and I know the end of it will be,
that we shall have a sudden change of weather, a hard frost
setting in all at once, taking everybody (at least Robert)
by surprise, and I shall lose every one; and what is worse,
cook has just been telling me that the turkey, which I particularly
wished not to be dressed till Sunday, because I know how much more
Dr. Grant would enjoy it on Sunday after the fatigues of the day,
will not keep beyond to-morrow. These are something like grievances,
and make me think the weather most unseasonably close."

"The sweets of housekeeping in a country village!" said Miss
Crawford archly.  "Commend me to the nurseryman and the poulterer."

"My dear child, commend Dr. Grant to the deanery of Westminster
or St. Paul's, and I should be as glad of your nurseryman and
poulterer as you could be.  But we have no such people in Mansfield. 
What would you have me do?"

"Oh! you can do nothing but what you do already:  be plagued
very often, and never lose your temper."

"Thank you; but there is no escaping these little vexations, Mary,
live where we may; and when you are settled in town and I come
to see you, I dare say I shall find you with yours, in spite of
the nurseryman and the poulterer, perhaps on their very account. 
Their remoteness and unpunctuality, or their exorbitant charges
and frauds, will be drawing forth bitter lamentations."

"I mean to be too rich to lament or to feel anything of the sort. 
A large income is the best recipe for happiness I ever heard of. 
It certainly may secure all the myrtle and turkey part of it."

"You intend to be very rich?" said Edmund, with a look which,
to Fanny's eye, had a great deal of serious meaning.

"To be sure.  Do not you?  Do not we all?"

"I cannot intend anything which it must be so completely beyond my
power to command.  Miss Crawford may chuse her degree of wealth. 
She has only to fix on her number of thousands a year, and there
can be no doubt of their coming.  My intentions are only not to
be poor."

"By moderation and economy, and bringing down your wants to your income,
and all that.  I understand you--and a very proper plan it is
for a person at your time of life, with such limited means and
indifferent connexions.  What can _you_ want but a decent maintenance? 
You have not much time before you; and your relations are in no
situation to do anything for you, or to mortify you by the contrast
of their own wealth and consequence.  Be honest and poor, by all means--
but I shall not envy you; I do not much think I shall even respect you. 
I have a much greater respect for those that are honest and rich."

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

"But I do look down upon it, if it might have been higher. 
I must look down upon anything contented with obscurity when it
might rise to distinction."

"But how may it rise?  How may my honesty at least rise to any distinction?"

This was not so very easy a question to answer, and occasioned
an "Oh!" of some length from the fair lady before she could add,
"You ought to be in parliament, or you should have gone into the army
ten years ago."

"_That_ is not much to the purpose now; and as to my being
in parliament, I believe I must wait till there is an especial
assembly for the representation of younger sons who have little
to live on.  No, Miss Crawford," he added, in a more serious tone,
"there _are_ distinctions which I should be miserable if I thought
myself without any chance--absolutely without chance or possibility
of obtaining--but they are of a different character."

A look of consciousness as he spoke, and what seemed a consciousness
of manner on Miss Crawford's side as she made some laughing answer,
was sorrowfull food for Fanny's observation; and finding herself
quite unable to attend as she ought to Mrs. Grant, by whose side
she was now following the others, she had nearly resolved on
going home immediately, and only waited for courage to say so,
when the sound of the great clock at Mansfield Park, striking three,
made her feel that she had really been much longer absent than usual,
and brought the previous self-inquiry of whether she should
take leave or not just then, and how, to a very speedy issue. 
With undoubting decision she directly began her adieus; and Edmund
began at the same time to recollect that his mother had been inquiring
for her, and that he had walked down to the Parsonage on purpose
to bring her back.

Fanny's hurry increased; and without in the least expecting Edmund's
attendance, she would have hastened away alone; but the general
pace was quickened, and they all accompanied her into the house,
through which it was necessary to pass.  Dr. Grant was in the vestibule,
and as they stopt to speak to him she found, from Edmund's manner,
that he _did_ mean to go with her.  He too was taking leave. 
She could not but be thankful.  In the moment of parting, Edmund was
invited by Dr. Grant to eat his mutton with him the next day;
and Fanny had barely time for an unpleasant feeling on the occasion,
when Mrs. Grant, with sudden recollection, turned to her and asked
for the pleasure of her company too.  This was so new an attention,
so perfectly new a circumstance in the events of Fanny's life,
that she was all surprise and embarrassment; and while stammering
out her great obligation, and her "but she did not suppose it would
be in her power," was looking at Edmund for his opinion and help. 
But Edmund, delighted with her having such an happiness offered,
and ascertaining with half a look, and half a sentence, that she
had no objection but on her aunt's account, could not imagine that
his mother would make any difficulty of sparing her, and therefore
gave his decided open advice that the invitation should be accepted;
and though Fanny would not venture, even on his encouragement,
to such a flight of audacious independence, it was soon settled,
that if nothing were heard to the contrary, Mrs. Grant might expect
her.

"And you know what your dinner will be," said Mrs. Grant,
smiling--"the turkey, and I assure you a very fine one; for, my dear,"
turning to her husband, "cook insists upon the turkey's being
dressed to-morrow."

"Very well, very well," cried Dr. Grant, "all the better; I am
glad to hear you have anything so good in the house.  But Miss
Price and Mr. Edmund Bertram, I dare say, would take their chance. 
We none of us want to hear the bill of fare.  A friendly meeting,
and not a fine dinner, is all we have in view.  A turkey, or a goose,
or a leg of mutton, or whatever you and your cook chuse to give us."

The two cousins walked home together; and, except in the immediate discussion
of this engagement, which Edmund spoke of with the warmest satisfaction,
as so particularly desirable for her in the intimacy which he saw
with so much pleasure established, it was a silent walk; for having
finished that subject, he grew thoughtful and indisposed for any other.



CHAPTER XXIII

"But why should Mrs. Grant ask Fanny?" said Lady Bertram. 
"How came she to think of asking Fanny?  Fanny never dines there,
you know, in this sort of way.  I cannot spare her, and I am sure
she does not want to go.  Fanny, you do not want to go, do you?"

"If you put such a question to her," cried Edmund, preventing his
cousin's speaking, "Fanny will immediately say No; but I am sure,
my dear mother, she would like to go; and I can see no reason why
she should not."

"I cannot imagine why Mrs. Grant should think of asking her? 
She never did before.  She used to ask your sisters now and then,
but she never asked Fanny."

"If you cannot do without me, ma'am--" said Fanny, in a self-denying tone.

"But my mother will have my father with her all the evening."

"To be sure, so I shall."

"Suppose you take my father's opinion, ma'am."

"That's well thought of.  So I will, Edmund.  I will ask Sir Thomas,
as soon as he comes in, whether I can do without her."

"As you please, ma'am, on that head; but I meant my father's opinion
as to the _propriety_ of the invitation's being accepted or not;
and I think he will consider it a right thing by Mrs. Grant,
as well as by Fanny, that being the _first_ invitation it should
be accepted."

"I do not know.  We will ask him.  But he will be very much surprised
that Mrs. Grant should ask Fanny at all."

There was nothing more to be said, or that could be said to any purpose,
till Sir Thomas were present; but the subject involving, as it did,
her own evening's comfort for the morrow, was so much uppermost
in Lady Bertram's mind, that half an hour afterwards, on his looking
in for a minute in his way from his plantation to his dressing-room,
she called him back again, when he had almost closed the door,
with "Sir Thomas, stop a moment--I have something to say to you."

Her tone of calm languor, for she never took the trouble of raising
her voice, was always heard and attended to; and Sir Thomas came back. 
Her story began; and Fanny immediately slipped out of the room;
for to hear herself the subject of any discussion with her uncle
was more than her nerves could bear.  She was anxious, she knew--
more anxious perhaps than she ought to be--for what was it after
all whether she went or staid? but if her uncle were to be a
great while considering and deciding, and with very grave looks,
and those grave looks directed to her, and at last decide against her,
she might not be able to appear properly submissive and indifferent. 
Her cause, meanwhile, went on well.  It began, on Lady Bertram's part,
with--"I have something to tell you that will surprise you.  Mrs. Grant
has asked Fanny to dinner."

"Well," said Sir Thomas, as if waiting more to accomplish the surprise.

"Edmund wants her to go.  But how can I spare her?"

"She will be late," said Sir Thomas, taking out his watch;
"but what is your difficulty?"

Edmund found himself obliged to speak and fill up the blanks in
his mother's story.  He told the whole; and she had only to add,
"So strange! for Mrs. Grant never used to ask her."

"But is it not very natural," observed Edmund, "that Mrs. Grant
should wish to procure so agreeable a visitor for her sister?"

"Nothing can be more natural," said Sir Thomas, after a short deliberation;
"nor, were there no sister in the case, could anything, in my opinion,
be more natural.  Mrs. Grant's shewing civility to Miss Price, to Lady
Bertram's niece, could never want explanation.  The only surprise I
can feel is, that this should be the _first_ time of its being paid. 
Fanny was perfectly right in giving only a conditional answer. 
She appears to feel as she ought.  But as I conclude that she must
wish to go, since all young people like to be together, I can see
no reason why she should be denied the indulgence."

"But can I do without her, Sir Thomas?"

"Indeed I think you may."

"She always makes tea, you know, when my sister is not here."

"Your sister, perhaps, may be prevailed on to spend the day with us,
and I shall certainly be at home."

"Very well, then, Fanny may go, Edmund."

The good news soon followed her.  Edmund knocked at her door
in his way to his own.

"Well, Fanny, it is all happily settled, and without the smallest
hesitation on your uncle's side.  He had but one opinion. 
You are to go."

"Thank you, I am _so_ glad," was Fanny's instinctive reply;
though when she had turned from him and shut the door, she could
not help feeling, "And yet why should I be glad? for am I not
certain of seeing or hearing something there to pain me?"

In spite of this conviction, however, she was glad.  Simple as such
an engagement might appear in other eyes, it had novelty and importance
in hers, for excepting the day at Sotherton, she had scarcely ever
dined out before; and though now going only half a mile, and only to
three people, still it was dining out, and all the little interests
of preparation were enjoyments in themselves.  She had neither sympathy
nor assistance from those who ought to have entered into her feelings
and directed her taste; for Lady Bertram never thought of being
useful to anybody, and Mrs. Norris, when she came on the morrow,
in consequence of an early call and invitation from Sir Thomas,
was in a very ill humour, and seemed intent only on lessening
her niece's pleasure, both present and future, as much as possible.

"Upon my word, Fanny, you are in high luck to meet with such attention
and indulgence!  You ought to be very much obliged to Mrs. Grant
for thinking of you, and to your aunt for letting you go, and you
ought to look upon it as something extraordinary; for I hope you
are aware that there is no real occasion for your going into company
in this sort of way, or ever dining out at all; and it is what you
must not depend upon ever being repeated.  Nor must you be fancying
that the invitation is meant as any particular compliment to _you_;
the compliment is intended to your uncle and aunt and me. 
Mrs. Grant thinks it a civility due to _us_ to take a little notice
of you, or else it would never have come into her head, and you
may be very certain that, if your cousin Julia had been at home,
you would not have been asked at all."

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

"Oh! depend upon it, your aunt can do very well without you, or you
would not be allowed to go.  _I_ shall be here, so you may be quite
easy about your aunt.  And I hope you will have a very _agreeable_ day,
and find it all mighty _delightful_.  But I must observe that five
is the very awkwardest of all possible numbers to sit down to table;
and I cannot but be surprised that such an _elegant_ lady as
Mrs. Grant should not contrive better!  And round their enormous
great wide table, too, which fills up the room so dreadfully! 
Had the doctor been contented to take my dining-table when I came away,
as anybody in their senses would have done, instead of having
that absurd new one of his own, which is wider, literally wider
than the dinner-table here, how infinitely better it would have
been! and how much more he would have been respected! for people
are never respected when they step out of their proper sphere. 
Remember that, Fanny.  Five--only five to be sitting round
that table.  However, you will have dinner enough on it for ten,
I dare say."

Mrs. Norris fetched breath, and went on again.

"The nonsense and folly of people's stepping out of their rank and trying
to appear above themselves, makes me think it right to give _you_
a hint, Fanny, now that you are going into company without any of us;
and I do beseech and entreat you not to be putting yourself forward,
and talking and giving your opinion as if you were one of your cousins--
as if you were dear Mrs. Rushworth or Julia.  _That_ will never do,
believe me.  Remember, wherever you are, you must be the lowest and last;
and though Miss Crawford is in a manner at home at the Parsonage,
you are not to be taking place of her.  And as to coming away
at night, you are to stay just as long as Edmund chuses.  Leave him
to settle _that_."

"Yes, ma'am, I should not think of anything else."

"And if it should rain, which I think exceedingly likely,
for I never saw it more threatening for a wet evening in my life,
you must manage as well as you can, and not be expecting the carriage
to be sent for you.  I certainly do not go home to-night, and,
therefore, the carriage will not be out on my account; so you must
make up your mind to what may happen, and take your things accordingly."

Her niece thought it perfectly reasonable.  She rated her own
claims to comfort as low even as Mrs. Norris could; and when Sir
Thomas soon afterwards, just opening the door, said, "Fanny, at
what time would you have the carriage come round?" she felt
a degree of astonishment which made it impossible for her to speak.

"My dear Sir Thomas!" cried Mrs. Norris, red with anger, "Fanny can walk."

"Walk!" repeated Sir Thomas, in a tone of most unanswerable dignity,
and coming farther into the room.  "My niece walk to a dinner
engagement at this time of the year!  Will twenty minutes after four
suit you?"

"Yes, sir," was Fanny's humble answer, given with the feelings
almost of a criminal towards Mrs. Norris; and not bearing to remain
with her in what might seem a state of triumph, she followed her
uncle out of the room, having staid behind him only long enough
to hear these words spoken in angry agitation--

"Quite unnecessary! a great deal too kind!  But Edmund goes; true,
it is upon Edmund's account.  I observed he was hoarse on Thursday night."

But this could not impose on Fanny.  She felt that the carriage
was for herself, and herself alone:  and her uncle's consideration
of her, coming immediately after such representations from her aunt,
cost her some tears of gratitude when she was alone.

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

"Now I must look at you, Fanny," said Edmund, with the kind smile
of an affectionate brother, "and tell you how I like you; and as
well as I can judge by this light, you look very nicely indeed. 
What have you got on?"

"The new dress that my uncle was so good as to give me on my
cousin's marriage.  I hope it is not too fine; but I thought I ought
to wear it as soon as I could, and that I might not have such another
opportunity all the winter.  I hope you do not think me too fine."

"A woman can never be too fine while she is all in white.  No, I see
no finery about you; nothing but what is perfectly proper. 
Your gown seems very pretty.  I like these glossy spots. 
Has not Miss Crawford a gown something the same?"

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

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

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

In the drawing-room Mr. Crawford certainly was, having been just long
enough arrived to be ready for dinner; and the smiles and pleased
looks of the three others standing round him, shewed how welcome
was his sudden resolution of coming to them for a few days on
leaving Bath.  A very cordial meeting passed between him and Edmund;
and with the exception of Fanny, the pleasure was general;
and even to _her_ there might be some advantage in his presence,
since every addition to the party must rather forward her favourite
indulgence of being suffered to sit silent and unattended to. 
She was soon aware of this herself; for though she must submit, as her
own propriety of mind directed, in spite of her aunt Norris's opinion,
to being the principal lady in company, and to all the little
distinctions consequent thereon, she found, while they were at table,
such a happy flow of conversation prevailing, in which she was not
required to take any part--there was so much to be said between
the brother and sister about Bath, so much between the two young men
about hunting, so much of politics between Mr. Crawford and Dr. Grant,
and of everything and all together between Mr. Crawford and Mrs. Grant,
as to leave her the fairest prospect of having only to listen
in quiet, and of passing a very agreeable day.  She could not
compliment the newly arrived gentleman, however, with any appearance
of interest, in a scheme for extending his stay at Mansfield,
and sending for his hunters from Norfolk, which, suggested by
Dr. Grant, advised by Edmund, and warmly urged by the two sisters,
was soon in possession of his mind, and which he seemed to want
to be encouraged even by her to resolve on.  Her opinion was sought
as to the probable continuance of the open weather, but her answers
were as short and indifferent as civility allowed.  She could
not wish him to stay, and would much rather not have him speak to her.

Her two absent cousins, especially Maria, were much in her thoughts
on seeing him; but no embarrassing remembrance affected _his_ spirits. 
Here he was again on the same ground where all had passed before,
and apparently as willing to stay and be happy without the Miss Bertrams,
as if he had never known Mansfield in any other state.  She heard
them spoken of by him only in a general way, till they were all
re-assembled in the drawing-room, when Edmund, being engaged apart
in some matter of business with Dr. Grant, which seemed entirely
to engross them, and Mrs. Grant occupied at the tea-table, he began
talking of them with more particularity to his other sister. 
With a significant smile, which made Fanny quite hate him,
he said, "So!  Rushworth and his fair bride are at Brighton,
I understand; happy man!"

"Yes, they have been there about a fortnight, Miss Price, have they not? 
And Julia is with them."

"And Mr. Yates, I presume, is not far off."

"Mr. Yates!  Oh! we hear nothing of Mr. Yates.  I do not imagine he
figures much in the letters to Mansfield Park; do you, Miss Price? 
I think my friend Julia knows better than to entertain her father
with Mr. Yates."

"Poor Rushworth and his two-and-forty speeches!" continued Crawford. 
"Nobody can ever forget them.  Poor fellow!  I see him now--his toil
and his despair.  Well, I am much mistaken if his lovely Maria will
ever want him to make two-and-forty speeches to her"; adding, with a
momentary seriousness, "She is too good for him--much too good." 
And then changing his tone again to one of gentle gallantry,
and addressing Fanny, he said, "You were Mr. Rushworth's best friend. 
Your kindness and patience can never be forgotten, your indefatigable
patience in trying to make it possible for him to learn his part--
in trying to give him a brain which nature had denied--to mix up
an understanding for him out of the superfluity of your own! 
_He_ might not have sense enough himself to estimate your kindness,
but I may venture to say that it had honour from all the rest of
the party."

Fanny coloured, and said nothing.

"It is as a dream, a pleasant dream!" he exclaimed, breaking forth again,
after a few minutes' musing.  "I shall always look back on our
theatricals with exquisite pleasure.  There was such an interest,
such an animation, such a spirit diffused.  Everybody felt it. 
We were all alive.  There was employment, hope, solicitude, bustle,
for every hour of the day.  Always some little objection,
some little doubt, some little anxiety to be got over.  I never was happier."

With silent indignation Fanny repeated to herself, "Never happier!--
never happier than when doing what you must know was not justifiable!--
never happier than when behaving so dishonourably and unfeelingly! 
Oh! what a corrupted mind!"

"We were unlucky, Miss Price," he continued, in a lower tone,
to avoid the possibility of being heard by Edmund, and not at
all aware of her feelings, "we certainly were very unlucky. 
Another week, only one other week, would have been enough for us. 
I think if we had had the disposal of events--if Mansfield Park
had had the government of the winds just for a week or two,
about the equinox, there would have been a difference.  Not that
we would have endangered his safety by any tremendous weather--
but only by a steady contrary wind, or a calm.  I think, Miss Price,
we would have indulged ourselves with a week's calm in the Atlantic at
that season."

He seemed determined to be answered; and Fanny, averting
her face, said, with a firmer tone than usual, "As far as _I_
am concerned, sir, I would not have delayed his return for a day. 
My uncle disapproved it all so entirely when he did arrive,
that in my opinion everything had gone quite far enough."

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

Miss Crawford, who had been repeatedly eyeing Dr. Grant and Edmund,
now observed, "Those gentlemen must have some very interesting point
to discuss."

"The most interesting in the world," replied her brother--
"how to make money; how to turn a good income into a better. 
Dr. Grant is giving Bertram instructions about the living he is
to step into so soon.  I find he takes orders in a few weeks. 
They were at it in the dining-parlour. I am glad to hear Bertram
will be so well off.  He will have a very pretty income to make
ducks and drakes with, and earned without much trouble.  I apprehend
he will not have less than seven hundred a year.  Seven hundred
a year is a fine thing for a younger brother; and as of course he
will still live at home, it will be all for his _menus_ _plaisirs_;
and a sermon at Christmas and Easter, I suppose, will be the sum total
of sacrifice."

His sister tried to laugh off her feelings by saying, "Nothing
amuses me more than the easy manner with which everybody settles
the abundance of those who have a great deal less than themselves. 
You would look rather blank, Henry, if your _menus_ _plaisirs_
were to be limited to seven hundred a year."

"Perhaps I might; but all _that_ you know is entirely comparative. 
Birthright and habit must settle the business.  Bertram is certainly
well off for a cadet of even a baronet's family.  By the time he
is four or five and twenty he will have seven hundred a year,
and nothing to do for it."

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

"Bertram," said Henry Crawford, "I shall make a point of coming
to Mansfield to hear you preach your first sermon.  I shall come
on purpose to encourage a young beginner.  When is it to be? 
Miss Price, will not you join me in encouraging your cousin? 
Will not you engage to attend with your eyes steadily fixed on him
the whole time--as I shall do--not to lose a word; or only looking
off just to note down any sentence preeminently beautiful?  We will
provide ourselves with tablets and a pencil.  When will it be? 
You must preach at Mansfield, you know, that Sir Thomas and Lady
Bertram may hear you."

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

"Will he not feel this?" thought Fanny.  "No, he can feel nothing
as he ought."

The party being now all united, and the chief talkers attracting
each other, she remained in tranquillity; and as a whist-table
was formed after tea--formed really for the amusement of Dr. Grant,
by his attentive wife, though it was not to be supposed so--
and Miss Crawford took her harp, she had nothing to do but to listen;
and her tranquillity remained undisturbed the rest of the evening,
except when Mr. Crawford now and then addressed to her a question
or observation, which she could not avoid answering.  Miss Crawford
was too much vexed by what had passed to be in a humour for anything
but music.  With that she soothed herself and amused her friend.

The assurance of Edmund's being so soon to take orders, coming upon
her like a blow that had been suspended, and still hoped uncertain
and at a distance, was felt with resentment and mortification. 
She was very angry with him.  She had thought her influence more. 
She _had_ begun to think of him; she felt that she had,
with great regard, with almost decided intentions; but she would
now meet him with his own cool feelings.  It was plain that he
could have no serious views, no true attachment, by fixing himself
in a situation which he must know she would never stoop to. 
She would learn to match him in his indifference.  She would henceforth
admit his attentions without any idea beyond immediate amusement. 
If _he_ could so command his affections, _hers_ should do her
no harm.



CHAPTER XXIV

Henry Crawford had quite made up his mind by the next morning to give
another fortnight to Mansfield, and having sent for his hunters,
and written a few lines of explanation to the Admiral, he looked
round at his sister as he sealed and threw the letter from him,
and seeing the coast clear of the rest of the family, said, with a smile,
"And how do you think I mean to amuse myself, Mary, on the days
that I do not hunt?  I am grown too old to go out more than
three times a week; but I have a plan for the intermediate days,
and what do you think it is?"

"To walk and ride with me, to be sure."

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

"Fanny Price!  Nonsense!  No, no.  You ought to be satisfied
with her two cousins."

"But I cannot be satisfied without Fanny Price, without making
a small hole in Fanny Price's heart.  You do not seem properly
aware of her claims to notice.  When we talked of her last night,
you none of you seemed sensible of the wonderful improvement that
has taken place in her looks within the last six weeks.  You see
her every day, and therefore do not notice it; but I assure you she
is quite a different creature from what she was in the autumn. 
She was then merely a quiet, modest, not plain-looking girl, but she
is now absolutely pretty.  I used to think she had neither complexion
nor countenance; but in that soft skin of hers, so frequently
tinged with a blush as it was yesterday, there is decided beauty;
and from what I observed of her eyes and mouth, I do not despair
of their being capable of expression enough when she has anything
to express.  And then, her air, her manner, her _tout_ _ensemble_,
is so indescribably improved!  She must be grown two inches, at least,
since October."

"Phoo! phoo!  This is only because there were no tall women to compare
her with, and because she has got a new gown, and you never saw her so
well dressed before.  She is just what she was in October, believe me. 
The truth is, that she was the only girl in company for you to notice,
and you must have a somebody.  I have always thought her pretty--
not strikingly pretty--but 'pretty enough,' as people say; a sort
of beauty that grows on one.  Her eyes should be darker, but she
has a sweet smile; but as for this wonderful degree of improvement,
I am sure it may all be resolved into a better style of dress,
and your having nobody else to look at; and therefore, if you do set
about a flirtation with her, you never will persuade me that it
is in compliment to her beauty, or that it proceeds from anything
but your own idleness and folly."

Her brother gave only a smile to this accusation, and soon afterwards
said, "I do not quite know what to make of Miss Fanny.  I do not
understand her.  I could not tell what she would be at yesterday. 
What is her character?  Is she solemn?  Is she queer?  Is she prudish? 
Why did she draw back and look so grave at me?  I could hardly get
her to speak.  I never was so long in company with a girl in my life,
trying to entertain her, and succeed so ill!  Never met with a girl
who looked so grave on me!  I must try to get the better of this. 
Her looks say, 'I will not like you, I am determined not to like you';
and I say she shall."

"Foolish fellow!  And so this is her attraction after all!  This it is,
her not caring about you, which gives her such a soft skin, and makes
her so much taller, and produces all these charms and graces! 
I do desire that you will not be making her really unhappy;
a _little_ love, perhaps, may animate and do her good, but I will
not have you plunge her deep, for she is as good a little creature
as ever lived, and has a great deal of feeling."

"It can be but for a fortnight," said Henry; "and if a fortnight can
kill her, she must have a constitution which nothing could save. 
No, I will not do her any harm, dear little soul! only want her
to look kindly on me, to give me smiles as well as blushes, to keep
a chair for me by herself wherever we are, and be all animation when I
take it and talk to her; to think as I think, be interested in all
my possessions and pleasures, try to keep me longer at Mansfield,
and feel when I go away that she shall be never happy again. 
I want nothing more."

"Moderation itself!" said Mary.  "I can have no scruples now. 
Well, you will have opportunities enough of endeavouring
to recommend yourself, for we are a great deal together."

And without attempting any farther remonstrance, she left Fanny
to her fate, a fate which, had not Fanny's heart been guarded
in a way unsuspected by Miss Crawford, might have been a little
harder than she deserved; for although there doubtless are such
unconquerable young ladies of eighteen (or one should not read
about them) as are never to be persuaded into love against their
judgment by all that talent, manner, attention, and flattery can do,
I have no inclination to believe Fanny one of them, or to think
that with so much tenderness of disposition, and so much taste
as belonged to her, she could have escaped heart-whole from the
courtship (though the courtship only of a fortnight) of such a man
as Crawford, in spite of there being some previous ill opinion of
him to be overcome, had not her affection been engaged elsewhere. 
With all the security which love of another and disesteem of him
could give to the peace of mind he was attacking, his continued
attentions--continued, but not obtrusive, and adapting themselves
more and more to the gentleness and delicacy of her character--
obliged her very soon to dislike him less than formerly.  She had by
no means forgotten the past, and she thought as ill of him as ever;
but she felt his powers:  he was entertaining; and his manners
were so improved, so polite, so seriously and blamelessly polite,
that it was impossible not to be civil to him in return.

A very few days were enough to effect this; and at the end of
those few days, circumstances arose which had a tendency rather
to forward his views of pleasing her, inasmuch as they gave
her a degree of happiness which must dispose her to be pleased
with everybody.  William, her brother, the so long absent and
dearly loved brother, was in England again.  She had a letter from
him herself, a few hurried happy lines, written as the ship came
up Channel, and sent into Portsmouth with the first boat that left
the Antwerp at anchor in Spithead; and when Crawford walked up
with the newspaper in his hand, which he had hoped would bring
the first tidings, he found her trembling with joy over this letter,
and listening with a glowing, grateful countenance to the kind
invitation which her uncle was most collectedly dictating in reply.

It was but the day before that Crawford had made himself
thoroughly master of the subject, or had in fact become at all
aware of her having such a brother, or his being in such a ship,
but the interest then excited had been very properly lively,
determining him on his return to town to apply for information as to
the probable period of the Antwerp's return from the Mediterranean,
etc.; and the good luck which attended his early examination
of ship news the next morning seemed the reward of his ingenuity
in finding out such a method of pleasing her, as well as of his
dutiful attention to the Admiral, in having for many years taken
in the paper esteemed to have the earliest naval intelligence. 
He proved, however, to be too late.  All those fine first feelings,
of which he had hoped to be the exciter, were already given. 
But his intention, the kindness of his intention, was thankfully
acknowledged:  quite thankfully and warmly, for she was elevated
beyond the common timidity of her mind by the flow of her love for William.

This dear William would soon be amongst them.  There could be no
doubt of his obtaining leave of absence immediately, for he was still
only a midshipman; and as his parents, from living on the spot,
must already have seen him, and be seeing him perhaps daily,
his direct holidays might with justice be instantly given to the sister,
who had been his best correspondent through a period of seven years,
and the uncle who had done most for his support and advancement;
and accordingly the reply to her reply, fixing a very early day
for his arrival, came as soon as possible; and scarcely ten days
had passed since Fanny had been in the agitation of her first
dinner-visit, when she found herself in an agitation of a higher nature,
watching in the hall, in the lobby, on the stairs, for the first
sound of the carriage which was to bring her a brother.

It came happily while she was thus waiting; and there being neither
ceremony nor fearfulness to delay the moment of meeting, she was
with him as he entered the house, and the first minutes of exquisite
feeling had no interruption and no witnesses, unless the servants
chiefly intent upon opening the proper doors could be called such. 
This was exactly what Sir Thomas and Edmund had been separately
conniving at, as each proved to the other by the sympathetic alacrity
with which they both advised Mrs. Norris's continuing where she was,
instead of rushing out into the hall as soon as the noises of
the arrival reached them.

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

It was long before Fanny could recover from the agitating happiness
of such an hour as was formed by the last thirty minutes of expectation,
and the first of fruition; it was some time even before her
happiness could be said to make her happy, before the disappointment
inseparable from the alteration of person had vanished, and she
could see in him the same William as before, and talk to him,
as her heart had been yearning to do through many a past year. 
That time, however, did gradually come, forwarded by an affection
on his side as warm as her own, and much less encumbered by
refinement or self-distrust. She was the first object of his love,
but it was a love which his stronger spirits, and bolder temper,
made it as natural for him to express as to feel.  On the morrow
they were walking about together with true enjoyment, and every
succeeding morrow renewed a _tete-a-tete_ which Sir Thomas could
not but observe with complacency, even before Edmund had pointed
it out to him.

Excepting the moments of peculiar delight, which any marked or
unlooked-for instance of Edmund's consideration of her in the last few
months had excited, Fanny had never known so much felicity in her life,
as in this unchecked, equal, fearless intercourse with the brother
and friend who was opening all his heart to her, telling her all
his hopes and fears, plans, and solicitudes respecting that long
thought of, dearly earned, and justly valued blessing of promotion;
who could give her direct and minute information of the father
and mother, brothers and sisters, of whom she very seldom heard;
who was interested in all the comforts and all the little hardships
of her home at Mansfield; ready to think of every member of that home
as she directed, or differing only by a less scrupulous opinion,
and more noisy abuse of their aunt Norris, and with whom (perhaps
the dearest indulgence of the whole) all the evil and good of their
earliest years could be gone over again, and every former united pain
and pleasure retraced with the fondest recollection.  An advantage this,
a strengthener of love, in which even the conjugal tie is beneath
the fraternal.  Children of the same family, the same blood,
with the same first associations and habits, have some means of
enjoyment in their power, which no subsequent connexions can supply;
and it must be by a long and unnatural estrangement, by a divorce
which no subsequent connexion can justify, if such precious remains
of the earliest attachments are ever entirely outlived.  Too often,
alas! it is so.  Fraternal love, sometimes almost everything,
is at others worse than nothing.  But with William and Fanny
Price it was still a sentiment in all its prime and freshness,
wounded by no opposition of interest, cooled by no separate attachment,
and feeling the influence of time and absence only in its increase.

An affection so amiable was advancing each in the opinion of all
who had hearts to value anything good.  Henry Crawford was as much
struck with it as any.  He honoured the warm-hearted, blunt fondness
of the young sailor, which led him to say, with his hands stretched
towards Fanny's head, "Do you know, I begin to like that queer
fashion already, though when I first heard of such things being done
in England, I could not believe it; and when Mrs. Brown, and the other
women at the Commissioner's at Gibraltar, appeared in the same trim,
I thought they were mad; but Fanny can reconcile me to anything";
and saw, with lively admiration, the glow of Fanny's cheek,
the brightness of her eye, the deep interest, the absorbed attention,
while her brother was describing any of the imminent hazards,
or terrific scenes, which such a period at sea must supply.

It was a picture which Henry Crawford had moral taste enough
to value.  Fanny's attractions increased--increased twofold;
for the sensibility which beautified her complexion and illumined
her countenance was an attraction in itself.  He was no longer
in doubt of the capabilities of her heart.  She had feeling,
genuine feeling.  It would be something to be loved by such a girl,
to excite the first ardours of her young unsophisticated mind! 
She interested him more than he had foreseen.  A fortnight was
not enough.  His stay became indefinite.

William was often called on by his uncle to be the talker. 
His recitals were amusing in themselves to Sir Thomas, but the chief
object in seeking them was to understand the reciter, to know
the young man by his histories; and he listened to his clear, simple,
spirited details with full satisfaction, seeing in them the proof
of good principles, professional knowledge, energy, courage,
and cheerfulness, everything that could deserve or promise well. 
Young as he was, William had already seen a great deal.  He had been
in the Mediterranean; in the West Indies; in the Mediterranean again;
had been often taken on shore by the favour of his captain,
and in the course of seven years had known every variety of danger
which sea and war together could offer.  With such means in his power
he had a right to be listened to; and though Mrs. Norris could fidget
about the room, and disturb everybody in quest of two needlefuls
of thread or a second-hand shirt button, in the midst of her nephew's
account of a shipwreck or an engagement, everybody else was attentive;
and even Lady Bertram could not hear of such horrors unmoved,
or without sometimes lifting her eyes from her work to say,
"Dear me! how disagreeable!  I wonder anybody can ever go to sea."

To Henry Crawford they gave a different feeling.  He longed to have been
at sea, and seen and done and suffered as much.  His heart was warmed,
his fancy fired, and he felt the highest respect for a lad who,
before he was twenty, had gone through such bodily hardships and
given such proofs of mind.  The glory of heroism, of usefulness,
of exertion, of endurance, made his own habits of selfish indulgence
appear in shameful contrast; and he wished he had been a William Price,
distinguishing himself and working his way to fortune and consequence
with so much self-respect and happy ardour, instead of what he was!

The wish was rather eager than lasting.  He was roused from
the reverie of retrospection and regret produced by it, by some
inquiry from Edmund as to his plans for the next day's hunting;
and he found it was as well to be a man of fortune at once with
horses and grooms at his command.  In one respect it was better,
as it gave him the means of conferring a kindness where he wished
to oblige.  With spirits, courage, and curiosity up to anything,
William expressed an inclination to hunt; and Crawford could mount him
without the slightest inconvenience to himself, and with only some
scruples to obviate in Sir Thomas, who knew better than his nephew
the value of such a loan, and some alarms to reason away in Fanny. 
She feared for William; by no means convinced by all that he could
relate of his own horsemanship in various countries, of the scrambling
parties in which he had been engaged, the rough horses and mules
he had ridden, or his many narrow escapes from dreadful falls,
that he was at all equal to the management of a high-fed hunter
in an English fox-chase; nor till he returned safe and well,
without accident or discredit, could she be reconciled to the risk,
or feel any of that obligation to Mr. Crawford for lending
the horse which he had fully intended it should produce.  When it
was proved, however, to have done William no harm, she could allow
it to be a kindness, and even reward the owner with a smile when
the animal was one minute tendered to his use again; and the next,
with the greatest cordiality, and in a manner not to be resisted,
made over to his use entirely so long as he remained in Northamptonshire.

                        [End volume one of this edition.
                        Printed by T. and A. Constable,
                        Printers to Her Majesty at
                        the Edinburgh University Press]



CHAPTER XXV

The intercourse of the two families was at this period more nearly
restored to what it had been in the autumn, than any member of
the old intimacy had thought ever likely to be again.  The return
of Henry Crawford, and the arrival of William Price, had much
to do with it, but much was still owing to Sir Thomas's more than
toleration of the neighbourly attempts at the Parsonage.  His mind,
now disengaged from the cares which had pressed on him at first,
was at leisure to find the Grants and their young inmates really
worth visiting; and though infinitely above scheming or contriving
for any the most advantageous matrimonial establishment that could
be among the apparent possibilities of any one most dear to him,
and disdaining even as a littleness the being quick-sighted on
such points, he could not avoid perceiving, in a grand and careless way,
that Mr. Crawford was somewhat distinguishing his niece--nor perhaps
refrain (though unconsciously) from giving a more willing assent
to invitations on that account.

His readiness, however, in agreeing to dine at the Parsonage,
when the general invitation was at last hazarded, after many debates
and many doubts as to whether it were worth while, "because Sir
Thomas seemed so ill inclined, and Lady Bertram was so indolent!"
proceeded from good-breeding and goodwill alone, and had nothing
to do with Mr. Crawford, but as being one in an agreeable group: 
for it was in the course of that very visit that he first began
to think that any one in the habit of such idle observations _would_
_have_ _thought_ that Mr. Crawford was the admirer of Fanny Price.

The meeting was generally felt to be a pleasant one, being composed
in a good proportion of those who would talk and those who
would listen; and the dinner itself was elegant and plentiful,
according to the usual style of the Grants, and too much according
to the usual habits of all to raise any emotion except in Mrs. Norris,
who could never behold either the wide table or the number of dishes
on it with patience, and who did always contrive to experience
some evil from the passing of the servants behind her chair,
and to bring away some fresh conviction of its being impossible
among so many dishes but that some must be cold.

In the evening it was found, according to the predetermination
of Mrs. Grant and her sister, that after making up the whist-table
there would remain sufficient for a round game, and everybody being
as perfectly complying and without a choice as on such occasions
they always are, speculation was decided on almost as soon as whist;
and Lady Bertram soon found herself in the critical situation
of being applied to for her own choice between the games, and being
required either to draw a card for whist or not.  She hesitated. 
Luckily Sir Thomas was at hand.

"What shall I do, Sir Thomas?  Whist and speculation; which will
amuse me most?"

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

"Very well," was her ladyship's contented answer; "then speculation,
if you please, Mrs. Grant.  I know nothing about it, but Fanny must
teach me."

Here Fanny interposed, however, with anxious protestations of her own
equal ignorance; she had never played the game nor seen it played
in her life; and Lady Bertram felt a moment's indecision again;
but upon everybody's assuring her that nothing could be so easy,
that it was the easiest game on the cards, and Henry Crawford's
stepping forward with a most earnest request to be allowed to sit
between her ladyship and Miss Price, and teach them both, it was
so settled; and Sir Thomas, Mrs. Norris, and Dr. and Mrs. Grant
being seated at the table of prime intellectual state and dignity,
the remaining six, under Miss Crawford's direction, were arranged
round the other.  It was a fine arrangement for Henry Crawford,
who was close to Fanny, and with his hands full of business,
having two persons' cards to manage as well as his own; for though it
was impossible for Fanny not to feel herself mistress of the rules
of the game in three minutes, he had yet to inspirit her play,
sharpen her avarice, and harden her heart, which, especially in
any competition with William, was a work of some difficulty;
and as for Lady Bertram, he must continue in charge of all her
fame and fortune through the whole evening; and if quick enough
to keep her from looking at her cards when the deal began,
must direct her in whatever was to be done with them to the end
of it.

He was in high spirits, doing everything with happy ease,
and preeminent in all the lively turns, quick resources, and playful
impudence that could do honour to the game; and the round table
was altogether a very comfortable contrast to the steady sobriety
and orderly silence of the other.

Twice had Sir Thomas inquired into the enjoyment and success
of his lady, but in vain; no pause was long enough for the time
his measured manner needed; and very little of her state could
be known till Mrs. Grant was able, at the end of the first rubber,
to go to her and pay her compliments.

"I hope your ladyship is pleased with the game."

"Oh dear, yes! very entertaining indeed.  A very odd game. 
I do not know what it is all about.  I am never to see my cards;
and Mr. Crawford does all the rest."

"Bertram," said Crawford, some time afterwards, taking the opportunity
of a little languor in the game, "I have never told you what happened
to me yesterday in my ride home."  They had been hunting together,
and were in the midst of a good run, and at some distance from Mansfield,
when his horse being found to have flung a shoe, Henry Crawford
had been obliged to give up, and make the best of his way back. 
"I told you I lost my way after passing that old farmhouse with
the yew-trees, because I can never bear to ask; but I have not
told you that, with my usual luck--for I never do wrong without
gaining by it--I found myself in due time in the very place which I
had a curiosity to see.  I was suddenly, upon turning the corner
of a steepish downy field, in the midst of a retired little village
between gently rising hills; a small stream before me to be forded,
a church standing on a sort of knoll to my right--which church was
strikingly large and handsome for the place, and not a gentleman
or half a gentleman's house to be seen excepting one--to be presumed
the Parsonage--within a stone's throw of the said knoll and church. 
I found myself, in short, in Thornton Lacey."

"It sounds like it," said Edmund; "but which way did you turn
after passing Sewell's farm?"

"I answer no such irrelevant and insidious questions; though were
I to answer all that you could put in the course of an hour,
you would never be able to prove that it was _not_ Thornton Lacey--
for such it certainly was."

"You inquired, then?"

"No, I never inquire.  But I _told_ a man mending a hedge that it
was Thornton Lacey, and he agreed to it."

"You have a good memory.  I had forgotten having ever told you half
so much of the place."

Thornton Lacey was the name of his impending living, as Miss
Crawford well knew; and her interest in a negotiation for William
Price's knave increased.

"Well," continued Edmund, "and how did you like what you saw?"

"Very much indeed.  You are a lucky fellow.  There will be work
for five summers at least before the place is liveable."

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

"The farmyard must be cleared away entirely, and planted up to shut
out the blacksmith's shop.  The house must be turned to front the east
instead of the north--the entrance and principal rooms, I mean,
must be on that side, where the view is really very pretty; I am sure
it may be done.  And _there_ must be your approach, through what is at
present the garden.  You must make a new garden at what is now the back
of the house; which will be giving it the best aspect in the world,
sloping to the south-east. The ground seems precisely formed for it. 
I rode fifty yards up the lane, between the church and the house,
in order to look about me; and saw how it might all be.  Nothing can
be easier.  The meadows beyond what _will_ _be_ the garden,
as well as what now _is_, sweeping round from the lane I stood in to
the north-east, that is, to the principal road through the village,
must be all laid together, of course; very pretty meadows they are,
finely sprinkled with timber.  They belong to the living, I suppose;
if not, you must purchase them.  Then the stream--something must
be done with the stream; but I could not quite determine what. 
I had two or three ideas."

"And I have two or three ideas also," said Edmund, "and one of them is,
that very little of your plan for Thornton Lacey will ever be put
in practice.  I must be satisfied with rather less ornament and beauty. 
I think the house and premises may be made comfortable, and given
the air of a gentleman's residence, without any very heavy expense,
and that must suffice me; and, I hope, may suffice all who care
about me."

Miss Crawford, a little suspicious and resentful of a certain tone
of voice, and a certain half-look attending the last expression
of his hope, made a hasty finish of her dealings with William Price;
and securing his knave at an exorbitant rate, exclaimed, "There, I
will stake my last like a woman of spirit.  No cold prudence for me. 
I am not born to sit still and do nothing.  If I lose the game,
it shall not be from not striving for it."

The game was hers, and only did not pay her for what she had given
to secure it.  Another deal proceeded, and Crawford began again
about Thornton Lacey.

"My plan may not be the best possible:  I had not many minutes to form
it in; but you must do a good deal.  The place deserves it, and you
will find yourself not satisfied with much less than it is capable of. 
(Excuse me, your ladyship must not see your cards.  There, let them lie
just before you.) The place deserves it, Bertram.  You talk of giving
it the air of a gentleman's residence.  _That_ will be done by the
removal of the farmyard; for, independent of that terrible nuisance,
I never saw a house of the kind which had in itself so much the air
of a gentleman's residence, so much the look of a something above a
mere parsonage-house--above the expenditure of a few hundreds a year. 
It is not a scrambling collection of low single rooms, with as many
roofs as windows; it is not cramped into the vulgar compactness of a
square farmhouse:  it is a solid, roomy, mansion-like looking house,
such as one might suppose a respectable old country family had lived
in from generation to generation, through two centuries at least,
and were now spending from two to three thousand a year in." 
Miss Crawford listened, and Edmund agreed to this.  "The air
of a gentleman's residence, therefore, you cannot but give it,
if you do anything.  But it is capable of much more.  (Let me see,
Mary; Lady Bertram bids a dozen for that queen; no, no, a dozen
is more than it is worth.  Lady Bertram does not bid a dozen. 
She will have nothing to say to it.  Go on, go on.) By some such
improvements as I have suggested (I do not really require you to
proceed upon my plan, though, by the bye, I doubt anybody's striking
out a better) you may give it a higher character.  You may raise
it into a _place_.  From being the mere gentleman's residence,
it becomes, by judicious improvement, the residence of a man
of education, taste, modern manners, good connexions.  All this
may be stamped on it; and that house receive such an air as to make
its owner be set down as the great landholder of the parish by every
creature travelling the road; especially as there is no real squire's
house to dispute the point--a circumstance, between ourselves,
to enhance the value of such a situation in point of privilege and
independence beyond all calculation.  _You_ think with me, I hope"
(turning with a softened voice to Fanny). "Have you ever seen the place?"

Fanny gave a quick negative, and tried to hide her interest in
the subject by an eager attention to her brother, who was driving
as hard a bargain, and imposing on her as much as he could;
but Crawford pursued with "No, no, you must not part with the queen. 
You have bought her too dearly, and your brother does not offer
half her value.  No, no, sir, hands off, hands off.  Your sister
does not part with the queen.  She is quite determined.  The game
will be yours," turning to her again; "it will certainly be yours."

"And Fanny had much rather it were William's," said Edmund,
smiling at her.  "Poor Fanny! not allowed to cheat herself as she wishes!"

"Mr. Bertram," said Miss Crawford, a few minutes afterwards,
"you know Henry to be such a capital improver, that you cannot
possibly engage in anything of the sort at Thornton Lacey without
accepting his help.  Only think how useful he was at Sotherton! 
Only think what grand things were produced there by our all going
with him one hot day in August to drive about the grounds, and see
his genius take fire.  There we went, and there we came home again;
and what was done there is not to be told!"

Fanny's eyes were turned on Crawford for a moment with an
expression more than grave--even reproachful; but on catching his,
were instantly withdrawn.  With something of consciousness he shook
his head at his sister, and laughingly replied, "I cannot say there
was much done at Sotherton; but it was a hot day, and we were all
walking after each other, and bewildered."  As soon as a general
buzz gave him shelter, he added, in a low voice, directed solely
at Fanny, "I should be sorry to have my powers of _planning_ judged
of by the day at Sotherton.  I see things very differently now. 
Do not think of me as I appeared then."

Sotherton was a word to catch Mrs. Norris, and being just then
in the happy leisure which followed securing the odd trick by Sir
Thomas's capital play and her own against Dr. and Mrs. Grant's
great hands, she called out, in high good-humour, "Sotherton! 
Yes, that is a place, indeed, and we had a charming day there. 
William, you are quite out of luck; but the next time you come,
I hope dear Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth will be at home, and I am sure
I can answer for your being kindly received by both.  Your cousins
are not of a sort to forget their relations, and Mr. Rushworth
is a most amiable man.  They are at Brighton now, you know;
in one of the best houses there, as Mr. Rushworth's fine fortune
gives them a right to be.  I do not exactly know the distance,
but when you get back to Portsmouth, if it is not very far off,
you ought to go over and pay your respects to them; and I could send
a little parcel by you that I want to get conveyed to your cousins."

"I should be very happy, aunt; but Brighton is almost by Beachey Head;
and if I could get so far, I could not expect to be welcome in such
a smart place as that--poor scrubby midshipman as I am."

Mrs. Norris was beginning an eager assurance of the affability
he might depend on, when she was stopped by Sir Thomas's saying
with authority, "I do not advise your going to Brighton, William, as I
trust you may soon have more convenient opportunities of meeting;
but my daughters would be happy to see their cousins anywhere;
and you will find Mr. Rushworth most sincerely disposed to regard
all the connexions of our family as his own."

"I would rather find him private secretary to the First Lord
than anything else," was William's only answer, in an undervoice,
not meant to reach far, and the subject dropped.

As yet Sir Thomas had seen nothing to remark in Mr. Crawford's behaviour;
but when the whist-table broke up at the end of the second rubber,
and leaving Dr. Grant and Mrs. Norris to dispute over their last play,
he became a looker-on at the other, he found his niece the object
of attentions, or rather of professions, of a somewhat pointed character.

Henry Crawford was in the first glow of another scheme about
Thornton Lacey; and not being able to catch Edmund's ear, was detailing
it to his fair neighbour with a look of considerable earnestness. 
His scheme was to rent the house himself the following winter,
that he might have a home of his own in that neighbourhood; and it
was not merely for the use of it in the hunting-season (as he was then
telling her), though _that_ consideration had certainly some weight,
feeling as he did that, in spite of all Dr. Grant's very great kindness,
it was impossible for him and his horses to be accommodated where
they now were without material inconvenience; but his attachment
to that neighbourhood did not depend upon one amusement or one season
of the year:  he had set his heart upon having a something there
that he could come to at any time, a little homestall at his command,
where all the holidays of his year might be spent, and he might find
himself continuing, improving, and _perfecting_ that friendship
and intimacy with the Mansfield Park family which was increasing
in value to him every day.  Sir Thomas heard and was not offended. 
There was no want of respect in the young man's address; and Fanny's
reception of it was so proper and modest, so calm and uninviting,
that he had nothing to censure in her.  She said little, assented only
here and there, and betrayed no inclination either of appropriating
any part of the compliment to herself, or of strengthening his views
in favour of Northamptonshire.  Finding by whom he was observed,
Henry Crawford addressed himself on the same subject to Sir Thomas,
in a more everyday tone, but still with feeling.

"I want to be your neighbour, Sir Thomas, as you have, perhaps,
heard me telling Miss Price.  May I hope for your acquiescence,
and for your not influencing your son against such a tenant?"

Sir Thomas, politely bowing, replied, "It is the only way, sir,
in which I could _not_ wish you established as a permanent neighbour;
but I hope, and believe, that Edmund will occupy his own house
at Thornton Lacey.  Edmund, am I saying too much?"

Edmund, on this appeal, had first to hear what was going on;
but, on understanding the question, was at no loss for an answer.

"Certainly, sir, I have no idea but of residence.  But, Crawford,
though I refuse you as a tenant, come to me as a friend. 
Consider the house as half your own every winter, and we will
add to the stables on your own improved plan, and with all
the improvements of your improved plan that may occur to you this spring."

"We shall be the losers," continued Sir Thomas.  "His going,
though only eight miles, will be an unwelcome contraction of our
family circle; but I should have been deeply mortified if any son
of mine could reconcile himself to doing less.  It is perfectly natural
that you should not have thought much on the subject, Mr. Crawford. 
But a parish has wants and claims which can be known only by a
clergyman constantly resident, and which no proxy can be capable
of satisfying to the same extent.  Edmund might, in the common phrase,
do the duty of Thornton, that is, he might read prayers and preach,
without giving up Mansfield Park:  he might ride over every Sunday,
to a house nominally inhabited, and go through divine service;
he might be the clergyman of Thornton Lacey every seventh day,
for three or four hours, if that would content him.  But it will not. 
He knows that human nature needs more lessons than a weekly sermon
can convey; and that if he does not live among his parishioners,
and prove himself, by constant attention, their well-wisher and friend,
he does very little either for their good or his own."

Mr. Crawford bowed his acquiescence.

"I repeat again," added Sir Thomas, "that Thornton Lacey is
the only house in the neighbourhood in which I should _not_
be happy to wait on Mr. Crawford as occupier."

Mr. Crawford bowed his thanks.

"Sir Thomas," said Edmund, "undoubtedly understands the duty of a
parish priest.  We must hope his son may prove that _he_ knows it too."

Whatever effect Sir Thomas's little harangue might really produce on
Mr. Crawford, it raised some awkward sensations in two of the others,
two of his most attentive listeners--Miss Crawford and Fanny. 
One of whom, having never before understood that Thornton was so soon
and so completely to be his home, was pondering with downcast eyes
on what it would be _not_ to see Edmund every day; and the other,
startled from the agreeable fancies she had been previously indulging
on the strength of her brother's description, no longer able,
in the picture she had been forming of a future Thornton, to shut out
the church, sink the clergyman, and see only the respectable, elegant,
modernised, and occasional residence of a man of independent fortune,
was considering Sir Thomas, with decided ill-will, as the destroyer
of all this, and suffering the more from that involuntary forbearance
which his character and manner commanded, and from not daring
to relieve herself by a single attempt at throwing ridicule on his cause.

All the agreeable of _her_ speculation was over for that hour. 
It was time to have done with cards, if sermons prevailed; and she
was glad to find it necessary to come to a conclusion, and be able
to refresh her spirits by a change of place and neighbour.

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

"This is the assembly night," said William.  "If I were at Portsmouth
I should be at it, perhaps."

"But you do not wish yourself at Portsmouth, William?"

"No, Fanny, that I do not.  I shall have enough of Portsmouth and of
dancing too, when I cannot have you.  And I do not know that there
would be any good in going to the assembly, for I might not get
a partner.  The Portsmouth girls turn up their noses at anybody who has
not a commission.  One might as well be nothing as a midshipman. 
One _is_ nothing, indeed.  You remember the Gregorys; they are
grown up amazing fine girls, but they will hardly speak to _me_,
because Lucy is courted by a lieutenant."

"Oh! shame, shame!  But never mind it, William" (her own cheeks
in a glow of indignation as she spoke). "It is not worth minding. 
It is no reflection on _you_; it is no more than what the greatest
admirals have all experienced, more or less, in their time. 
You must think of that, you must try to make up your mind to it
as one of the hardships which fall to every sailor's share,
like bad weather and hard living, only with this advantage,
that there will be an end to it, that there will come a time
when you will have nothing of that sort to endure.  When you
are a lieutenant! only think, William, when you are a lieutenant,
how little you will care for any nonsense of this kind."

"I begin to think I shall never be a lieutenant, Fanny.  Everybody gets
made but me."

"Oh! my dear William, do not talk so; do not be so desponding. 
My uncle says nothing, but I am sure he will do everything in his power
to get you made.  He knows, as well as you do, of what consequence
it is."

She was checked by the sight of her uncle much nearer to them
than she had any suspicion of, and each found it necessary to talk
of something else.

"Are you fond of dancing, Fanny?"

"Yes, very; only I am soon tired."

"I should like to go to a ball with you and see you dance.  Have you
never any balls at Northampton?  I should like to see you dance,
and I'd dance with you if you _would_, for nobody would know
who I was here, and I should like to be your partner once more. 
We used to jump about together many a time, did not we? when the
hand-organ was in the street?  I am a pretty good dancer in my way,
but I dare say you are a better."  And turning to his uncle,
who was now close to them, "Is not Fanny a very good dancer, sir?"

Fanny, in dismay at such an unprecedented question, did not
know which way to look, or how to be prepared for the answer. 
Some very grave reproof, or at least the coldest expression
of indifference, must be coming to distress her brother, and sink
her to the ground.  But, on the contrary, it was no worse than,
"I am sorry to say that I am unable to answer your question. 
I have never seen Fanny dance since she was a little girl; but I
trust we shall both think she acquits herself like a gentlewoman
when we do see her, which, perhaps, we may have an opportunity
of doing ere long."

"I have had the pleasure of seeing your sister dance, Mr. Price,"
said Henry Crawford, leaning forward, "and will engage to answer
every inquiry which you can make on the subject, to your
entire satisfaction.  But I believe" (seeing Fanny looked distressed)
"it must be at some other time.  There is _one_ person in company
who does not like to have Miss Price spoken of."

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

He passed, however, for an admirer of her dancing; and Sir Thomas,
by no means displeased, prolonged the conversation on dancing
in general, and was so well engaged in describing the balls of Antigua,
and listening to what his nephew could relate of the different
modes of dancing which had fallen within his observation,
that he had not heard his carriage announced, and was first called
to the knowledge of it by the bustle of Mrs. Norris.

"Come, Fanny, Fanny, what are you about?  We are going.  Do not you
see your aunt is going?  Quick, quick!  I cannot bear to keep good old
Wilcox waiting.  You should always remember the coachman and horses. 
My dear Sir Thomas, we have settled it that the carriage should come
back for you, and Edmund and William."

Sir Thomas could not dissent, as it had been his own arrangement,
previously communicated to his wife and sister; but _that_ seemed
forgotten by Mrs. Norris, who must fancy that she settled it
all herself.

Fanny's last feeling in the visit was disappointment:  for the shawl
which Edmund was quietly taking from the servant to bring and put
round her shoulders was seized by Mr. Crawford's quicker hand,
and she was obliged to be indebted to his more prominent attention.



CHAPTER XXVI

William's desire of seeing Fanny dance made more than a momentary
impression on his uncle.  The hope of an opportunity, which Sir
Thomas had then given, was not given to be thought of no more. 
He remained steadily inclined to gratify so amiable a feeling;
to gratify anybody else who might wish to see Fanny dance, and to
give pleasure to the young people in general; and having thought
the matter over, and taken his resolution in quiet independence,
the result of it appeared the next morning at breakfast, when,
after recalling and commending what his nephew had said, he added,
"I do not like, William, that you should leave Northamptonshire without
this indulgence.  It would give me pleasure to see you both dance. 
You spoke of the balls at Northampton.  Your cousins have occasionally
attended them; but they would not altogether suit us now. 
The fatigue would be too much for your aunt.  I believe we must not
think of a Northampton ball.  A dance at home would be more eligible;
and if--"

"Ah, my dear Sir Thomas!" interrupted Mrs. Norris, "I knew what
was coming.  I knew what you were going to say.  If dear Julia were
at home, or dearest Mrs. Rushworth at Sotherton, to afford a reason,
an occasion for such a thing, you would be tempted to give the young
people a dance at Mansfield.  I know you would.  If _they_ were at
home to grace the ball, a ball you would have this very Christmas. 
Thank your uncle, William, thank your uncle!"

"My daughters," replied Sir Thomas, gravely interposing, "have their
pleasures at Brighton, and I hope are very happy; but the dance
which I think of giving at Mansfield will be for their cousins. 
Could we be all assembled, our satisfaction would undoubtedly be
more complete, but the absence of some is not to debar the others
of amusement."

Mrs. Norris had not another word to say.  She saw decision in
his looks, and her surprise and vexation required some minutes'
silence to be settled into composure.  A ball at such a time! 
His daughters absent and herself not consulted!  There was comfort,
however, soon at hand.  _She_ must be the doer of everything: 
Lady Bertram would of course be spared all thought and exertion,
and it would all fall upon _her_.  She should have to do the honours
of the evening; and this reflection quickly restored so much of her
good-humour as enabled her to join in with the others, before their
happiness and thanks were all expressed.

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

Lady Bertram was perfectly quiescent and contented, and had no
objections to make.  Sir Thomas engaged for its giving her very
little trouble; and she assured him "that she was not at all afraid
of the trouble; indeed, she could not imagine there would be any."

Mrs. Norris was ready with her suggestions as to the rooms he
would think fittest to be used, but found it all prearranged;
and when she would have conjectured and hinted about the day,
it appeared that the day was settled too.  Sir Thomas had been
amusing himself with shaping a very complete outline of the business;
and as soon as she would listen quietly, could read his list
of the families to be invited, from whom he calculated, with all
necessary allowance for the shortness of the notice, to collect
young people enough to form twelve or fourteen couple:  and could
detail the considerations which had induced him to fix on the 22nd
as the most eligible day.  William was required to be at Portsmouth
on the 24th; the 22nd would therefore be the last day of his visit;
but where the days were so few it would be unwise to fix on any earlier. 
Mrs. Norris was obliged to be satisfied with thinking just the same,
and with having been on the point of proposing the 22nd herself,
as by far the best day for the purpose.

The ball was now a settled thing, and before the evening a proclaimed
thing to all whom it concerned.  Invitations were sent with despatch,
and many a young lady went to bed that night with her head full
of happy cares as well as Fanny.  To her the cares were sometimes
almost beyond the happiness; for young and inexperienced,
with small means of choice and no confidence in her own taste,
the "how she should be dressed" was a point of painful solicitude;
and the almost solitary ornament in her possession, a very pretty amber
cross which William had brought her from Sicily, was the greatest
distress of all, for she had nothing but a bit of ribbon to fasten
it to; and though she had worn it in that manner once, would it
be allowable at such a time in the midst of all the rich ornaments
which she supposed all the other young ladies would appear in? 
And yet not to wear it!  William had wanted to buy her a gold chain too,
but the purchase had been beyond his means, and therefore not to wear
the cross might be mortifying him.  These were anxious considerations;
enough to sober her spirits even under the prospect of a ball given
principally for her gratification.

The preparations meanwhile went on, and Lady Bertram continued
to sit on her sofa without any inconvenience from them.  She had
some extra visits from the housekeeper, and her maid was rather
hurried in making up a new dress for her:  Sir Thomas gave orders,
and Mrs. Norris ran about; but all this gave _her_ no trouble, and as
she had foreseen, "there was, in fact, no trouble in the business."

Edmund was at this time particularly full of cares:  his mind being
deeply occupied in the consideration of two important events now
at hand, which were to fix his fate in life--ordination and matrimony--
events of such a serious character as to make the ball, which would
be very quickly followed by one of them, appear of less moment
in his eyes than in those of any other person in the house. 
On the 23rd he was going to a friend near Peterborough, in the same
situation as himself, and they were to receive ordination in the course
of the Christmas week.  Half his destiny would then be determined,
but the other half might not be so very smoothly wooed.  His duties
would be established, but the wife who was to share, and animate,
and reward those duties, might yet be unattainable.  He knew his
own mind, but he was not always perfectly assured of knowing Miss
Crawford's. There were points on which they did not quite agree;
there were moments in which she did not seem propitious; and though
trusting altogether to her affection, so far as to be resolved--
almost resolved--on bringing it to a decision within a very short time,
as soon as the variety of business before him were arranged,
and he knew what he had to offer her, he had many anxious feelings,
many doubting hours as to the result.  His conviction of her regard
for him was sometimes very strong; he could look back on a long
course of encouragement, and she was as perfect in disinterested
attachment as in everything else.  But at other times doubt
and alarm intermingled with his hopes; and when he thought of her
acknowledged disinclination for privacy and retirement, her decided
preference of a London life, what could he expect but a determined
rejection? unless it were an acceptance even more to be deprecated,
demanding such sacrifices of situation and employment on his side
as conscience must forbid.

The issue of all depended on one question.  Did she love him
well enough to forego what had used to be essential points? 
Did she love him well enough to make them no longer essential? 
And this question, which he was continually repeating to himself,
though oftenest answered with a "Yes," had sometimes its "No."

Miss Crawford was soon to leave Mansfield, and on this circumstance
the "no" and the "yes" had been very recently in alternation. 
He had seen her eyes sparkle as she spoke of the dear friend's letter,
which claimed a long visit from her in London, and of the kindness
of Henry, in engaging to remain where he was till January, that he
might convey her thither; he had heard her speak of the pleasure
of such a journey with an animation which had "no" in every tone. 
But this had occurred on the first day of its being settled, within the
first hour of the burst of such enjoyment, when nothing but the friends
she was to visit was before her.  He had since heard her express
herself differently, with other feelings, more chequered feelings: 
he had heard her tell Mrs. Grant that she should leave her with regret;
that she began to believe neither the friends nor the pleasures she
was going to were worth those she left behind; and that though she
felt she must go, and knew she should enjoy herself when once away,
she was already looking forward to being at Mansfield again. 
Was there not a "yes" in all this?

With such matters to ponder over, and arrange, and re-arrange,
Edmund could not, on his own account, think very much of the evening
which the rest of the family were looking forward to with a more
equal degree of strong interest.  Independent of his two cousins'
enjoyment in it, the evening was to him of no higher value
than any other appointed meeting of the two families might be. 
In every meeting there was a hope of receiving farther confirmation
of Miss Crawford's attachment; but the whirl of a ballroom, perhaps,
was not particularly favourable to the excitement or expression of
serious feelings.  To engage her early for the two first dances was
all the command of individual happiness which he felt in his power,
and the only preparation for the ball which he could enter into,
in spite of all that was passing around him on the subject,
from morning till night.

Thursday was the day of the ball; and on Wednesday morning Fanny,
still unable to satisfy herself as to what she ought to wear,
determined to seek the counsel of the more enlightened, and apply
to Mrs. Grant and her sister, whose acknowledged taste would certainly
bear her blameless; and as Edmund and William were gone to Northampton,
and she had reason to think Mr. Crawford likewise out, she walked
down to the Parsonage without much fear of wanting an opportunity
for private discussion; and the privacy of such a discussion was
a most important part of it to Fanny, being more than half-ashamed
of her own solicitude.

She met Miss Crawford within a few yards of the Parsonage,
just setting out to call on her, and as it seemed to her that
her friend, though obliged to insist on turning back, was unwilling
to lose her walk, she explained her business at once, and observed,
that if she would be so kind as to give her opinion, it might be
all talked over as well without doors as within.  Miss Crawford
appeared gratified by the application, and after a moment's thought,
urged Fanny's returning with her in a much more cordial manner
than before, and proposed their going up into her room, where they
might have a comfortable coze, without disturbing Dr. and Mrs. Grant,
who were together in the drawing-room. It was just the plan to
suit Fanny; and with a great deal of gratitude on her side for such
ready and kind attention, they proceeded indoors, and upstairs,
and were soon deep in the interesting subject.  Miss Crawford,
pleased with the appeal, gave her all her best judgment and taste,
made everything easy by her suggestions, and tried to make everything
agreeable by her encouragement.  The dress being settled in all
its grander parts--"But what shall you have by way of necklace?"
said Miss Crawford.  "Shall not you wear your brother's cross?" 
And as she spoke she was undoing a small parcel, which Fanny had
observed in her hand when they met.  Fanny acknowledged her wishes
and doubts on this point:  she did not know how either to wear
the cross, or to refrain from wearing it.  She was answered
by having a small trinket-box placed before her, and being
requested to chuse from among several gold chains and necklaces. 
Such had been the parcel with which Miss Crawford was provided,
and such the object of her intended visit:  and in the kindest
manner she now urged Fanny's taking one for the cross and to keep
for her sake, saying everything she could think of to obviate
the scruples which were making Fanny start back at first with a look
of horror at the proposal.

"You see what a collection I have," said she; "more by half than I
ever use or think of.  I do not offer them as new.  I offer nothing
but an old necklace.  You must forgive the liberty, and oblige me."

Fanny still resisted, and from her heart.  The gift was too valuable. 
But Miss Crawford persevered, and argued the case with so much
affectionate earnestness through all the heads of William and the cross,
and the ball, and herself, as to be finally successful.  Fanny found
herself obliged to yield, that she might not be accused of pride
or indifference, or some other littleness; and having with modest
reluctance given her consent, proceeded to make the selection. 
She looked and looked, longing to know which might be least valuable;
and was determined in her choice at last, by fancying there was one
necklace more frequently placed before her eyes than the rest. 
It was of gold, prettily worked; and though Fanny would have preferred
a longer and a plainer chain as more adapted for her purpose,
she hoped, in fixing on this, to be chusing what Miss Crawford least
wished to keep.  Miss Crawford smiled her perfect approbation;
and hastened to complete the gift by putting the necklace round her,
and making her see how well it looked.  Fanny had not a word to say
against its becomingness, and, excepting what remained of her scruples,
was exceedingly pleased with an acquisition so very apropos. 
She would rather, perhaps, have been obliged to some other person. 
But this was an unworthy feeling.  Miss Crawford had anticipated
her wants with a kindness which proved her a real friend.  "When I
wear this necklace I shall always think of you," said she, "and feel
how very kind you were."

"You must think of somebody else too, when you wear that necklace,"
replied Miss Crawford.  "You must think of Henry, for it was his
choice in the first place.  He gave it to me, and with the necklace
I make over to you all the duty of remembering the original giver. 
It is to be a family remembrancer.  The sister is not to be in your
mind without bringing the brother too."

Fanny, in great astonishment and confusion, would have returned
the present instantly.  To take what had been the gift of another
person, of a brother too, impossible! it must not be! and with
an eagerness and embarrassment quite diverting to her companion,
she laid down the necklace again on its cotton, and seemed resolved
either to take another or none at all.  Miss Crawford thought
she had never seen a prettier consciousness.  "My dear child,"
said she, laughing, "what are you afraid of?  Do you think Henry
will claim the necklace as mine, and fancy you did not come honestly
by it? or are you imagining he would be too much flattered by seeing
round your lovely throat an ornament which his money purchased
three years ago, before he knew there was such a throat in the world?
or perhaps"--looking archly--"you suspect a confederacy between us,
and that what I am now doing is with his knowledge and at his desire?"

With the deepest blushes Fanny protested against such a thought.

"Well, then," replied Miss Crawford more seriously, but without
at all believing her, "to convince me that you suspect no trick,
and are as unsuspicious of compliment as I have always found you,
take the necklace and say no more about it.  Its being a gift of my
brother's need not make the smallest difference in your accepting it,
as I assure you it makes none in my willingness to part with it. 
He is always giving me something or other.  I have such innumerable
presents from him that it is quite impossible for me to value or for
him to remember half.  And as for this necklace, I do not suppose I
have worn it six times:  it is very pretty, but I never think of it;
and though you would be most heartily welcome to any other in my
trinket-box, you have happened to fix on the very one which,
if I have a choice, I would rather part with and see in your
possession than any other.  Say no more against it, I entreat you. 
Such a trifle is not worth half so many words."

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

It was impossible for her to be insensible of Mr. Crawford's change
of manners.  She had long seen it.  He evidently tried to please her: 
he was gallant, he was attentive, he was something like what he
had been to her cousins:  he wanted, she supposed, to cheat her
of her tranquillity as he had cheated them; and whether he might
not have some concern in this necklace--she could not be convinced
that he had not, for Miss Crawford, complaisant as a sister,
was careless as a woman and a friend.

Reflecting and doubting, and feeling that the possession of what
she had so much wished for did not bring much satisfaction,
she now walked home again, with a change rather than a diminution
of cares since her treading that path before



CHAPTER XXVII

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

"Fanny," said he directly, leaving his seat and his pen, and meeting
her with something in his hand, "I beg your pardon for being here. 
I came to look for you, and after waiting a little while in hope
of your coming in, was making use of your inkstand to explain
my errand.  You will find the beginning of a note to yourself;
but I can now speak my business, which is merely to beg your
acceptance of this little trifle--a chain for William's cross. 
You ought to have had it a week ago, but there has been a delay
from my brother's not being in town by several days so soon as
I expected; and I have only just now received it at Northampton. 
I hope you will like the chain itself, Fanny.  I endeavoured to
consult the simplicity of your taste; but, at any rate, I know you
will be kind to my intentions, and consider it, as it really is,
a token of the love of one of your oldest friends."

And so saying, he was hurrying away, before Fanny, overpowered by
a thousand feelings of pain and pleasure, could attempt to speak;
but quickened by one sovereign wish, she then called out, "Oh! cousin,
stop a moment, pray stop!"

He turned back.

"I cannot attempt to thank you," she continued, in a very agitated manner;
"thanks are out of the question.  I feel much more than I can
possibly express.  Your goodness in thinking of me in such a way is beyond--"

"If that is all you have to say, Fanny" smiling and turning away again.

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

Almost unconsciously she had now undone the parcel he had just
put into her hand, and seeing before her, in all the niceness
of jewellers' packing, a plain gold chain, perfectly simple and neat,
she could not help bursting forth again, "Oh, this is beautiful
indeed!  This is the very thing, precisely what I wished for! 
This is the only ornament I have ever had a desire to possess. 
It will exactly suit my cross.  They must and shall be worn together. 
It comes, too, in such an acceptable moment.  Oh, cousin, you do
not know how acceptable it is."

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

Upon such expressions of affection Fanny could have lived an hour
without saying another word; but Edmund, after waiting a moment,
obliged her to bring down her mind from its heavenly flight by saying,
"But what is it that you want to consult me about?"

It was about the necklace, which she was now most earnestly longing
to return, and hoped to obtain his approbation of her doing. 
She gave the history of her recent visit, and now her raptures
might well be over; for Edmund was so struck with the circumstance,
so delighted with what Miss Crawford had done, so gratified by such
a coincidence of conduct between them, that Fanny could not but admit
the superior power of one pleasure over his own mind, though it
might have its drawback.  It was some time before she could get his
attention to her plan, or any answer to her demand of his opinion: 
he was in a reverie of fond reflection, uttering only now and then
a few half-sentences of praise; but when he did awake and understand,
he was very decided in opposing what she wished.

"Return the necklace!  No, my dear Fanny, upon no account. 
It would be mortifying her severely.  There can hardly be a more
unpleasant sensation than the having anything returned on our hands
which we have given with a reasonable hope of its contributing
to the comfort of a friend.  Why should she lose a pleasure
which she has shewn herself so deserving of?"

"If it had been given to me in the first instance," said Fanny, "I should
not have thought of returning it; but being her brother's present,
is not it fair to suppose that she would rather not part with it,
when it is not wanted?"

"She must not suppose it not wanted, not acceptable, at least: 
and its having been originally her brother's gift makes no difference;
for as she was not prevented from offering, nor you from taking
it on that account, it ought not to prevent you from keeping it. 
No doubt it is handsomer than mine, and fitter for a ballroom."

"No, it is not handsomer, not at all handsomer in its way,
and, for my purpose, not half so fit.  The chain will agree
with William's cross beyond all comparison better than the necklace."

"For one night, Fanny, for only one night, if it _be_ a sacrifice;
I am sure you will, upon consideration, make that sacrifice rather
than give pain to one who has been so studious of your comfort. 
Miss Crawford's attentions to you have been--not more than you were
justly entitled to--I am the last person to think that _could_ _be_,
but they have been invariable; and to be returning them with what
must have something the _air_ of ingratitude, though I know it
could never have the _meaning_, is not in your nature, I am sure. 
Wear the necklace, as you are engaged to do, to-morrow evening,
and let the chain, which was not ordered with any reference to the ball,
be kept for commoner occasions.  This is my advice.  I would not
have the shadow of a coolness between the two whose intimacy I have
been observing with the greatest pleasure, and in whose characters
there is so much general resemblance in true generosity and natural
delicacy as to make the few slight differences, resulting principally
from situation, no reasonable hindrance to a perfect friendship. 
I would not have the shadow of a coolness arise," he repeated,
his voice sinking a little, "between the two dearest objects I have
on earth."

He was gone as he spoke; and Fanny remained to tranquillise herself
as she could.  She was one of his two dearest--that must support her. 
But the other:  the first!  She had never heard him speak so openly before,
and though it told her no more than what she had long perceived,
it was a stab, for it told of his own convictions and views. 
They were decided.  He would marry Miss Crawford.  It was a stab,
in spite of every long-standing expectation; and she was obliged
to repeat again and again, that she was one of his two dearest,
before the words gave her any sensation.  Could she believe Miss
Crawford to deserve him, it would be--oh, how different would it be--
how far more tolerable!  But he was deceived in her:  he gave her
merits which she had not; her faults were what they had ever been,
but he saw them no longer.  Till she had shed many tears over this
deception, Fanny could not subdue her agitation; and the dejection
which followed could only be relieved by the influence of fervent
prayers for his happiness.

It was her intention, as she felt it to be her duty, to try to
overcome all that was excessive, all that bordered on selfishness,
in her affection for Edmund.  To call or to fancy it a loss,
a disappointment, would be a presumption for which she had not words
strong enough to satisfy her own humility.  To think of him as Miss
Crawford might be justified in thinking, would in her be insanity. 
To her he could be nothing under any circumstances; nothing dearer
than a friend.  Why did such an idea occur to her even enough
to be reprobated and forbidden?  It ought not to have touched on
the confines of her imagination.  She would endeavour to be rational,
and to deserve the right of judging of Miss Crawford's character,
and the privilege of true solicitude for him by a sound intellect
and an honest heart.

She had all the heroism of principle, and was determined to do
her duty; but having also many of the feelings of youth and nature,
let her not be much wondered at, if, after making all these good
resolutions on the side of self-government, she seized the scrap
of paper on which Edmund had begun writing to her, as a treasure
beyond all her hopes, and reading with the tenderest emotion
these words, "My very dear Fanny, you must do me the favour to accept"
locked it up with the chain, as the dearest part of the gift. 
It was the only thing approaching to a letter which she had ever
received from him; she might never receive another; it was impossible
that she ever should receive another so perfectly gratifying
in the occasion and the style.  Two lines more prized had never
fallen from the pen of the most distinguished author--never more
completely blessed the researches of the fondest biographer. 
The enthusiasm of a woman's love is even beyond the biographer's.
To her, the handwriting itself, independent of anything it may convey,
is a blessedness.  Never were such characters cut by any other
human being as Edmund's commonest handwriting gave!  This specimen,
written in haste as it was, had not a fault; and there was a felicity
in the flow of the first four words, in the arrangement of "My
very dear Fanny," which she could have looked at for ever.

Having regulated her thoughts and comforted her feelings by this
happy mixture of reason and weakness, she was able in due time
to go down and resume her usual employments near her aunt Bertram,
and pay her the usual observances without any apparent want of spirits.

Thursday, predestined to hope and enjoyment, came; and opened
with more kindness to Fanny than such self-willed, unmanageable
days often volunteer, for soon after breakfast a very friendly
note was brought from Mr. Crawford to William, stating that as he
found himself obliged to go to London on the morrow for a few days,
he could not help trying to procure a companion; and therefore
hoped that if William could make up his mind to leave Mansfield
half a day earlier than had been proposed, he would accept a place
in his carriage.  Mr. Crawford meant to be in town by his uncle's
accustomary late dinner-hour, and William was invited to dine with him
at the Admiral's. The proposal was a very pleasant one to William
himself, who enjoyed the idea of travelling post with four horses,
and such a good-humoured, agreeable friend; and, in likening it
to going up with despatches, was saying at once everything in favour
of its happiness and dignity which his imagination could suggest;
and Fanny, from a different motive, was exceedingly pleased;
for the original plan was that William should go up by the mail
from Northampton the following night, which would not have allowed
him an hour's rest before he must have got into a Portsmouth coach;
and though this offer of Mr. Crawford's would rob her of many
hours of his company, she was too happy in having William spared
from the fatigue of such a journey, to think of anything else. 
Sir Thomas approved of it for another reason.  His nephew's
introduction to Admiral Crawford might be of service.  The Admiral,
he believed, had interest.  Upon the whole, it was a very joyous note. 
Fanny's spirits lived on it half the morning, deriving some accession
of pleasure from its writer being himself to go away.

As for the ball, so near at hand, she had too many agitations
and fears to have half the enjoyment in anticipation which she
ought to have had, or must have been supposed to have by the many
young ladies looking forward to the same event in situations more
at ease, but under circumstances of less novelty, less interest,
less peculiar gratification, than would be attributed to her.  Miss Price,
known only by name to half the people invited, was now to make her
first appearance, and must be regarded as the queen of the evening. 
Who could be happier than Miss Price?  But Miss Price had not been
brought up to the trade of _coming_ _out_; and had she known in
what light this ball was, in general, considered respecting her,
it would very much have lessened her comfort by increasing
the fears she already had of doing wrong and being looked at. 
To dance without much observation or any extraordinary fatigue,
to have strength and partners for about half the evening, to dance
a little with Edmund, and not a great deal with Mr. Crawford, to see
William enjoy himself, and be able to keep away from her aunt Norris,
was the height of her ambition, and seemed to comprehend her greatest
possibility of happiness.  As these were the best of her hopes,
they could not always prevail; and in the course of a long morning,
spent principally with her two aunts, she was often under the influence
of much less sanguine views.  William, determined to make this
last day a day of thorough enjoyment, was out snipe-shooting;
Edmund, she had too much reason to suppose, was at the Parsonage;
and left alone to bear the worrying of Mrs. Norris, who was cross
because the housekeeper would have her own way with the supper,
and whom _she_ could not avoid though the housekeeper might,
Fanny was worn down at last to think everything an evil belonging
to the ball, and when sent off with a parting worry to dress,
moved as languidly towards her own room, and felt as incapable
of happiness as if she had been allowed no share in it.

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

"Fanny," said a voice at that moment near her.  Starting and looking up,
she saw, across the lobby she had just reached, Edmund himself,
standing at the head of a different staircase.  He came towards her. 
"You look tired and fagged, Fanny.  You have been walking too far."

"No, I have not been out at all."

"Then you have had fatigues within doors, which are worse. 
You had better have gone out."

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

"I come from Dr. Grant's," said Edmund presently.  "You may guess
my errand there, Fanny."  And he looked so conscious, that Fanny
could think but of one errand, which turned her too sick for speech. 
"I wished to engage Miss Crawford for the two first dances,"
was the explanation that followed, and brought Fanny to life again,
enabling her, as she found she was expected to speak, to utter
something like an inquiry as to the result.

"Yes," he answered, "she is engaged to me; but" (with a smile
that did not sit easy) "she says it is to be the last time that she
ever will dance with me.  She is not serious.  I think, I hope,
I am sure she is not serious; but I would rather not hear it. 
She never has danced with a clergyman, she says, and she never _will_. 
For my own sake, I could wish there had been no ball just at--I mean
not this very week, this very day; to-morrow I leave home."

Fanny struggled for speech, and said, "I am very sorry that anything
has occurred to distress you.  This ought to be a day of pleasure. 
My uncle meant it so."

"Oh yes, yes! and it will be a day of pleasure.  It will all end right. 
I am only vexed for a moment.  In fact, it is not that I consider
the ball as ill-timed; what does it signify?  But, Fanny,"
stopping her, by taking her hand, and speaking low and seriously,
"you know what all this means.  You see how it is; and could tell me,
perhaps better than I could tell you, how and why I am vexed.  Let me
talk to you a little.  You are a kind, kind listener.  I have been
pained by her manner this morning, and cannot get the better of it. 
I know her disposition to be as sweet and faultless as your own,
but the influence of her former companions makes her seem--
gives to her conversation, to her professed opinions, sometimes a
tinge of wrong.  She does not _think_ evil, but she speaks it,
speaks it in playfulness; and though I know it to be playfulness,
it grieves me to the soul."

"The effect of education," said Fanny gently.

Edmund could not but agree to it.  "Yes, that uncle and aunt! 
They have injured the finest mind; for sometimes, Fanny, I own to you,
it does appear more than manner:  it appears as if the mind itself
was tainted."

Fanny imagined this to be an appeal to her judgment, and therefore,
after a moment's consideration, said, "If you only want me as
a listener, cousin, I will be as useful as I can; but I am not qualified
for an adviser.  Do not ask advice of _me_.  I am not competent."

"You are right, Fanny, to protest against such an office, but you need
not be afraid.  It is a subject on which I should never ask advice;
it is the sort of subject on which it had better never be asked;
and few, I imagine, do ask it, but when they want to be influenced
against their conscience.  I only want to talk to you."

"One thing more.  Excuse the liberty; but take care _how_ you talk to me. 
Do not tell me anything now, which hereafter you may be sorry for. 
The time may come--"

The colour rushed into her cheeks as she spoke.

"Dearest Fanny!" cried Edmund, pressing her hand to his lips
with almost as much warmth as if it had been Miss Crawford's, "you
are all considerate thought!  But it is unnecessary here.  The time
will never come.  No such time as you allude to will ever come. 
I begin to think it most improbable:  the chances grow less and less;
and even if it should, there will be nothing to be remembered by either
you or me that we need be afraid of, for I can never be ashamed of my
own scruples; and if they are removed, it must be by changes that will
only raise her character the more by the recollection of the faults
she once had.  You are the only being upon earth to whom I should
say what I have said; but you have always known my opinion of her;
you can bear me witness, Fanny, that I have never been blinded. 
How many a time have we talked over her little errors!  You need
not fear me; I have almost given up every serious idea of her;
but I must be a blockhead indeed, if, whatever befell me, I could think
of your kindness and sympathy without the sincerest gratitude."

He had said enough to shake the experience of eighteen.  He had said
enough to give Fanny some happier feelings than she had lately known,
and with a brighter look, she answered, "Yes, cousin, I am convinced
that _you_ would be incapable of anything else, though perhaps some
might not.  I cannot be afraid of hearing anything you wish to say. 
Do not check yourself.  Tell me whatever you like."

They were now on the second floor, and the appearance of a housemaid
prevented any farther conversation.  For Fanny's present comfort it
was concluded, perhaps, at the happiest moment:  had he been able
to talk another five minutes, there is no saying that he might not
have talked away all Miss Crawford's faults and his own despondence. 
But as it was, they parted with looks on his side of grateful affection,
and with some very precious sensations on hers.  She had felt
nothing like it for hours.  Since the first joy from Mr. Crawford's
note to William had worn away, she had been in a state absolutely
the reverse; there had been no comfort around, no hope within her. 
Now everything was smiling.  William's good fortune returned
again upon her mind, and seemed of greater value than at first. 
The ball, too--such an evening of pleasure before her!  It was
now a real animation; and she began to dress for it with much of
the happy flutter which belongs to a ball.  All went well:  she did
not dislike her own looks; and when she came to the necklaces again,
her good fortune seemed complete, for upon trial the one given
her by Miss Crawford would by no means go through the ring
of the cross.  She had, to oblige Edmund, resolved to wear it;
but it was too large for the purpose.  His, therefore, must be worn;
and having, with delightful feelings, joined the chain and the cross--
those memorials of the two most beloved of her heart, those dearest
tokens so formed for each other by everything real and imaginary--
and put them round her neck, and seen and felt how full of William
and Edmund they were, she was able, without an effort, to resolve on
wearing Miss Crawford's necklace too.  She acknowledged it to be right. 
Miss Crawford had a claim; and when it was no longer to encroach on,
to interfere with the stronger claims, the truer kindness of another,
she could do her justice even with pleasure to herself. 
The necklace really looked very well; and Fanny left her room at last,
comfortably satisfied with herself and all about her.

Her aunt Bertram had recollected her on this occasion with an unusual
degree of wakefulness.  It had really occurred to her, unprompted,
that Fanny, preparing for a ball, might be glad of better help than
the upper housemaid's, and when dressed herself, she actually sent
her own maid to assist her; too late, of course, to be of any use. 
Mrs. Chapman had just reached the attic floor, when Miss Price came
out of her room completely dressed, and only civilities were necessary;
but Fanny felt her aunt's attention almost as much as Lady Bertram
or Mrs. Chapman could do themselves.



CHAPTER XXVIII

Her uncle and both her aunts were in the drawing-room when Fanny
went down.  To the former she was an interesting object, and he saw
with pleasure the general elegance of her appearance, and her being
in remarkably good looks.  The neatness and propriety of her dress
was all that he would allow himself to commend in her presence,
but upon her leaving the room again soon afterwards, he spoke
of her beauty with very decided praise.

"Yes," said Lady Bertram, "she looks very well.  I sent Chapman
to her."

"Look well!  Oh, yes!" cried Mrs. Norris, "she has good reason to look
well with all her advantages:  brought up in this family as she
has been, with all the benefit of her cousins' manners before her. 
Only think, my dear Sir Thomas, what extraordinary advantages
you and I have been the means of giving her.  The very gown you
have been taking notice of is your own generous present to her
when dear Mrs. Rushworth married.  What would she have been if we
had not taken her by the hand?"

Sir Thomas said no more; but when they sat down to table the eyes
of the two young men assured him that the subject might be gently
touched again, when the ladies withdrew, with more success. 
Fanny saw that she was approved; and the consciousness of looking
well made her look still better.  From a variety of causes she
was happy, and she was soon made still happier; for in following
her aunts out of the room, Edmund, who was holding open the door,
said, as she passed him, "You must dance with me, Fanny; you must
keep two dances for me; any two that you like, except the first." 
She had nothing more to wish for.  She had hardly ever been in a
state so nearly approaching high spirits in her life.  Her cousins'
former gaiety on the day of a ball was no longer surprising to her;
she felt it to be indeed very charming, and was actually practising
her steps about the drawing-room as long as she could be safe from
the notice of her aunt Norris, who was entirely taken up at first
in fresh arranging and injuring the noble fire which the butler
had prepared.

Half an hour followed that would have been at least languid under
any other circumstances, but Fanny's happiness still prevailed. 
It was but to think of her conversation with Edmund, and what was
the restlessness of Mrs. Norris?  What were the yawns of Lady Bertram?

The gentlemen joined them; and soon after began the sweet
expectation of a carriage, when a general spirit of ease and
enjoyment seemed diffused, and they all stood about and talked
and laughed, and every moment had its pleasure and its hope. 
Fanny felt that there must be a struggle in Edmund's cheerfulness,
but it was delightful to see the effort so successfully made.

When the carriages were really heard, when the guests began really
to assemble, her own gaiety of heart was much subdued:  the sight
of so many strangers threw her back into herself; and besides the
gravity and formality of the first great circle, which the manners
of neither Sir Thomas nor Lady Bertram were of a kind to do away,
she found herself occasionally called on to endure something worse. 
She was introduced here and there by her uncle, and forced to be
spoken to, and to curtsey, and speak again.  This was a hard duty,
and she was never summoned to it without looking at William, as he
walked about at his ease in the background of the scene, and longing
to be with him.

The entrance of the Grants and Crawfords was a favourable epoch. 
The stiffness of the meeting soon gave way before their popular manners
and more diffused intimacies:  little groups were formed, and everybody
grew comfortable.  Fanny felt the advantage; and, drawing back from
the toils of civility, would have been again most happy, could she
have kept her eyes from wandering between Edmund and Mary Crawford. 
_She_ looked all loveliness--and what might not be the end of it? 
Her own musings were brought to an end on perceiving Mr. Crawford
before her, and her thoughts were put into another channel by his
engaging her almost instantly for the first two dances.  Her happiness
on this occasion was very much _a_ _la_ _mortal_, finely chequered. 
To be secure of a partner at first was a most essential good--
for the moment of beginning was now growing seriously near; and she
so little understood her own claims as to think that if Mr. Crawford
had not asked her, she must have been the last to be sought after,
and should have received a partner only through a series of inquiry,
and bustle, and interference, which would have been terrible;
but at the same time there was a pointedness in his manner of asking
her which she did not like, and she saw his eye glancing for a moment
at her necklace, with a smile--she thought there was a smile--
which made her blush and feel wretched.  And though there was no
second glance to disturb her, though his object seemed then to be only
quietly agreeable, she could not get the better of her embarrassment,
heightened as it was by the idea of his perceiving it, and had no
composure till he turned away to some one else.  Then she could
gradually rise up to the genuine satisfaction of having a partner,
a voluntary partner, secured against the dancing began.

When the company were moving into the ballroom, she found herself
for the first time near Miss Crawford, whose eyes and smiles
were immediately and more unequivocally directed as her brother's
had been, and who was beginning to speak on the subject, when Fanny,
anxious to get the story over, hastened to give the explanation
of the second necklace:  the real chain.  Miss Crawford listened;
and all her intended compliments and insinuations to Fanny
were forgotten:  she felt only one thing; and her eyes, bright as they
had been before, shewing they could yet be brighter, she exclaimed
with eager pleasure, "Did he?  Did Edmund?  That was like himself. 
No other man would have thought of it.  I honour him beyond expression." 
And she looked around as if longing to tell him so.  He was not near,
he was attending a party of ladies out of the room; and Mrs. Grant
coming up to the two girls, and taking an arm of each, they followed
with the rest.

Fanny's heart sunk, but there was no leisure for thinking long even
of Miss Crawford's feelings.  They were in the ballroom, the violins
were playing, and her mind was in a flutter that forbade its fixing
on anything serious.  She must watch the general arrangements,
and see how everything was done.

In a few minutes Sir Thomas came to her, and asked if she
were engaged; and the "Yes, sir; to Mr. Crawford," was exactly
what he had intended to hear.  Mr. Crawford was not far off;
Sir Thomas brought him to her, saying something which discovered
to Fanny, that _she_ was to lead the way and open the ball; an idea
that had never occurred to her before.  Whenever she had thought
of the minutiae of the evening, it had been as a matter of course
that Edmund would begin with Miss Crawford; and the impression was
so strong, that though _her_ _uncle_ spoke the contrary, she could
not help an exclamation of surprise, a hint of her unfitness,
an entreaty even to be excused.  To be urging her opinion against Sir
Thomas's was a proof of the extremity of the case; but such was her
horror at the first suggestion, that she could actually look him
in the face and say that she hoped it might be settled otherwise;
in vain, however:  Sir Thomas smiled, tried to encourage her,
and then looked too serious, and said too decidedly, "It must be so,
my dear," for her to hazard another word; and she found herself
the next moment conducted by Mr. Crawford to the top of the room,
and standing there to be joined by the rest of the dancers,
couple after couple, as they were formed.

She could hardly believe it.  To be placed above so many elegant
young women!  The distinction was too great.  It was treating her
like her cousins!  And her thoughts flew to those absent cousins
with most unfeigned and truly tender regret, that they were not
at home to take their own place in the room, and have their share
of a pleasure which would have been so very delightful to them. 
So often as she had heard them wish for a ball at home as the greatest
of all felicities!  And to have them away when it was given--
and for _her_ to be opening the ball--and with Mr. Crawford too! 
She hoped they would not envy her that distinction _now_;
but when she looked back to the state of things in the autumn,
to what they had all been to each other when once dancing in that
house before, the present arrangement was almost more than she could
understand herself.

The ball began.  It was rather honour than happiness to Fanny,
for the first dance at least:  her partner was in excellent spirits,
and tried to impart them to her; but she was a great deal too much
frightened to have any enjoyment till she could suppose herself
no longer looked at.  Young, pretty, and gentle, however, she had
no awkwardnesses that were not as good as graces, and there
were few persons present that were not disposed to praise her. 
She was attractive, she was modest, she was Sir Thomas's niece,
and she was soon said to be admired by Mr. Crawford.  It was enough
to give her general favour.  Sir Thomas himself was watching
her progress down the dance with much complacency; he was proud
of his niece; and without attributing all her personal beauty,
as Mrs. Norris seemed to do, to her transplantation to Mansfield,
he was pleased with himself for having supplied everything else: 
education and manners she owed to him.

Miss Crawford saw much of Sir Thomas's thoughts as he stood, and having,
in spite of all his wrongs towards her, a general prevailing desire
of recommending herself to him, took an opportunity of stepping aside
to say something agreeable of Fanny.  Her praise was warm, and he
received it as she could wish, joining in it as far as discretion,
and politeness, and slowness of speech would allow, and certainly
appearing to greater advantage on the subject than his lady did
soon afterwards, when Mary, perceiving her on a sofa very near,
turned round before she began to dance, to compliment her on Miss
Price's looks.

"Yes, she does look very well," was Lady Bertram's placid reply. 
"Chapman helped her to dress.  I sent Chapman to her."  Not but
that she was really pleased to have Fanny admired; but she was so
much more struck with her own kindness in sending Chapman to her,
that she could not get it out of her head.

Miss Crawford knew Mrs. Norris too well to think of gratifying _her_
by commendation of Fanny; to her, it was as the occasion offered--"Ah!
ma'am, how much we want dear Mrs. Rushworth and Julia to-night!"
and Mrs. Norris paid her with as many smiles and courteous words
as she had time for, amid so much occupation as she found for
herself in making up card-tables, giving hints to Sir Thomas,
and trying to move all the chaperons to a better part of the room.

Miss Crawford blundered most towards Fanny herself in her intentions
to please.  She meant to be giving her little heart a happy flutter,
and filling her with sensations of delightful self-consequence;
and, misinterpreting Fanny's blushes, still thought she must be
doing so when she went to her after the two first dances, and said,
with a significant look, "Perhaps _you_ can tell me why my brother
goes to town to-morrow? He says he has business there, but will not
tell me what.  The first time he ever denied me his confidence! 
But this is what we all come to.  All are supplanted sooner
or later.  Now, I must apply to you for information.  Pray, what is
Henry going for?"

Fanny protested her ignorance as steadily as her embarrassment allowed.

"Well, then," replied Miss Crawford, laughing, "I must suppose
it to be purely for the pleasure of conveying your brother,
and of talking of you by the way."

Fanny was confused, but it was the confusion of discontent;
while Miss Crawford wondered she did not smile, and thought
her over-anxious, or thought her odd, or thought her anything
rather than insensible of pleasure in Henry's attentions. 
Fanny had a good deal of enjoyment in the course of the evening;
but Henry's attentions had very little to do with it.  She would
much rather _not_ have been asked by him again so very soon,
and she wished she had not been obliged to suspect that his previous
inquiries of Mrs. Norris, about the supper hour, were all for the
sake of securing her at that part of the evening.  But it was not
to be avoided:  he made her feel that she was the object of all;
though she could not say that it was unpleasantly done, that there
was indelicacy or ostentation in his manner; and sometimes, when he
talked of William, he was really not unagreeable, and shewed even
a warmth of heart which did him credit.  But still his attentions
made no part of her satisfaction.  She was happy whenever she
looked at William, and saw how perfectly he was enjoying himself,
in every five minutes that she could walk about with him and hear
his account of his partners; she was happy in knowing herself admired;
and she was happy in having the two dances with Edmund still to look
forward to, during the greatest part of the evening, her hand being
so eagerly sought after that her indefinite engagement with _him_
was in continual perspective.  She was happy even when they did
take place; but not from any flow of spirits on his side, or any
such expressions of tender gallantry as had blessed the morning. 
His mind was fagged, and her happiness sprung from being the friend
with whom it could find repose.  "I am worn out with civility," said he. 
"I have been talking incessantly all night, and with nothing to say. 
But with _you_, Fanny, there may be peace.  You will not want
to be talked to.  Let us have the luxury of silence."  Fanny would
hardly even speak her agreement.  A weariness, arising probably,
in great measure, from the same feelings which he had acknowledged
in the morning, was peculiarly to be respected, and they went down
their two dances together with such sober tranquillity as might
satisfy any looker-on that Sir Thomas had been bringing up no wife
for his younger son.

The evening had afforded Edmund little pleasure.  Miss Crawford
had been in gay spirits when they first danced together, but it
was not her gaiety that could do him good:  it rather sank than
raised his comfort; and afterwards, for he found himself still
impelled to seek her again, she had absolutely pained him by her
manner of speaking of the profession to which he was now on the
point of belonging.  They had talked, and they had been silent;
he had reasoned, she had ridiculed; and they had parted at last
with mutual vexation.  Fanny, not able to refrain entirely from
observing them, had seen enough to be tolerably satisfied. 
It was barbarous to be happy when Edmund was suffering.  Yet some
happiness must and would arise from the very conviction that he did suffer.

When her two dances with him were over, her inclination and strength
for more were pretty well at an end; and Sir Thomas, having seen her
walk rather than dance down the shortening set, breathless, and with
her hand at her side, gave his orders for her sitting down entirely. 
From that time Mr. Crawford sat down likewise.

"Poor Fanny!" cried William, coming for a moment to visit her,
and working away his partner's fan as if for life, "how soon she
is knocked up!  Why, the sport is but just begun.  I hope we shall
keep it up these two hours.  How can you be tired so soon?"

"So soon! my good friend," said Sir Thomas, producing his watch
with all necessary caution; "it is three o'clock, and your sister
is not used to these sort of hours."

"Well, then, Fanny, you shall not get up to-morrow before I go. 
Sleep as long as you can, and never mind me."

"Oh!  William."

"What!  Did she think of being up before you set off?"

"Oh! yes, sir," cried Fanny, rising eagerly from her seat
to be nearer her uncle; "I must get up and breakfast with him. 
It will be the last time, you know; the last morning."

"You had better not.  He is to have breakfasted and be gone by
half-past nine.  Mr. Crawford, I think you call for him at half-past nine?"

Fanny was too urgent, however, and had too many tears in her eyes
for denial; and it ended in a gracious "Well, well!" which was permission.

"Yes, half-past nine," said Crawford to William as the latter
was leaving them, "and I shall be punctual, for there will be no
kind sister to get up for _me_."  And in a lower tone to Fanny,
"I shall have only a desolate house to hurry from.  Your brother
will find my ideas of time and his own very different to-morrow."

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

Shortly afterward, Sir Thomas was again interfering a little
with her inclination, by advising her to go immediately to bed. 
"Advise" was his word, but it was the advice of absolute power,
and she had only to rise, and, with Mr. Crawford's very cordial adieus,
pass quietly away; stopping at the entrance-door, like the Lady
of Branxholm Hall, "one moment and no more," to view the happy scene,
and take a last look at the five or six determined couple who were still
hard at work; and then, creeping slowly up the principal staircase,
pursued by the ceaseless country-dance, feverish with hopes and fears,
soup and negus, sore-footed and fatigued, restless and agitated,
yet feeling, in spite of everything, that a ball was indeed delightful.

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



CHAPTER XXIX

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

After seeing William to the last moment, Fanny walked back
to the breakfast-room with a very saddened heart to grieve over
the melancholy change; and there her uncle kindly left her to cry
in peace, conceiving, perhaps, that the deserted chair of each young
man might exercise her tender enthusiasm, and that the remaining cold
pork bones and mustard in William's plate might but divide her feelings
with the broken egg-shells in Mr. Crawford's. She sat and cried _con_
_amore_ as her uncle intended, but it was _con_ _amore_ fraternal
and no other.  William was gone, and she now felt as if she had wasted
half his visit in idle cares and selfish solicitudes unconnected with him.

Fanny's disposition was such that she could never even think
of her aunt Norris in the meagreness and cheerlessness of her own
small house, without reproaching herself for some little want
of attention to her when they had been last together; much less
could her feelings acquit her of having done and said and thought
everything by William that was due to him for a whole fortnight.

It was a heavy, melancholy day.  Soon after the second breakfast,
Edmund bade them good-bye for a week, and mounted his horse
for Peterborough, and then all were gone.  Nothing remained of
last night but remembrances, which she had nobody to share in. 
She talked to her aunt Bertram--she must talk to somebody of the ball;
but her aunt had seen so little of what had passed, and had so
little curiosity, that it was heavy work.  Lady Bertram was not
certain of anybody's dress or anybody's place at supper but her own. 
"She could not recollect what it was that she had heard about one
of the Miss Maddoxes, or what it was that Lady Prescott had noticed
in Fanny:  she was not sure whether Colonel Harrison had been
talking of Mr. Crawford or of William when he said he was the finest
young man in the room--somebody had whispered something to her;
she had forgot to ask Sir Thomas what it could be."  And these were
her longest speeches and clearest communications:  the rest was only
a languid "Yes, yes; very well; did you? did he?  I did not see _that_;
I should not know one from the other."  This was very bad. 
It was only better than Mrs. Norris's sharp answers would have been;
but she being gone home with all the supernumerary jellies to nurse
a sick maid, there was peace and good-humour in their little party,
though it could not boast much beside.

The evening was heavy like the day.  "I cannot think what is the matter
with me," said Lady Bertram, when the tea-things were removed. 
"I feel quite stupid.  It must be sitting up so late last night. 
Fanny, you must do something to keep me awake.  I cannot work. 
Fetch the cards; I feel so very stupid."

The cards were brought, and Fanny played at cribbage with her aunt
till bedtime; and as Sir Thomas was reading to himself, no sounds
were heard in the room for the next two hours beyond the reckonings
of the game--"And _that_ makes thirty-one; four in hand and eight
in crib.  You are to deal, ma'am; shall I deal for you?"  Fanny thought
and thought again of the difference which twenty-four hours had
made in that room, and all that part of the house.  Last night it
had been hope and smiles, bustle and motion, noise and brilliancy,
in the drawing-room, and out of the drawing-room, and everywhere. 
Now it was languor, and all but solitude.

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

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

"We miss our two young men," was Sir Thomas's observation on both
the first and second day, as they formed their very reduced circle
after dinner; and in consideration of Fanny's swimming eyes,
nothing more was said on the first day than to drink their good health;
but on the second it led to something farther.  William was kindly
commended and his promotion hoped for.  "And there is no reason
to suppose," added Sir Thomas, "but that his visits to us may now be
tolerably frequent.  As to Edmund, we must learn to do without him. 
This will be the last winter of his belonging to us, as he has done."

"Yes," said Lady Bertram, "but I wish he was not going away. 
They are all going away, I think.  I wish they would stay at home."

This wish was levelled principally at Julia, who had just applied
for permission to go to town with Maria; and as Sir Thomas thought
it best for each daughter that the permission should be granted,
Lady Bertram, though in her own good-nature she would not have
prevented it, was lamenting the change it made in the prospect
of Julia's return, which would otherwise have taken place about
this time.  A great deal of good sense followed on Sir Thomas's side,
tending to reconcile his wife to the arrangement.  Everything that
a considerate parent _ought_ to feel was advanced for her use;
and everything that an affectionate mother _must_ feel in promoting
her children's enjoyment was attributed to her nature.  Lady Bertram
agreed to it all with a calm "Yes"; and at the end of a quarter of
an hour's silent consideration spontaneously observed, "Sir Thomas,
I have been thinking--and I am very glad we took Fanny as we did,
for now the others are away we feel the good of it."

Sir Thomas immediately improved this compliment by adding, "Very true. 
We shew Fanny what a good girl we think her by praising her to her face,
she is now a very valuable companion.  If we have been kind to _her_,
she is now quite as necessary to _us_."

"Yes," said Lady Bertram presently; "and it is a comfort to think
that we shall always have _her_."

Sir Thomas paused, half smiled, glanced at his niece, and then
gravely replied, "She will never leave us, I hope, till invited
to some other home that may reasonably promise her greater happiness
than she knows here."

"And _that_ is not very likely to be, Sir Thomas.  Who should invite her? 
Maria might be very glad to see her at Sotherton now and then,
but she would not think of asking her to live there; and I am sure
she is better off here; and besides, I cannot do without her."

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

Her vexation did not end with the week.  All this was bad, but she had
still more to feel when Friday came round again and brought no Edmund;
when Saturday came and still no Edmund; and when, through the
slight communication with the other family which Sunday produced,
she learned that he had actually written home to defer his return,
having promised to remain some days longer with his friend.

If she had felt impatience and regret before--if she had been sorry
for what she said, and feared its too strong effect on him--she now
felt and feared it all tenfold more.  She had, moreover, to contend
with one disagreeable emotion entirely new to her--jealousy.  His friend
Mr. Owen had sisters; he might find them attractive.  But, at any rate,
his staying away at a time when, according to all preceding plans,
she was to remove to London, meant something that she could not bear. 
Had Henry returned, as he talked of doing, at the end of three or four days,
she should now have been leaving Mansfield.  It became absolutely
necessary for her to get to Fanny and try to learn something more. 
She could not live any longer in such solitary wretchedness;
and she made her way to the Park, through difficulties of walking
which she had deemed unconquerable a week before, for the chance
of hearing a little in addition, for the sake of at least hearing his name.

The first half-hour was lost, for Fanny and Lady Bertram were together,
and unless she had Fanny to herself she could hope for nothing. 
But at last Lady Bertram left the room, and then almost immediately
Miss Crawford thus began, with a voice as well regulated as she
could--"And how do _you_ like your cousin Edmund's staying away
so long?  Being the only young person at home, I consider _you_
as the greatest sufferer.  You must miss him.  Does his staying
longer surprise you?"

"I do not know," said Fanny hesitatingly.  "Yes; I had not
particularly expected it."

"Perhaps he will always stay longer than he talks of.  It is
the general way all young men do."

"He did not, the only time he went to see Mr. Owen before."

"He finds the house more agreeable _now_.  He is a very--
a very pleasing young man himself, and I cannot help being rather
concerned at not seeing him again before I go to London, as will
now undoubtedly be the case.  I am looking for Henry every day,
and as soon as he comes there will be nothing to detain me
at Mansfield.  I should like to have seen him once more, I confess. 
But you must give my compliments to him.  Yes; I think it must
be compliments.  Is not there a something wanted, Miss Price,
in our language--a something between compliments and--and love--
to suit the sort of friendly acquaintance we have had together? 
So many months' acquaintance!  But compliments may be sufficient here. 
Was his letter a long one?  Does he give you much account of what he
is doing?  Is it Christmas gaieties that he is staying for?"

"I only heard a part of the letter; it was to my uncle; but I
believe it was very short; indeed I am sure it was but a few lines. 
All that I heard was that his friend had pressed him to stay longer,
and that he had agreed to do so.  A _few_ days longer, or _some_
days longer; I am not quite sure which."

"Oh! if he wrote to his father; but I thought it might have
been to Lady Bertram or you.  But if he wrote to his father,
no wonder he was concise.  Who could write chat to Sir Thomas? 
If he had written to you, there would have been more particulars. 
You would have heard of balls and parties.  He would have sent you
a description of everything and everybody.  How many Miss Owens
are there?"

"Three grown up."

"Are they musical?"

"I do not at all know.  I never heard."

"That is the first question, you know," said Miss Crawford,
trying to appear gay and unconcerned, "which every woman who plays
herself is sure to ask about another.  But it is very foolish to ask
questions about any young ladies--about any three sisters just
grown up; for one knows, without being told, exactly what they are: 
all very accomplished and pleasing, and one very pretty. 
There is a beauty in every family; it is a regular thing.  Two play
on the pianoforte, and one on the harp; and all sing, or would sing
if they were taught, or sing all the better for not being taught;
or something like it."

"I know nothing of the Miss Owens," said Fanny calmly.

"You know nothing and you care less, as people say.  Never did
tone express indifference plainer.  Indeed, how can one care
for those one has never seen?  Well, when your cousin comes back,
he will find Mansfield very quiet; all the noisy ones gone,
your brother and mine and myself I do not like the idea of leaving
Mrs. Grant now the time draws near.  She does not like my going."

Fanny felt obliged to speak.  "'You cannot doubt your being missed
by many," said she.  "You will be very much missed."

Miss Crawford turned her eye on her, as if wanting to hear or see more,
and then laughingly said, "Oh yes! missed as every noisy evil is missed
when it is taken away; that is, there is a great difference felt. 
But I am not fishing; don't compliment me.  If I _am_ missed,
it will appear.  I may be discovered by those who want to see me. 
I shall not be in any doubtful, or distant, or unapproachable region."

Now Fanny could not bring herself to speak, and Miss Crawford
was disappointed; for she had hoped to hear some pleasant assurance
of her power from one who she thought must know, and her spirits
were clouded again.

"The Miss Owens," said she, soon afterwards; "suppose you were to have
one of the Miss Owens settled at Thornton Lacey; how should you like it? 
Stranger things have happened.  I dare say they are trying for it. 
And they are quite in the light, for it would be a very pretty
establishment for them.  I do not at all wonder or blame them. 
It is everybody's duty to do as well for themselves as they can. 
Sir Thomas Bertram's son is somebody; and now he is in their own line. 
Their father is a clergyman, and their brother is a clergyman,
and they are all clergymen together.  He is their lawful property;
he fairly belongs to them.  You don't speak, Fanny; Miss Price,
you don't speak.  But honestly now, do not you rather expect it
than otherwise?"

"No," said Fanny stoutly, "I do not expect it at all."

"Not at all!" cried Miss Crawford with alacrity.  "I wonder at that. 
But I dare say you know exactly--I always imagine you are--perhaps you
do not think him likely to marry at all--or not at present."

"No, I do not," said Fanny softly, hoping she did not err either
in the belief or the acknowledgment of it.

Her companion looked at her keenly; and gathering greater spirit
from the blush soon produced from such a look, only said, "He is
best off as he is," and turned the subject.



CHAPTER XXX

Miss Crawford's uneasiness was much lightened by this conversation,
and she walked home again in spirits which might have defied almost
another week of the same small party in the same bad weather,
had they been put to the proof; but as that very evening brought
her brother down from London again in quite, or more than quite,
his usual cheerfulness, she had nothing farther to try her own. 
His still refusing to tell her what he had gone for was but
the promotion of gaiety; a day before it might have irritated,
but now it was a pleasant joke--suspected only of concealing
something planned as a pleasant surprise to herself.  And the next
day _did_ bring a surprise to her.  Henry had said he should just
go and ask the Bertrams how they did, and be back in ten minutes,
but he was gone above an hour; and when his sister, who had been
waiting for him to walk with her in the garden, met him at last most
impatiently in the sweep, and cried out, "My dear Henry, where can
you have been all this time?" he had only to say that he had been
sitting with Lady Bertram and Fanny.

"Sitting with them an hour and a half!" exclaimed Mary.

But this was only the beginning of her surprise.

"Yes, Mary," said he, drawing her arm within his, and walking
along the sweep as if not knowing where he was:  "I could not get
away sooner; Fanny looked so lovely!  I am quite determined, Mary. 
My mind is entirely made up.  Will it astonish you?  No:  you must
be aware that I am quite determined to marry Fanny Price."

The surprise was now complete; for, in spite of whatever his
consciousness might suggest, a suspicion of his having any such
views had never entered his sister's imagination; and she looked
so truly the astonishment she felt, that he was obliged to repeat
what he had said, and more fully and more solemnly.  The conviction
of his determination once admitted, it was not unwelcome. 
There was even pleasure with the surprise.  Mary was in a state
of mind to rejoice in a connexion with the Bertram family, and to
be not displeased with her brother's marrying a little beneath him.

"Yes, Mary," was Henry's concluding assurance.  "I am fairly caught. 
You know with what idle designs I began; but this is the end of them. 
I have, I flatter myself, made no inconsiderable progress in
her affections; but my own are entirely fixed."

"Lucky, lucky girl!" cried Mary, as soon as she could speak; "what a
match for her!  My dearest Henry, this must be my _first_ feeling;
but my _second_, which you shall have as sincerely, is, that I
approve your choice from my soul, and foresee your happiness
as heartily as I wish and desire it.  You will have a sweet
little wife; all gratitude and devotion.  Exactly what you deserve. 
What an amazing match for her!  Mrs. Norris often talks of her luck;
what will she say now?  The delight of all the family, indeed! 
And she has some _true_ friends in it!  How _they_ will rejoice! 
But tell me all about it!  Talk to me for ever.  When did you begin
to think seriously about her?"

Nothing could be more impossible than to answer such a question,
though nothing could be more agreeable than to have it asked. 
"How the pleasing plague had stolen on him" he could not say;
and before he had expressed the same sentiment with a little variation
of words three times over, his sister eagerly interrupted him with,
"Ah, my dear Henry, and this is what took you to London!  This was
your business!  You chose to consult the Admiral before you made up
your mind."

But this he stoutly denied.  He knew his uncle too well to consult
him on any matrimonial scheme.  The Admiral hated marriage,
and thought it never pardonable in a young man of independent fortune.

"When Fanny is known to him," continued Henry, "he will doat on her. 
She is exactly the woman to do away every prejudice of such a man
as the Admiral, for she he would describe, if indeed he has now
delicacy of language enough to embody his own ideas.  But till it
is absolutely settled--settled beyond all interference, he shall
know nothing of the matter.  No, Mary, you are quite mistaken. 
You have not discovered my business yet."

"Well, well, I am satisfied.  I know now to whom it must relate,
and am in no hurry for the rest.  Fanny Price! wonderful,
quite wonderful!  That Mansfield should have done so much for--
that _you_ should have found your fate in Mansfield!  But you
are quite right; you could not have chosen better.  There is not
a better girl in the world, and you do not want for fortune;
and as to her connexions, they are more than good.  The Bertrams
are undoubtedly some of the first people in this country.  She is
niece to Sir Thomas Bertram; that will be enough for the world. 
But go on, go on.  Tell me more.  What are your plans?  Does she know
her own happiness?"

"No."

"What are you waiting for?"

"For--for very little more than opportunity.  Mary, she is not
like her cousins; but I think I shall not ask in vain."

"Oh no! you cannot.  Were you even less pleasing--supposing her not
to love you already (of which, however, I can have little doubt)--
you would be safe.  The gentleness and gratitude of her disposition
would secure her all your own immediately.  From my soul I do
not think she would marry you _without_ love; that is, if there
is a girl in the world capable of being uninfluenced by ambition,
I can suppose it her; but ask her to love you, and she will never
have the heart to refuse."

As soon as her eagerness could rest in silence, he was as happy
to tell as she could be to listen; and a conversation followed almost
as deeply interesting to her as to himself, though he had in fact
nothing to relate but his own sensations, nothing to dwell on but
Fanny's charms.  Fanny's beauty of face and figure, Fanny's graces
of manner and goodness of heart, were the exhaustless theme. 
The gentleness, modesty, and sweetness of her character were warmly
expatiated on; that sweetness which makes so essential a part
of every woman's worth in the judgment of man, that though he
sometimes loves where it is not, he can never believe it absent. 
Her temper he had good reason to depend on and to praise.  He had
often seen it tried.  Was there one of the family, excepting Edmund,
who had not in some way or other continually exercised her
patience and forbearance?  Her affections were evidently strong. 
To see her with her brother!  What could more delightfully prove
that the warmth of her heart was equal to its gentleness? 
What could be more encouraging to a man who had her love in view? 
Then, her understanding was beyond every suspicion, quick and clear;
and her manners were the mirror of her own modest and elegant mind. 
Nor was this all.  Henry Crawford had too much sense not to feel
the worth of good principles in a wife, though he was too little
accustomed to serious reflection to know them by their proper name;
but when he talked of her having such a steadiness and regularity
of conduct, such a high notion of honour, and such an observance
of decorum as might warrant any man in the fullest dependence on her
faith and integrity, he expressed what was inspired by the knowledge
of her being well principled and religious.

"I could so wholly and absolutely confide in her," said he;
"and _that_ is what I want."

Well might his sister, believing as she really did that his opinion
of Fanny Price was scarcely beyond her merits, rejoice in her prospects.

"The more I think of it," she cried, "the more am I convinced
that you are doing quite right; and though I should never have
selected Fanny Price as the girl most likely to attach you,
I am now persuaded she is the very one to make you happy. 
Your wicked project upon her peace turns out a clever thought indeed. 
You will both find your good in it."

"It was bad, very bad in me against such a creature; but I did
not know her then; and she shall have no reason to lament the hour
that first put it into my head.  I will make her very happy, Mary;
happier than she has ever yet been herself, or ever seen anybody else. 
I will not take her from Northamptonshire.  I shall let Everingham,
and rent a place in this neighbourhood; perhaps Stanwix Lodge. 
I shall let a seven years' lease of Everingham.  I am sure of an
excellent tenant at half a word.  I could name three people now,
who would give me my own terms and thank me."

"Ha!" cried Mary; "settle in Northamptonshire!  That is pleasant! 
Then we shall be all together."

When she had spoken it, she recollected herself, and wished
it unsaid; but there was no need of confusion; for her brother
saw her only as the supposed inmate of Mansfield parsonage,
and replied but to invite her in the kindest manner to his own house,
and to claim the best right in her.

"You must give us more than half your time," said he.  "I cannot
admit Mrs. Grant to have an equal claim with Fanny and myself,
for we shall both have a right in you.  Fanny will be so truly
your sister!"

Mary had only to be grateful and give general assurances; but she
was now very fully purposed to be the guest of neither brother nor
sister many months longer.

"You will divide your year between London and Northamptonshire?"

"Yes."

"That's right; and in London, of course, a house of your own: 
no longer with the Admiral.  My dearest Henry, the advantage to you
of getting away from the Admiral before your manners are hurt
by the contagion of his, before you have contracted any of his
foolish opinions, or learned to sit over your dinner as if it were
the best blessing of life!  _You_ are not sensible of the gain,
for your regard for him has blinded you; but, in my estimation,
your marrying early may be the saving of you.  To have seen you grow
like the Admiral in word or deed, look or gesture, would have broken
my heart."

"Well, well, we do not think quite alike here.  The Admiral has
his faults, but he is a very good man, and has been more than a father
to me.  Few fathers would have let me have my own way half so much. 
You must not prejudice Fanny against him.  I must have them love
one another."

Mary refrained from saying what she felt, that there could not be two
persons in existence whose characters and manners were less accordant: 
time would discover it to him; but she could not help _this_
reflection on the Admiral.  "Henry, I think so highly of Fanny Price,
that if I could suppose the next Mrs. Crawford would have half
the reason which my poor ill-used aunt had to abhor the very name,
I would prevent the marriage, if possible; but I know you: 
I know that a wife you _loved_ would be the happiest of women,
and that even when you ceased to love, she would yet find in you
the liberality and good-breeding of a gentleman."

The impossibility of not doing everything in the world to make
Fanny Price happy, or of ceasing to love Fanny Price, was of course
the groundwork of his eloquent answer.

"Had you seen her this morning, Mary," he continued,
"attending with such ineffable sweetness and patience to all
the demands of her aunt's stupidity, working with her, and for her,
her colour beautifully heightened as she leant over the work,
then returning to her seat to finish a note which she was previously
engaged in writing for that stupid woman's service, and all this
with such unpretending gentleness, so much as if it were a matter
of course that she was not to have a moment at her own command,
her hair arranged as neatly as it always is, and one little curl
falling forward as she wrote, which she now and then shook back,
and in the midst of all this, still speaking at intervals to _me_,
or listening, and as if she liked to listen, to what I said. 
Had you seen her so, Mary, you would not have implied the possibility
of her power over my heart ever ceasing."

"My dearest Henry," cried Mary, stopping short, and smiling in his face,
"how glad I am to see you so much in love!  It quite delights me. 
But what will Mrs. Rushworth and Julia say?"

"I care neither what they say nor what they feel.  They will now
see what sort of woman it is that can attach me, that can attach
a man of sense.  I wish the discovery may do them any good. 
And they will now see their cousin treated as she ought to be, and I
wish they may be heartily ashamed of their own abominable neglect
and unkindness.  They will be angry," he added, after a moment's silence,
and in a cooler tone; "Mrs. Rushworth will be very angry.  It will
be a bitter pill to her; that is, like other bitter pills, it will
have two moments' ill flavour, and then be swallowed and forgotten;
for I am not such a coxcomb as to suppose her feelings more lasting
than other women's, though _I_ was the object of them.  Yes, Mary,
my Fanny will feel a difference indeed:  a daily, hourly difference,
in the behaviour of every being who approaches her; and it will be
the completion of my happiness to know that I am the doer of it,
that I am the person to give the consequence so justly her due. 
Now she is dependent, helpless, friendless, neglected, forgotten."

"Nay, Henry, not by all; not forgotten by all; not friendless
or forgotten.  Her cousin Edmund never forgets her."

"Edmund!  True, I believe he is, generally speaking, kind to her,
and so is Sir Thomas in his way; but it is the way of a rich,
superior, long-worded, arbitrary uncle.  What can Sir Thomas
and Edmund together do, what do they _do_ for her happiness,
comfort, honour, and dignity in the world, to what I _shall_ do?"



CHAPTER XXXI

Henry Crawford was at Mansfield Park again the next morning,
and at an earlier hour than common visiting warrants.  The two ladies
were together in the breakfast-room, and, fortunately for him,
Lady Bertram was on the very point of quitting it as he entered. 
She was almost at the door, and not chusing by any means to take
so much trouble in vain, she still went on, after a civil reception,
a short sentence about being waited for, and a "Let Sir Thomas know"
to the servant.

Henry, overjoyed to have her go, bowed and watched her off,
and without losing another moment, turned instantly to Fanny, and,
taking out some letters, said, with a most animated look, "I must
acknowledge myself infinitely obliged to any creature who gives me
such an opportunity of seeing you alone:  I have been wishing it
more than you can have any idea.  Knowing as I do what your feelings
as a sister are, I could hardly have borne that any one in the house
should share with you in the first knowledge of the news I now bring. 
He is made.  Your brother is a lieutenant.  I have the infinite
satisfaction of congratulating you on your brother's promotion. 
Here are the letters which announce it, this moment come to hand. 
You will, perhaps, like to see them."

Fanny could not speak, but he did not want her to speak. 
To see the expression of her eyes, the change of her complexion,
the progress of her feelings, their doubt, confusion, and felicity,
was enough.  She took the letters as he gave them.  The first was
from the Admiral to inform his nephew, in a few words, of his
having succeeded in the object he had undertaken, the promotion
of young Price, and enclosing two more, one from the Secretary
of the First Lord to a friend, whom the Admiral had set to work
in the business, the other from that friend to himself, by which it
appeared that his lordship had the very great happiness of attending
to the recommendation of Sir Charles; that Sir Charles was much
delighted in having such an opportunity of proving his regard for
Admiral Crawford, and that the circumstance of Mr. William Price's
commission as Second Lieutenant of H.M. Sloop Thrush being made
out was spreading general joy through a wide circle of great people.

While her hand was trembling under these letters, her eye running
from one to the other, and her heart swelling with emotion,
Crawford thus continued, with unfeigned eagerness, to express
his interest in the event--

"I will not talk of my own happiness," said he, "great as it is,
for I think only of yours.  Compared with you, who has a right
to be happy?  I have almost grudged myself my own prior knowledge
of what you ought to have known before all the world.  I have not
lost a moment, however.  The post was late this morning, but there
has not been since a moment's delay.  How impatient, how anxious,
how wild I have been on the subject, I will not attempt to describe;
how severely mortified, how cruelly disappointed, in not having it
finished while I was in London!  I was kept there from day to day
in the hope of it, for nothing less dear to me than such an object
would have detained me half the time from Mansfield.  But though
my uncle entered into my wishes with all the warmth I could desire,
and exerted himself immediately, there were difficulties from the absence
of one friend, and the engagements of another, which at last I could
no longer bear to stay the end of, and knowing in what good hands I
left the cause, I came away on Monday, trusting that many posts would
not pass before I should be followed by such very letters as these. 
My uncle, who is the very best man in the world, has exerted himself,
as I knew he would, after seeing your brother.  He was delighted
with him.  I would not allow myself yesterday to say how delighted,
or to repeat half that the Admiral said in his praise.  I deferred
it all till his praise should be proved the praise of a friend,
as this day _does_ prove it.  _Now_ I may say that even I could not
require William Price to excite a greater interest, or be followed
by warmer wishes and higher commendation, than were most voluntarily
bestowed by my uncle after the evening they had passed together."

"Has this been all _your_ doing, then?" cried Fanny.  "Good heaven!
how very, very kind!  Have you really--was it by _your_ desire? 
I beg your pardon, but I am bewildered.  Did Admiral Crawford apply? 
How was it?  I am stupefied."

Henry was most happy to make it more intelligible, by beginning at
an earlier stage, and explaining very particularly what he had done. 
His last journey to London had been undertaken with no other view
than that of introducing her brother in Hill Street, and prevailing on
the Admiral to exert whatever interest he might have for getting him on. 
This had been his business.  He had communicated it to no creature: 
he had not breathed a syllable of it even to Mary; while uncertain
of the issue, he could not have borne any participation of his feelings,
but this had been his business; and he spoke with such a glow
of what his solicitude had been, and used such strong expressions,
was so abounding in the _deepest_ _interest_, in _twofold_ _motives_,
in _views_ _and_ _wishes_ _more_ _than_ _could_ _be_ _told_,
that Fanny could not have remained insensible of his drift,
had she been able to attend; but her heart was so full and her
senses still so astonished, that she could listen but imperfectly
even to what he told her of William, and saying only when he paused,
"How kind! how very kind!  Oh, Mr. Crawford, we are infinitely obliged
to you!  Dearest, dearest William!"  She jumped up and moved in haste
towards the door, crying out, "I will go to my uncle.  My uncle ought
to know it as soon as possible."  But this could not be suffered. 
The opportunity was too fair, and his feelings too impatient. 
He was after her immediately.  "She must not go, she must allow
him five minutes longer," and he took her hand and led her back
to her seat, and was in the middle of his farther explanation,
before she had suspected for what she was detained.  When she did
understand it, however, and found herself expected to believe that
she had created sensations which his heart had never known before,
and that everything he had done for William was to be placed
to the account of his excessive and unequalled attachment to her,
she was exceedingly distressed, and for some moments unable
to speak.  She considered it all as nonsense, as mere trifling
and gallantry, which meant only to deceive for the hour; she could
not but feel that it was treating her improperly and unworthily,
and in such a way as she had not deserved; but it was like himself,
and entirely of a piece with what she had seen before; and she
would not allow herself to shew half the displeasure she felt,
because he had been conferring an obligation, which no want of
delicacy on his part could make a trifle to her.  While her heart
was still bounding with joy and gratitude on William's behalf,
she could not be severely resentful of anything that injured
only herself; and after having twice drawn back her hand, and twice
attempted in vain to turn away from him, she got up, and said only,
with much agitation, "Don't, Mr. Crawford, pray don't! I beg you
would not.  This is a sort of talking which is very unpleasant to me. 
I must go away.  I cannot bear it."  But he was still talking on,
describing his affection, soliciting a return, and, finally, in words
so plain as to bear but one meaning even to her, offering himself,
hand, fortune, everything, to her acceptance.  It was so; he had
said it.  Her astonishment and confusion increased; and though still
not knowing how to suppose him serious, she could hardly stand. 
He pressed for an answer.

"No, no, no!" she cried, hiding her face.  "This is all nonsense. 
Do not distress me.  I can hear no more of this.  Your kindness
to William makes me more obliged to you than words can express;
but I do not want, I cannot bear, I must not listen to such--
No, no, don't think of me.  But you are _not_ thinking of me. 
I know it is all nothing."

She had burst away from him, and at that moment Sir Thomas was heard
speaking to a servant in his way towards the room they were in. 
It was no time for farther assurances or entreaty, though to part
with her at a moment when her modesty alone seemed, to his sanguine
and preassured mind, to stand in the way of the happiness he sought,
was a cruel necessity.  She rushed out at an opposite door from
the one her uncle was approaching, and was walking up and down
the East room ill the utmost confusion of contrary feeling,
before Sir Thomas's politeness or apologies were over, or he had
reached the beginning of the joyful intelligence which his visitor
came to communicate.

She was feeling, thinking, trembling about everything;
agitated, happy, miserable, infinitely obliged, absolutely angry. 
It was all beyond belief!  He was inexcusable, incomprehensible! 
But such were his habits that he could do nothing without a mixture
of evil.  He had previously made her the happiest of human beings,
and now he had insulted--she knew not what to say, how to class,
or how to regard it.  She would not have him be serious, and yet what
could excuse the use of such words and offers, if they meant but to trifle?

But William was a lieutenant.  _That_ was a fact beyond a doubt,
and without an alloy.  She would think of it for ever and forget all
the rest.  Mr. Crawford would certainly never address her so again: 
he must have seen how unwelcome it was to her; and in that case,
how gratefully she could esteem him for his friendship to William!

She would not stir farther from the East room than the head of the
great staircase, till she had satisfied herself of Mr. Crawford's
having left the house; but when convinced of his being gone, she was
eager to go down and be with her uncle, and have all the happiness
of his joy as well as her own, and all the benefit of his information
or his conjectures as to what would now be William's destination. 
Sir Thomas was as joyful as she could desire, and very kind
and communicative; and she had so comfortable a talk with him about
William as to make her feel as if nothing had occurred to vex her,
till she found, towards the close, that Mr. Crawford was engaged
to return and dine there that very day.  This was a most unwelcome
hearing, for though he might think nothing of what had passed,
it would be quite distressing to her to see him again so soon.

She tried to get the better of it; tried very hard, as the dinner
hour approached, to feel and appear as usual; but it was quite
impossible for her not to look most shy and uncomfortable when
their visitor entered the room.  She could not have supposed it
in the power of any concurrence of circumstances to give her so many
painful sensations on the first day of hearing of William's promotion.

Mr. Crawford was not only in the room--he was soon close to her. 
He had a note to deliver from his sister.  Fanny could not look
at him, but there was no consciousness of past folly in his voice. 
She opened her note immediately, glad to have anything to do,
and happy, as she read it, to feel that the fidgetings of her
aunt Norris, who was also to dine there, screened her a little
from view.

"My dear Fanny,--for so I may now always call you, to the infinite
relief of a tongue that has been stumbling at _Miss_ _Price_ for at
least the last six weeks--I cannot let my brother go without sending
you a few lines of general congratulation, and giving my most joyful
consent and approval.  Go on, my dear Fanny, and without fear;
there can be no difficulties worth naming.  I chuse to suppose
that the assurance of my consent will be something; so you may
smile upon him with your sweetest smiles this afternoon, and send
him back to me even happier than he goes.--Yours affectionately,
M. C."

These were not expressions to do Fanny any good; for though she read
in too much haste and confusion to form the clearest judgment of Miss
Crawford's meaning, it was evident that she meant to compliment
her on her brother's attachment, and even to _appear_ to believe
it serious.  She did not know what to do, or what to think. 
There was wretchedness in the idea of its being serious; there was
perplexity and agitation every way.  She was distressed whenever
Mr. Crawford spoke to her, and he spoke to her much too often;
and she was afraid there was a something in his voice and manner
in addressing her very different from what they were when he talked
to the others.  Her comfort in that day's dinner was quite destroyed: 
she could hardly eat anything; and when Sir Thomas good-humouredly
observed that joy had taken away her appetite, she was ready to
sink with shame, from the dread of Mr. Crawford's interpretation;
for though nothing could have tempted her to turn her eyes to
the right hand, where he sat, she felt that _his_ were immediately
directed towards her.

She was more silent than ever.  She would hardly join even when
William was the subject, for his commission came all from the right
hand too, and there was pain in the connexion.

She thought Lady Bertram sat longer than ever, and began to be
in despair of ever getting away; but at last they were in the
drawing-room, and she was able to think as she would, while her
aunts finished the subject of William's appointment in their own style.

Mrs. Norris seemed as much delighted with the saving it would
be to Sir Thomas as with any part of it.  "_Now_ William would
be able to keep himself, which would make a vast difference
to his uncle, for it was unknown how much he had cost his uncle;
and, indeed, it would make some difference in _her_ presents too. 
She was very glad that she had given William what she did
at parting, very glad, indeed, that it had been in her power,
without material inconvenience, just at that time to give him something
rather considerable; that is, for_her_, with _her_ limited means,
for now it would all be useful in helping to fit up his cabin. 
She knew he must be at some expense, that he would have many
things to buy, though to be sure his father and mother would
be able to put him in the way of getting everything very cheap;
but she was very glad she had contributed her mite towards it."

"I am glad you gave him something considerable," said Lady Bertram,
with most unsuspicious calmness, "for _I_ gave him only 10."

"Indeed!" cried Mrs. Norris, reddening.  "Upon my word, he must
have gone off with his pockets 1 well lined, and at no expense
for his journey to London either!"

"Sir Thomas told me 10 would be enough."

Mrs. Norris, being not at all inclined to question its sufficiency,
began to take the matter in another point.

"It is amazing," said she, "how much young people cost their friends,
what with bringing them up and putting them out in the world! 
They little think how much it comes to, or what their parents,
or their uncles and aunts, pay for them in the course of the year. 
Now, here are my sister Price's children; take them all together,
I dare say nobody would believe what a sum they cost Sir Thomas
every year, to say nothing of what _I_ do for them."

"Very true, sister, as you say.  But, poor things! they cannot help it;
and you know it makes very little difference to Sir Thomas.  Fanny,
William must not forget my shawl if he goes to the East Indies; and I
shall give him a commission for anything else that is worth having. 
I wish he may go to the East Indies, that I may have my shawl. 
I think I will have two shawls, Fanny."

Fanny, meanwhile, speaking only when she could not help it, was very
earnestly trying to understand what Mr. and Miss Crawford were at. 
There was everything in the world _against_ their being serious
but his words and manner.  Everything natural, probable, reasonable,
was against it; all their habits and ways of thinking, and all her
own demerits.  How could _she_ have excited serious attachment
in a man who had seen so many, and been admired by so many,
and flirted with so many, infinitely her superiors; who seemed
so little open to serious impressions, even where pains had been
taken to please him; who thought so slightly, so carelessly,
so unfeelingly on all such points; who was everything to everybody,
and seemed to find no one essential to him?  And farther, how could
it be supposed that his sister, with all her high and worldly notions
of matrimony, would be forwarding anything of a serious nature
in such a quarter?  Nothing could be more unnatural in either. 
Fanny was ashamed of her own doubts.  Everything might be possible
rather than serious attachment, or serious approbation of it
toward her.  She had quite convinced herself of this before Sir Thomas
and Mr. Crawford joined them.  The difficulty was in maintaining
the conviction quite so absolutely after Mr. Crawford was in the room;
for once or twice a look seemed forced on her which she did not know
how to class among the common meaning; in any other man, at least,
she would have said that it meant something very earnest, very pointed. 
But she still tried to believe it no more than what he might often
have expressed towards her cousins and fifty other women.

She thought he was wishing to speak to her unheard by the rest. 
She fancied he was trying for it the whole evening at intervals,
whenever Sir Thomas was out of the room, or at all engaged with
Mrs. Norris, and she carefully refused him every opportunity.

At last--it seemed an at last to Fanny's nervousness, though not
remarkably late--he began to talk of going away; but the comfort
of the sound was impaired by his turning to her the next moment,
and saying, "Have you nothing to send to Mary?  No answer to her note? 
She will be disappointed if she receives nothing from you. 
Pray write to her, if it be only a line."

"Oh yes! certainly," cried Fanny, rising in haste, the haste
of embarrassment and of wanting to get away--"I will write directly."

She went accordingly to the table, where she was in the habit
of writing for her aunt, and prepared her materials without
knowing what in the world to say.  She had read Miss Crawford's
note only once, and how to reply to anything so imperfectly
understood was most distressing.  Quite unpractised in such sort
of note-writing, had there been time for scruples and fears
as to style she would have felt them in abundance:  but something
must be instantly written; and with only one decided feeling,
that of wishing not to appear to think anything really intended,
she wrote thus, in great trembling both of spirits and hand--

"I am very much obliged to you, my dear Miss Crawford, for your
kind congratulations, as far as they relate to my dearest William. 
The rest of your note I know means nothing; but I am so unequal
to anything of the sort, that I hope you will excuse my begging you
to take no farther notice.  I have seen too much of Mr. Crawford
not to understand his manners; if he understood me as well, he would,
I dare say, behave differently.  I do not know what I write, but it
would be a great favour of you never to mention the subject again. 
With thanks for the honour of your note, I remain, dear Miss Crawford,
etc., etc."

The conclusion was scarcely intelligible from increasing fright,
for she found that Mr. Crawford, under pretence of receiving the note,
was coming towards her.

"You cannot think I mean to hurry you," said he, in an undervoice,
perceiving the amazing trepidation with which she made up the note,
"you cannot think I have any such object.  Do not hurry yourself,
I entreat."

"Oh!  I thank you; I have quite done, just done; it will be ready
in a moment; I am very much obliged to you; if you will be so good
as to give _that_ to Miss Crawford."

The note was held out, and must be taken; and as she instantly and
with averted eyes walked towards the fireplace, where sat the others,
he had nothing to do but to go in good earnest.

Fanny thought she had never known a day of greater agitation,
both of pain and pleasure; but happily the pleasure was not
of a sort to die with the day; for every day would restore the
knowledge of William's advancement, whereas the pain, she hoped,
would return no more.  She had no doubt that her note must appear
excessively ill-written, that the language would disgrace a child,
for her distress had allowed no arrangement; but at least it would
assure them both of her being neither imposed on nor gratified
by Mr. Crawford's attentions.



CHAPTER XXXII

Fanny had by no means forgotten Mr. Crawford when she awoke
the next morning; but she remembered the purport of her note,
and was not less sanguine as to its effect than she had been
the night before.  If Mr. Crawford would but go away!  That was
what she most earnestly desired:  go and take his sister with him,
as he was to do, and as he returned to Mansfield on purpose
to do.  And why it was not done already she could not devise,
for Miss Crawford certainly wanted no delay.  Fanny had hoped,
in the course of his yesterday's visit, to hear the day named;
but he had only spoken of their journey as what would take place
ere long.

Having so satisfactorily settled the conviction her note would convey,
she could not but be astonished to see Mr. Crawford, as she
accidentally did, coming up to the house again, and at an hour
as early as the day before.  His coming might have nothing to do
with her, but she must avoid seeing him if possible; and being
then on her way upstairs, she resolved there to remain, during the
whole of his visit, unless actually sent for; and as Mrs. Norris
was still in the house, there seemed little danger of her being wanted.

She sat some time in a good deal of agitation, listening, trembling,
and fearing to be sent for every moment; but as no footsteps
approached the East room, she grew gradually composed, could sit down,
and be able to employ herself, and able to hope that Mr. Crawford
had come and would go without her being obliged to know anything
of the matter.

Nearly half an hour had passed, and she was growing very comfortable,
when suddenly the sound of a step in regular approach was heard;
a heavy step, an unusual step in that part of the house:  it was
her uncle's; she knew it as well as his voice; she had trembled
at it as often, and began to tremble again, at the idea of his
coming up to speak to her, whatever might be the subject.  It was
indeed Sir Thomas who opened the door and asked if she were there,
and if he might come in.  The terror of his former occasional visits
to that room seemed all renewed, and she felt as if he were going
to examine her again in French and English.

She was all attention, however, in placing a chair for him,
and trying to appear honoured; and, in her agitation, had quite
overlooked the deficiencies of her apartment, till he, stopping short
as he entered, said, with much surprise, "Why have you no fire to-day?"

There was snow on the ground, and she was sitting in a shawl. 
She hesitated.

"I am not cold, sir:  I never sit here long at this time of year."

"But you have a fire in general?"

"No, sir."

"How comes this about?  Here must be some mistake.  I understood that you
had the use of this room by way of making you perfectly comfortable. 
In your bedchamber I know you _cannot_ have a fire.  Here is some
great misapprehension which must be rectified.  It is highly unfit
for you to sit, be it only half an hour a day, without a fire. 
You are not strong.  You are chilly.  Your aunt cannot be aware
of this."

Fanny would rather have been silent; but being obliged to speak,
she could not forbear, in justice to the aunt she loved best,
from saying something in which the words "my aunt Norris"
were distinguishable.

"I understand," cried her uncle, recollecting himself, and not
wanting to hear more:  "I understand.  Your aunt Norris has always
been an advocate, and very judiciously, for young people's being
brought up without unnecessary indulgences; but there should
be moderation in everything.  She is also very hardy herself,
which of course will influence her in her opinion of the wants
of others.  And on another account, too, I can perfectly comprehend. 
I know what her sentiments have always been.  The principle was
good in itself, but it may have been, and I believe _has_ _been_,
carried too far in your case.  I am aware that there has been sometimes,
in some points, a misplaced distinction; but I think too well of you,
Fanny, to suppose you will ever harbour resentment on that account. 
You have an understanding which will prevent you from receiving
things only in part, and judging partially by the event.  You will
take in the whole of the past, you will consider times, persons,
and probabilities, and you will feel that _they_ were not least your
friends who were educating and preparing you for that mediocrity
of condition which _seemed_ to be your lot.  Though their caution
may prove eventually unnecessary, it was kindly meant; and of this
you may be assured, that every advantage of affluence will be doubled
by the little privations and restrictions that may have been imposed. 
I am sure you will not disappoint my opinion of you, by failing at
any time to treat your aunt Norris with the respect and attention
that are due to her.  But enough of this.  Sit down, my dear. 
I must speak to you for a few minutes, but I will not detain you long."

Fanny obeyed, with eyes cast down and colour rising.  After a
moment's pause, Sir Thomas, trying to suppress a smile, went on.

"You are not aware, perhaps, that I have had a visitor this morning. 
I had not been long in my own room, after breakfast, when Mr. Crawford
was shewn in.  His errand you may probably conjecture."

Fanny's colour grew deeper and deeper; and her uncle, perceiving that
she was embarrassed to a degree that made either speaking or
looking up quite impossible, turned away his own eyes, and without
any farther pause proceeded in his account of Mr. Crawford's visit.

Mr. Crawford's business had been to declare himself the lover
of Fanny, make decided proposals for her, and entreat the sanction
of the uncle, who seemed to stand in the place of her parents;
and he had done it all so well, so openly, so liberally, so properly,
that Sir Thomas, feeling, moreover, his own replies, and his own
remarks to have been very much to the purpose, was exceedingly
happy to give the particulars of their conversation; and little
aware of what was passing in his niece's mind, conceived that by
such details he must be gratifying her far more than himself. 
He talked, therefore, for several minutes without Fanny's daring
to interrupt him.  She had hardly even attained the wish to do it. 
Her mind was in too much confusion.  She had changed her position;
and, with her eyes fixed intently on one of the windows,
was listening to her uncle in the utmost perturbation and dismay. 
For a moment he ceased, but she had barely become conscious of it,
when, rising from his chair, he said, "And now, Fanny, having performed
one part of my commission, and shewn you everything placed on a basis
the most assured and satisfactory, I may execute the remainder
by prevailing on you to accompany me downstairs, where, though I
cannot but presume on having been no unacceptable companion myself,
I must submit to your finding one still better worth listening to. 
Mr. Crawford, as you have perhaps foreseen, is yet in the house. 
He is in my room, and hoping to see you there."

There was a look, a start, an exclamation on hearing this, which astonished
Sir Thomas; but what was his increase of astonishment on hearing
her exclaim--"Oh! no, sir, I cannot, indeed I cannot go down to him. 
Mr. Crawford ought to know--he must know that:  I told him enough
yesterday to convince him; he spoke to me on this subject yesterday,
and I told him without disguise that it was very disagreeable to me,
and quite out of my power to return his good opinion."

"I do not catch your meaning," said Sir Thomas, sitting down again. 
"Out of your power to return his good opinion?  What is all this? 
I know he spoke to you yesterday, and (as far as I understand)
received as much encouragement to proceed as a well-judging young
woman could permit herself to give.  I was very much pleased
with what I collected to have been your behaviour on the occasion;
it shewed a discretion highly to be commended.  But now, when he
has made his overtures so properly, and honourably--what are your
scruples _now_?"

"You are mistaken, sir," cried Fanny, forced by the anxiety
of the moment even to tell her uncle that he was wrong; "you are
quite mistaken.  How could Mr. Crawford say such a thing? 
I gave him no encouragement yesterday.  On the contrary, I told him,
I cannot recollect my exact words, but I am sure I told him
that I would not listen to him, that it was very unpleasant to me
in every respect, and that I begged him never to talk to me
in that manner again.  I am sure I said as much as that and more;
and I should have said still more, if I had been quite certain
of his meaning anything seriously; but I did not like to be,
I could not bear to be, imputing more than might be intended. 
I thought it might all pass for nothing with _him_."

She could say no more; her breath was almost gone.

"Am I to understand," said Sir Thomas, after a few moments'
silence, "that you mean to _refuse_ Mr. Crawford?"

"Yes, sir."

"Refuse him?"

"Yes, sir."

"Refuse Mr. Crawford!  Upon what plea?  For what reason?"

"I--I cannot like him, sir, well enough to marry him."

"This is very strange!" said Sir Thomas, in a voice of calm displeasure. 
"There is something in this which my comprehension does not reach. 
Here is a young man wishing to pay his addresses to you,
with everything to recommend him:  not merely situation in life,
fortune, and character, but with more than common agreeableness,
with address and conversation pleasing to everybody.  And he is
not an acquaintance of to-day; you have now known him some time. 
His sister, moreover, is your intimate friend, and he has been doing
_that_ for your brother, which I should suppose would have been
almost sufficient recommendation to you, had there been no other. 
It is very uncertain when my interest might have got William on. 
He has done it already."

"Yes," said Fanny, in a faint voice, and looking down with fresh shame;
and she did feel almost ashamed of herself, after such a picture
as her uncle had drawn, for not liking Mr. Crawford.

"You must have been aware," continued Sir Thomas presently, "you must
have been some time aware of a particularity in Mr. Crawford's
manners to you.  This cannot have taken you by surprise.  You must
have observed his attentions; and though you always received them
very properly (I have no accusation to make on that head), I
never perceived them to be unpleasant to you.  I am half inclined
to think, Fanny, that you do not quite know your own feelings."

"Oh yes, sir! indeed I do.  His attentions were always--what I did
not like."

Sir Thomas looked at her with deeper surprise.  "This is beyond me,"
said he.  "This requires explanation.  Young as you are, and having
seen scarcely any one, it is hardly possible that your affections--"

He paused and eyed her fixedly.  He saw her lips formed into a _no_,
though the sound was inarticulate, but her face was like scarlet. 
That, however, in so modest a girl, might be very compatible
with innocence; and chusing at least to appear satisfied,
he quickly added, "No, no, I know _that_ is quite out of the question;
quite impossible.  Well, there is nothing more to be said."

And for a few minutes he did say nothing.  He was deep in thought. 
His niece was deep in thought likewise, trying to harden and prepare
herself against farther questioning.  She would rather die than own
the truth; and she hoped, by a little reflection, to fortify herself
beyond betraying it.

"Independently of the interest which Mr. Crawford's _choice_ seemed
to justify" said Sir Thomas, beginning again, and very composedly,
"his wishing to marry at all so early is recommendatory to me.  I am
an advocate for early marriages, where there are means in proportion,
and would have every young man, with a sufficient income, settle as
soon after four-and-twenty as he can.  This is so much my opinion,
that I am sorry to think how little likely my own eldest son,
your cousin, Mr. Bertram, is to marry early; but at present, as far
as I can judge, matrimony makes no part of his plans or thoughts. 
I wish he were more likely to fix."  Here was a glance at Fanny. 
"Edmund, I consider, from his dispositions and habits, as much
more likely to marry early than his brother.  _He_, indeed, I have
lately thought, has seen the woman he could love, which, I am convinced,
my eldest son has not.  Am I right?  Do you agree with me,
my dear?"

"Yes, sir."

It was gently, but it was calmly said, and Sir Thomas was easy on the score
of the cousins.  But the removal of his alarm did his niece no service: 
as her unaccountableness was confirmed his displeasure increased;
and getting up and walking about the room with a frown, which Fanny
could picture to herself, though she dared not lift up her eyes,
he shortly afterwards, and in a voice of authority, said, "Have you
any reason, child, to think ill of Mr. Crawford's temper?"

"No, sir."

She longed to add, "But of his principles I have"; but her heart sunk
under the appalling prospect of discussion, explanation, and probably
non-conviction. Her ill opinion of him was founded chiefly
on observations, which, for her cousins' sake, she could scarcely
dare mention to their father.  Maria and Julia, and especially Maria,
were so closely implicated in Mr. Crawford's misconduct,
that she could not give his character, such as she believed it,
without betraying them.  She had hoped that, to a man like her uncle,
so discerning, so honourable, so good, the simple acknowledgment
of settled _dislike_ on her side would have been sufficient. 
To her infinite grief she found it was not.

Sir Thomas came towards the table where she sat in trembling wretchedness,
and with a good deal of cold sternness, said, "It is of no use,
I perceive, to talk to you.  We had better put an end to this most
mortifying conference.  Mr. Crawford must not be kept longer waiting. 
I will, therefore, only add, as thinking it my duty to mark my opinion
of your conduct, that you have disappointed every expectation I
had formed, and proved yourself of a character the very reverse
of what I had supposed.  For I _had_, Fanny, as I think my behaviour
must have shewn, formed a very favourable opinion of you from
the period of my return to England.  I had thought you peculiarly
free from wilfulness of temper, self-conceit, and every tendency
to that independence of spirit which prevails so much in modern days,
even in young women, and which in young women is offensive and disgusting
beyond all common offence.  But you have now shewn me that you can
be wilful and perverse; that you can and will decide for yourself,
without any consideration or deference for those who have surely
some right to guide you, without even asking their advice. 
You have shewn yourself very, very different from anything that I
had imagined.  The advantage or disadvantage of your family,
of your parents, your brothers and sisters, never seems to
have had a moment's share in your thoughts on this occasion. 
How _they_ might be benefited, how _they_ must rejoice in such
an establishment for you, is nothing to _you_.  You think only
of yourself, and because you do not feel for Mr. Crawford exactly
what a young heated fancy imagines to be necessary for happiness,
you resolve to refuse him at once, without wishing even for a little
time to consider of it, a little more time for cool consideration,
and for really examining your own inclinations; and are, in a
wild fit of folly, throwing away from you such an opportunity
of being settled in life, eligibly, honourably, nobly settled,
as will, probably, never occur to you again.  Here is a young man
of sense, of character, of temper, of manners, and of fortune,
exceedingly attached to you, and seeking your hand in the most handsome
and disinterested way; and let me tell you, Fanny, that you may live
eighteen years longer in the world without being addressed by a man
of half Mr. Crawford's estate, or a tenth part of his merits. 
Gladly would I have bestowed either of my own daughters on him. 
Maria is nobly married; but had Mr. Crawford sought Julia's hand,
I should have given it to him with superior and more heartfelt
satisfaction than I gave Maria's to Mr. Rushworth."  After half
a moment's pause:  "And I should have been very much surprised had
either of my daughters, on receiving a proposal of marriage at any
time which might carry with it only _half_ the eligibility of _this_,
immediately and peremptorily, and without paying my opinion or my regard
the compliment of any consultation, put a decided negative on it. 
I should have been much surprised and much hurt by such a proceeding. 
I should have thought it a gross violation of duty and respect. 
_You_ are not to be judged by the same rule.  You do not owe me
the duty of a child.  But, Fanny, if your heart can acquit you
of _ingratitude_--"

He ceased.  Fanny was by this time crying so bitterly that,
angry as he was, he would not press that article farther. 
Her heart was almost broke by such a picture of what she appeared
to him; by such accusations, so heavy, so multiplied, so rising in
dreadful gradation!  Self-willed, obstinate, selfish, and ungrateful. 
He thought her all this.  She had deceived his expectations;
she had lost his good opinion.  What was to become of her?

"I am very sorry," said she inarticulately, through her tears,
"I am very sorry indeed."

"Sorry! yes, I hope you are sorry; and you will probably have reason
to be long sorry for this day's transactions."

"If it were possible for me to do otherwise" said she, with another
strong effort; "but I am so perfectly convinced that I could
never make him happy, and that I should be miserable myself."

Another burst of tears; but in spite of that burst, and in spite
of that great black word _miserable_, which served to introduce it,
Sir Thomas began to think a little relenting, a little change
of inclination, might have something to do with it; and to augur
favourably from the personal entreaty of the young man himself. 
He knew her to be very timid, and exceedingly nervous; and thought it
not improbable that her mind might be in such a state as a little time,
a little pressing, a little patience, and a little impatience,
a judicious mixture of all on the lover's side, might work their
usual effect on.  If the gentleman would but persevere, if he
had but love enough to persevere, Sir Thomas began to have hopes;
and these reflections having passed across his mind and cheered it,
"Well," said he, in a tone of becoming gravity, but of less anger,
"well, child, dry up your tears.  There is no use in these tears;
they can do no good.  You must now come downstairs with me. 
Mr. Crawford has been kept waiting too long already.  You must give
him your own answer:  we cannot expect him to be satisfied with less;
and you only can explain to him the grounds of that misconception
of your sentiments, which, unfortunately for himself, he certainly
has imbibed.  I am totally unequal to it."

But Fanny shewed such reluctance, such misery, at the idea of going
down to him, that Sir Thomas, after a little consideration, judged it
better to indulge her.  His hopes from both gentleman and lady suffered
a small depression in consequence; but when he looked at his niece,
and saw the state of feature and complexion which her crying had
brought her into, he thought there might be as much lost as gained
by an immediate interview.  With a few words, therefore, of no
particular meaning, he walked off by himself, leaving his poor
niece to sit and cry over what had passed, with very wretched feelings

Her mind was all disorder.  The past, present, future, everything
was terrible.  But her uncle's anger gave her the severest pain
of all.  Selfish and ungrateful! to have appeared so to him! 
She was miserable for ever.  She had no one to take her part,
to counsel, or speak for her.  Her only friend was absent. 
He might have softened his father; but all, perhaps all, would think
her selfish and ungrateful.  She might have to endure the reproach
again and again; she might hear it, or see it, or know it to exist
for ever in every connexion about her.  She could not but feel
some resentment against Mr. Crawford; yet, if he really loved her,
and were unhappy too!  It was all wretchedness together.

In about a quarter of an hour her uncle returned; she was almost
ready to faint at the sight of him.  He spoke calmly, however,
without austerity, without reproach, and she revived a little. 
There was comfort, too, in his words, as well as his manner,
for he began with, "Mr. Crawford is gone:  he has just left me. 
I need not repeat what has passed.  I do not want to add to anything
you may now be feeling, by an account of what he has felt.  Suffice it,
that he has behaved in the most gentlemanlike and generous manner,
and has confirmed me in a most favourable opinion of his understanding,
heart, and temper.  Upon my representation of what you were suffering,
he immediately, and with the greatest delicacy, ceased to urge
to see you for the present."

Here Fanny, who had looked up, looked down again.  "Of course,"
continued her uncle, "it cannot be supposed but that he should request
to speak with you alone, be it only for five minutes; a request
too natural, a claim too just to be denied.  But there is no time fixed;
perhaps to-morrow, or whenever your spirits are composed enough. 
For the present you have only to tranquillise yourself.  Check these tears;
they do but exhaust you.  If, as I am willing to suppose, you wish
to shew me any observance, you will not give way to these emotions,
but endeavour to reason yourself into a stronger frame of mind. 
I advise you to go out:  the air will do you good; go out for an hour
on the gravel; you will have the shrubbery to yourself, and will be
the better for air and exercise.  And, Fanny" (turning back again
for a moment), "I shall make no mention below of what has passed;
I shall not even tell your aunt Bertram.  There is no occasion for
spreading the disappointment; say nothing about it yourself."

This was an order to be most joyfully obeyed; this was an act of
kindness which Fanny felt at her heart.  To be spared from her aunt
Norris's interminable reproaches! he left her in a glow of gratitude. 
Anything might be bearable rather than such reproaches.  Even to see
Mr. Crawford would be less overpowering.

She walked out directly, as her uncle recommended, and followed
his advice throughout, as far as she could; did check her tears;
did earnestly try to compose her spirits and strengthen her mind. 
She wished to prove to him that she did desire his comfort,
and sought to regain his favour; and he had given her another strong
motive for exertion, in keeping the whole affair from the knowledge
of her aunts.  Not to excite suspicion by her look or manner was now
an object worth attaining; and she felt equal to almost anything
that might save her from her aunt Norris.

She was struck, quite struck, when, on returning from her walk
and going into the East room again, the first thing which caught
her eye was a fire lighted and burning.  A fire! it seemed too much;
just at that time to be giving her such an indulgence was exciting
even painful gratitude.  She wondered that Sir Thomas could have
leisure to think of such a trifle again; but she soon found,
from the voluntary information of the housemaid, who came in to
attend it, that so it was to be every day.  Sir Thomas had given
orders for it.

"I must be a brute, indeed, if I can be really ungrateful!" said she,
in soliloquy.  "Heaven defend me from being ungrateful!"

She saw nothing more of her uncle, nor of her aunt Norris, till they
met at dinner.  Her uncle's behaviour to her was then as nearly
as possible what it had been before; she was sure he did not mean
there should be any change, and that it was only her own conscience
that could fancy any; but her aunt was soon quarrelling with her;
and when she found how much and how unpleasantly her having only
walked out without her aunt's knowledge could be dwelt on, she felt
all the reason she had to bless the kindness which saved her from
the same spirit of reproach, exerted on a more momentous subject.

"If I had known you were going out, I should have got you just to go
as far as my house with some orders for Nanny," said she, "which I
have since, to my very great inconvenience, been obliged to go and
carry myself.  I could very ill spare the time, and you might have
saved me the trouble, if you would only have been so good as to let
us know you were going out.  It would have made no difference to you,
I suppose, whether you had walked in the shrubbery or gone to my house."

"I recommended the shrubbery to Fanny as the driest place,"
said Sir Thomas.

"Oh!" said Mrs. Norris, with a moment's check, "that was very kind of you,
Sir Thomas; but you do not know how dry the path is to my house. 
Fanny would have had quite as good a walk there, I assure you,
with the advantage of being of some use, and obliging her aunt: 
it is all her fault.  If she would but have let us know she
was going out but there is a something about Fanny, I have often
observed it before--she likes to go her own way to work; she does
not like to be dictated to; she takes her own independent walk
whenever she can; she certainly has a little spirit of secrecy,
and independence, and nonsense, about her, which I would advise her
to get the better of."

As a general reflection on Fanny, Sir Thomas thought nothing could
be more unjust, though he had been so lately expressing the same
sentiments himself, and he tried to turn the conversation: 
tried repeatedly before he could succeed; for Mrs. Norris had not
discernment enough to perceive, either now, or at any other time,
to what degree he thought well of his niece, or how very far he
was from wishing to have his own children's merits set off by the
depreciation of hers.  She was talking _at_ Fanny, and resenting
this private walk half through the dinner.

It was over, however, at last; and the evening set in with more
composure to Fanny, and more cheerfulness of spirits than she
could have hoped for after so stormy a morning; but she trusted,
in the first place, that she had done right:  that her judgment had
not misled her.  For the purity of her intentions she could answer;
and she was willing to hope, secondly, that her uncle's displeasure
was abating, and would abate farther as he considered the matter with
more impartiality, and felt, as a good man must feel, how wretched,
and how unpardonable, how hopeless, and how wicked it was to marry
without affection.

When the meeting with which she was threatened for the morrow
was past, she could not but flatter herself that the subject would
be finally concluded, and Mr. Crawford once gone from Mansfield,
that everything would soon be as if no such subject had existed. 
She would not, could not believe, that Mr. Crawford's affection
for her could distress him long; his mind was not of that sort. 
London would soon bring its cure.  In London he would soon learn
to wonder at his infatuation, and be thankful for the right reason
in her which had saved him from its evil consequences.

While Fanny's mind was engaged in these sort of hopes, her uncle was,
soon after tea, called out of the room; an occurrence too common
to strike her, and she thought nothing of it till the butler
reappeared ten minutes afterwards, and advancing decidedly
towards herself, said, "Sir Thomas wishes to speak with you,
ma'am, in his own room."  Then it occurred to her what might be
going on; a suspicion rushed over her mind which drove the colour
from her cheeks; but instantly rising, she was preparing to obey,
when Mrs. Norris called out, "Stay, stay, Fanny! what are you about?
where are you going? don't be in such a hurry.  Depend upon it,
it is not you who are wanted; depend upon it, it is me" (looking at
the butler); "but you are so very eager to put yourself forward. 
What should Sir Thomas want you for?  It is me, Baddeley, you mean;
I am coming this moment.  You mean me, Baddeley, I am sure;
Sir Thomas wants me, not Miss Price."

But Baddeley was stout.  "No, ma'am, it is Miss Price; I am certain
of its being Miss Price."  And there was a half-smile with the words,
which meant, "I do not think you would answer the purpose at all."

Mrs. Norris, much discontented, was obliged to compose herself
to work again; and Fanny, walking off in agitating consciousness,
found herself, as she anticipated, in another minute alone with
Mr. Crawford.



CHAPTER XXXIII

The conference was neither so short nor so conclusive as the lady
had designed.  The gentleman was not so easily satisfied.  He had
all the disposition to persevere that Sir Thomas could wish him. 
He had vanity, which strongly inclined him in the first place
to think she did love him, though she might not know it herself;
and which, secondly, when constrained at last to admit that she did
know her own present feelings, convinced him that he should be able
in time to make those feelings what he wished.

He was in love, very much in love; and it was a love which,
operating on an active, sanguine spirit, of more warmth than delicacy,
made her affection appear of greater consequence because it was withheld,
and determined him to have the glory, as well as the felicity,
of forcing her to love him.

He would not despair:  he would not desist.  He had every well-grounded
reason for solid attachment; he knew her to have all the worth
that could justify the warmest hopes of lasting happiness with her;
her conduct at this very time, by speaking the disinterestedness
and delicacy of her character (qualities which he believed most rare
indeed), was of a sort to heighten all his wishes, and confirm
all his resolutions.  He knew not that he had a pre-engaged heart
to attack.  Of _that_ he had no suspicion.  He considered her rather
as one who had never thought on the subject enough to be in danger;
who had been guarded by youth, a youth of mind as lovely as of person;
whose modesty had prevented her from understanding his attentions,
and who was still overpowered by the suddenness of addresses so
wholly unexpected, and the novelty of a situation which her fancy
had never taken into account.

Must it not follow of course, that, when he was understood,
he should succeed?  He believed it fully.  Love such as his,
in a man like himself, must with perseverance secure a return,
and at no great distance; and he had so much delight in the idea
of obliging her to love him in a very short time, that her not loving
him now was scarcely regretted.  A little difficulty to be overcome
was no evil to Henry Crawford.  He rather derived spirits from it. 
He had been apt to gain hearts too easily.  His situation was new
and animating.

To Fanny, however, who had known too much opposition all her life
to find any charm in it, all this was unintelligible.  She found
that he did mean to persevere; but how he could, after such language
from her as she felt herself obliged to use, was not to be understood. 
She told him that she did not love him, could not love him, was sure
she never should love him; that such a change was quite impossible;
that the subject was most painful to her; that she must entreat him
never to mention it again, to allow her to leave him at once, and let
it be considered as concluded for ever.  And when farther pressed,
had added, that in her opinion their dispositions were so totally
dissimilar as to make mutual affection incompatible; and that they
were unfitted for each other by nature, education, and habit. 
All this she had said, and with the earnestness of sincerity;
yet this was not enough, for he immediately denied there being
anything uncongenial in their characters, or anything unfriendly in
their situations; and positively declared, that he would still love,
and still hope!

Fanny knew her own meaning, but was no judge of her own manner. 
Her manner was incurably gentle; and she was not aware how much it
concealed the sternness of her purpose.  Her diffidence, gratitude,
and softness made every expression of indifference seem almost an effort
of self-denial; seem, at least, to be giving nearly as much pain to
herself as to him.  Mr. Crawford was no longer the Mr. Crawford who,
as the clandestine, insidious, treacherous admirer of Maria Bertram,
had been her abhorrence, whom she had hated to see or to speak to,
in whom she could believe no good quality to exist, and whose power,
even of being agreeable, she had barely acknowledged.  He was
now the Mr. Crawford who was addressing herself with ardent,
disinterested love; whose feelings were apparently become all
that was honourable and upright, whose views of happiness were all
fixed on a marriage of attachment; who was pouring out his sense
of her merits, describing and describing again his affection,
proving as far as words could prove it, and in the language,
tone, and spirit of a man of talent too, that he sought her
for her gentleness and her goodness; and to complete the whole,
he was now the Mr. Crawford who had procured William's promotion!

Here was a change, and here were claims which could not but operate! 
She might have disdained him in all the dignity of angry virtue,
in the grounds of Sotherton, or the theatre at Mansfield Park; but he
approached her now with rights that demanded different treatment. 
She must be courteous, and she must be compassionate.  She must
have a sensation of being honoured, and whether thinking of herself
or her brother, she must have a strong feeling of gratitude. 
The effect of the whole was a manner so pitying and agitated,
and words intermingled with her refusal so expressive of obligation
and concern, that to a temper of vanity and hope like Crawford's,
the truth, or at least the strength of her indifference, might well
be questionable; and he was not so irrational as Fanny considered him,
in the professions of persevering, assiduous, and not desponding
attachment which closed the interview.

It was with reluctance that he suffered her to go; but there was no
look of despair in parting to belie his words, or give her hopes
of his being less unreasonable than he professed himself.

Now she was angry.  Some resentment did arise at a perseverance
so selfish and ungenerous.  Here was again a want of delicacy and
regard for others which had formerly so struck and disgusted her. 
Here was again a something of the same Mr. Crawford whom she
had so reprobated before.  How evidently was there a gross want
of feeling and humanity where his own pleasure was concerned;
and alas! how always known no principle to supply as a duty what
the heart was deficient in!  Had her own affections been as free
as perhaps they ought to have been, he never could have engaged them.

So thought Fanny, in good truth and sober sadness, as she sat musing
over that too great indulgence and luxury of a fire upstairs: 
wondering at the past and present; wondering at what was yet to come,
and in a nervous agitation which made nothing clear to her but
the persuasion of her being never under any circumstances able
to love Mr. Crawford, and the felicity of having a fire to sit
over and think of it.

Sir Thomas was obliged, or obliged himself, to wait till the morrow
for a knowledge of what had passed between the young people. 
He then saw Mr. Crawford, and received his account.  The first feeling
was disappointment:  he had hoped better things; he had thought
that an hour's entreaty from a young man like Crawford could not
have worked so little change on a gentle-tempered girl like Fanny;
but there was speedy comfort in the determined views and sanguine
perseverance of the lover; and when seeing such confidence of success
in the principal, Sir Thomas was soon able to depend on it himself.

Nothing was omitted, on his side, of civility, compliment, or kindness,
that might assist the plan.  Mr. Crawford's steadiness was honoured,
and Fanny was praised, and the connexion was still the most desirable
in the world.  At Mansfield Park Mr. Crawford would always be welcome;
he had only to consult his own judgment and feelings as to the frequency
of his visits, at present or in future.  In all his niece's family
and friends, there could be but one opinion, one wish on the subject;
the influence of all who loved her must incline one way.

Everything was said that could encourage, every encouragement received
with grateful joy, and the gentlemen parted the best of friends.

Satisfied that the cause was now on a footing the most proper
and hopeful, Sir Thomas resolved to abstain from all farther
importunity with his niece, and to shew no open interference. 
Upon her disposition he believed kindness might be the best way
of working.  Entreaty should be from one quarter only.  The forbearance
of her family on a point, respecting which she could be in no doubt
of their wishes, might be their surest means of forwarding it. 
Accordingly, on this principle, Sir Thomas took the first opportunity
of saying to her, with a mild gravity, intended to be overcoming,
"Well, Fanny, I have seen Mr. Crawford again, and learn from him exactly
how matters stand between you.  He is a most extraordinary young man,
and whatever be the event, you must feel that you have created
an attachment of no common character; though, young as you are,
and little acquainted with the transient, varying, unsteady nature
of love, as it generally exists, you cannot be struck as I
am with all that is wonderful in a perseverance of this sort
against discouragement.  With him it is entirely a matter of feeling: 
he claims no merit in it; perhaps is entitled to none.  Yet, having
chosen so well, his constancy has a respectable stamp.  Had his
choice been less unexceptionable, I should have condemned his persevering."

"Indeed, sir," said Fanny, "I am very sorry that Mr. Crawford should
continue to know that it is paying me a very great compliment, and I
feel most undeservedly honoured; but I am so perfectly convinced,
and I have told him so, that it never will be in my power--"

"My dear," interrupted Sir Thomas, "there is no occasion for this. 
Your feelings are as well known to me as my wishes and regrets
must be to you.  There is nothing more to be said or done. 
From this hour the subject is never to be revived between us. 
You will have nothing to fear, or to be agitated about. 
You cannot suppose me capable of trying to persuade you to marry
against your inclinations.  Your happiness and advantage are all
that I have in view, and nothing is required of you but to bear
with Mr. Crawford's endeavours to convince you that they may
not be incompatible with his.  He proceeds at his own risk. 
You are on safe ground.  I have engaged for your seeing him whenever
he calls, as you might have done had nothing of this sort occurred. 
You will see him with the rest of us, in the same manner, and, as much
as you can, dismissing the recollection of everything unpleasant. 
He leaves Northamptonshire so soon, that even this slight sacrifice
cannot be often demanded.  The future must be very uncertain.  And now,
my dear Fanny, this subject is closed between us."

The promised departure was all that Fanny could think of with
much satisfaction.  Her uncle's kind expressions, however,
and forbearing manner, were sensibly felt; and when she considered
how much of the truth was unknown to him, she believed she had no
right to wonder at the line of conduct he pursued.  He, who had
married a daughter to Mr. Rushworth:  romantic delicacy was
certainly not to be expected from him.  She must do her duty,
and trust that time might make her duty easier than it now was.

She could not, though only eighteen, suppose Mr. Crawford's attachment
would hold out for ever; she could not but imagine that steady,
unceasing discouragement from herself would put an end to it in time. 
How much time she might, in her own fancy, allot for its dominion,
is another concern.  It would not be fair to inquire into a young
lady's exact estimate of her own perfections.

In spite of his intended silence, Sir Thomas found himself once more
obliged to mention the subject to his niece, to prepare her briefly
for its being imparted to her aunts; a measure which he would still
have avoided, if possible, but which became necessary from the totally
opposite feelings of Mr. Crawford as to any secrecy of proceeding. 
He had no idea of concealment.  It was all known at the Parsonage,
where he loved to talk over the future with both his sisters,
and it would be rather gratifying to him to have enlightened witnesses
of the progress of his success.  When Sir Thomas understood this,
he felt the necessity of making his own wife and sister-in-law
acquainted with the business without delay; though, on Fanny's account,
he almost dreaded the effect of the communication to Mrs. Norris as much
as Fanny herself.  He deprecated her mistaken but well-meaning zeal. 
Sir Thomas, indeed, was, by this time, not very far from classing
Mrs. Norris as one of those well-meaning people who are always doing
mistaken and very disagreeable things.

Mrs. Norris, however, relieved him.  He pressed for the strictest
forbearance and silence towards their niece; she not only promised,
but did observe it.  She only looked her increased ill-will.
Angry she was:  bitterly angry; but she was more angry with
Fanny for having received such an offer than for refusing it. 
It was an injury and affront to Julia, who ought to have been
Mr. Crawford's choice; and, independently of that, she disliked Fanny,
because she had neglected her; and she would have grudged such
an elevation to one whom she had been always trying to depress.

Sir Thomas gave her more credit for discretion on the occasion
than she deserved; and Fanny could have blessed her for allowing
her only to see her displeasure, and not to hear it.

Lady Bertram took it differently.  She had been a beauty, and a
prosperous beauty, all her life; and beauty and wealth were all
that excited her respect.  To know Fanny to be sought in marriage
by a man of fortune, raised her, therefore, very much in her opinion. 
By convincing her that Fanny _was_ very pretty, which she had been
doubting about before, and that she would be advantageously married,
it made her feel a sort of credit in calling her niece.

"Well, Fanny," said she, as soon as they were alone together afterwards,
and she really had known something like impatience to be alone with her,
and her countenance, as she spoke, had extraordinary animation;
"Well, Fanny, I have had a very agreeable surprise this morning. 
I must just speak of it _once_, I told Sir Thomas I must _once_,
and then I shall have done.  I give you joy, my dear niece." 
And looking at her complacently, she added, "Humph, we certainly are a
handsome family!"

Fanny coloured, and doubted at first what to say; when, hoping to
assail her on her vulnerable side, she presently answered--

"My dear aunt, _you_ cannot wish me to do differently from what I
have done, I am sure.  _You_ cannot wish me to marry; for you would
miss me, should not you?  Yes, I am sure you would miss me too much
for that."

"No, my dear, I should not think of missing you, when such an offer
as this comes in your way.  I could do very well without you,
if you were married to a man of such good estate as Mr. Crawford. 
And you must be aware, Fanny, that it is every young woman's duty to
accept such a very unexceptionable offer as this."

This was almost the only rule of conduct, the only piece of advice,
which Fanny had ever received from her aunt in the course of eight
years and a half.  It silenced her.  She felt how unprofitable
contention would be.  If her aunt's feelings were against her,
nothing could be hoped from attacking her understanding.  Lady Bertram
was quite talkative.

"I will tell you what, Fanny," said she, "I am sure he fell in love
with you at the ball; I am sure the mischief was done that evening. 
You did look remarkably well.  Everybody said so.  Sir Thomas said so. 
And you know you had Chapman to help you to dress.  I am very glad I
sent Chapman to you.  I shall tell Sir Thomas that I am sure it was
done that evening."  And still pursuing the same cheerful thoughts,
she soon afterwards added, "And will tell you what, Fanny, which is
more than I did for Maria:  the next time Pug has a litter you shall
have a puppy."



CHAPTER XXXIV

Edmund had great things to hear on his return.  Many surprises were
awaiting him.  The first that occurred was not least in interest: 
the appearance of Henry Crawford and his sister walking together
through the village as he rode into it.  He had concluded--he had
meant them to be far distant.  His absence had been extended beyond
a fortnight purposely to avoid Miss Crawford.  He was returning
to Mansfield with spirits ready to feed on melancholy remembrances,
and tender associations, when her own fair self was before him,
leaning on her brother's arm, and he found himself receiving a welcome,
unquestionably friendly, from the woman whom, two moments before,
he had been thinking of as seventy miles off, and as farther,
much farther, from him in inclination than any distance could express.

Her reception of him was of a sort which he could not have hoped for,
had he expected to see her.  Coming as he did from such a purport
fulfilled as had taken him away, he would have expected anything rather
than a look of satisfaction, and words of simple, pleasant meaning. 
It was enough to set his heart in a glow, and to bring him home
in the properest state for feeling the full value of the other joyful
surprises at hand.

William's promotion, with all its particulars, he was soon master of;
and with such a secret provision of comfort within his own breast
to help the joy, he found in it a source of most gratifying sensation
and unvarying cheerfulness all dinner-time.

After dinner, when he and his father were alone, he had Fanny's history;
and then all the great events of the last fortnight, and the present
situation of matters at Mansfield were known to him.

Fanny suspected what was going on.  They sat so much longer
than usual in the dining-parlour, that she was sure they must be
talking of her; and when tea at last brought them away, and she
was to be seen by Edmund again, she felt dreadfully guilty. 
He came to her, sat down by her, took her hand, and pressed it kindly;
and at that moment she thought that, but for the occupation and
the scene which the tea-things afforded, she must have betrayed
her emotion in some unpardonable excess.

He was not intending, however, by such action, to be conveying to
her that unqualified approbation and encouragement which her hopes
drew from it.  It was designed only to express his participation
in all that interested her, and to tell her that he had been hearing
what quickened every feeling of affection.  He was, in fact,
entirely on his father's side of the question.  His surprise was not
so great as his father's at her refusing Crawford, because, so far
from supposing her to consider him with anything like a preference,
he had always believed it to be rather the reverse, and could
imagine her to be taken perfectly unprepared, but Sir Thomas
could not regard the connexion as more desirable than he did. 
It had every recommendation to him; and while honouring her for
what she had done under the influence of her present indifference,
honouring her in rather stronger terms than Sir Thomas could quite echo,
he was most earnest in hoping, and sanguine in believing, that it
would be a match at last, and that, united by mutual affection,
it would appear that their dispositions were as exactly fitted to
make them blessed in each other, as he was now beginning seriously
to consider them.  Crawford had been too precipitate.  He had not
given her time to attach herself.  He had begun at the wrong end. 
With such powers as his, however, and such a disposition as hers,
Edmund trusted that everything would work out a happy conclusion. 
Meanwhile, he saw enough of Fanny's embarrassment to make him
scrupulously guard against exciting it a second time, by any word,
or look, or movement.

Crawford called the next day, and on the score of Edmund's return,
Sir Thomas felt himself more than licensed to ask him to stay dinner;
it was really a necessary compliment.  He staid of course,
and Edmund had then ample opportunity for observing how he sped
with Fanny, and what degree of immediate encouragement for him
might be extracted from her manners; and it was so little, so very,
very little--every chance, every possibility of it, resting upon
her embarrassment only; if there was not hope in her confusion,
there was hope in nothing else--that he was almost ready to wonder
at his friend's perseverance.  Fanny was worth it all; he held her
to be worth every effort of patience, every exertion of mind, but he
did not think he could have gone on himself with any woman breathing,
without something more to warm his courage than his eyes could discern
in hers.  He was very willing to hope that Crawford saw clearer,
and this was the most comfortable conclusion for his friend that he
could come to from all that he observed to pass before, and at,
and after dinner.

In the evening a few circumstances occurred which he thought
more promising.  When he and Crawford walked into the drawing-room,
his mother and Fanny were sitting as intently and silently at work
as if there were nothing else to care for.  Edmund could not help
noticing their apparently deep tranquillity.

"We have not been so silent all the time," replied his mother. 
"Fanny has been reading to me, and only put the book down upon hearing
you coming."  And sure enough there was a book on the table which had
the air of being very recently closed:  a volume of Shakespeare. 
"She often reads to me out of those books; and she was in the middle
of a very fine speech of that man's--what's his name, Fanny?--when we
heard your footsteps."

Crawford took the volume.  "Let me have the pleasure of finishing that
speech to your ladyship," said he.  "I shall find it immediately." 
And by carefully giving way to the inclination of the leaves,
he did find it, or within a page or two, quite near enough to satisfy
Lady Bertram, who assured him, as soon as he mentioned the name
of Cardinal Wolsey, that he had got the very speech.  Not a look
or an offer of help had Fanny given; not a syllable for or against. 
All her attention was for her work.  She seemed determined to be
interested by nothing else.  But taste was too strong in her. 
She could not abstract her mind five minutes:  she was forced to listen;
his reading was capital, and her pleasure in good reading extreme. 
To _good_ reading, however, she had been long used:  her uncle read well,
her cousins all, Edmund very well, but in Mr. Crawford's reading
there was a variety of excellence beyond what she had ever met with. 
The King, the Queen, Buckingham, Wolsey, Cromwell, all were given
in turn; for with the happiest knack, the happiest power of jumping
and guessing, he could always alight at will on the best scene,
or the best speeches of each; and whether it were dignity, or pride,
or tenderness, or remorse, or whatever were to be expressed,
he could do it with equal beauty.  It was truly dramatic. 
His acting had first taught Fanny what pleasure a play might give,
and his reading brought all his acting before her again; nay, perhaps
with greater enjoyment, for it came unexpectedly, and with no such
drawback as she had been used to suffer in seeing him on the stage
with Miss Bertram.

Edmund watched the progress of her attention, and was amused and
gratified by seeing how she gradually slackened in the needlework,
which at the beginning seemed to occupy her totally:  how it fell
from her hand while she sat motionless over it, and at last,
how the eyes which had appeared so studiously to avoid him throughout
the day were turned and fixed on Crawford--fixed on him for minutes,
fixed on him, in short, till the attraction drew Crawford's upon her,
and the book was closed, and the charm was broken.  Then she was
shrinking again into herself, and blushing and working as hard as ever;
but it had been enough to give Edmund encouragement for his friend,
and as he cordially thanked him, he hoped to be expressing Fanny's
secret feelings too.

"That play must be a favourite with you," said he; "you read
as if you knew it well."

"It will be a favourite, I believe, from this hour," replied Crawford;
"but I do not think I have had a volume of Shakespeare in my hand
before since I was fifteen.  I once saw Henry the Eighth acted,
or I have heard of it from somebody who did, I am not certain which. 
But Shakespeare one gets acquainted with without knowing how. 
It is a part of an Englishman's constitution.  His thoughts and
beauties are so spread abroad that one touches them everywhere;
one is intimate with him by instinct.  No man of any brain can open
at a good part of one of his plays without falling into the flow of his
meaning immediately."

"No doubt one is familiar with Shakespeare in a degree," said Edmund,
"from one's earliest years.  His celebrated passages are quoted
by everybody; they are in half the books we open, and we all talk
Shakespeare, use his similes, and describe with his descriptions;
but this is totally distinct from giving his sense as you gave it. 
To know him in bits and scraps is common enough; to know him pretty
thoroughly is, perhaps, not uncommon; but to read him well aloud is
no everyday talent."

"Sir, you do me honour," was Crawford's answer, with a bow
of mock gravity.

Both gentlemen had a glance at Fanny, to see if a word of accordant
praise could be extorted from her; yet both feeling that it could
not be.  Her praise had been given in her attention; _that_ must
content them.

Lady Bertram's admiration was expressed, and strongly too. 
"It was really like being at a play," said she.  "I wish Sir Thomas
had been here."

Crawford was excessively pleased.  If Lady Bertram, with all
her incompetency and languor, could feel this, the inference
of what her niece, alive and enlightened as she was, must feel,
was elevating.

"You have a great turn for acting, I am sure, Mr. Crawford,"
said her ladyship soon afterwards; "and I will tell you what,
I think you will have a theatre, some time or other, at your house
in Norfolk.  I mean when you are settled there.  I do indeed. 
I think you will fit up a theatre at your house in Norfolk."

"Do you, ma'am?" cried he, with quickness.  "No, no, that will never be. 
Your ladyship is quite mistaken.  No theatre at Everingham!  Oh no!" 
And he looked at Fanny with an expressive smile, which evidently meant,
"That lady will never allow a theatre at Everingham."

Edmund saw it all, and saw Fanny so determined _not_ to see it,
as to make it clear that the voice was enough to convey the full
meaning of the protestation; and such a quick consciousness
of compliment, such a ready comprehension of a hint, he thought,
was rather favourable than not.

The subject of reading aloud was farther discussed.  The two young men
were the only talkers, but they, standing by the fire, talked over
the too common neglect of the qualification, the total inattention to it,
in the ordinary school-system for boys, the consequently natural,
yet in some instances almost unnatural, degree of ignorance and
uncouthness of men, of sensible and well-informed men, when suddenly
called to the necessity of reading aloud, which had fallen
within their notice, giving instances of blunders, and failures
with their secondary causes, the want of management of the voice,
of proper modulation and emphasis, of foresight and judgment,
all proceeding from the first cause:  want of early attention
and habit; and Fanny was listening again with great entertainment.

"Even in my profession," said Edmund, with a smile, "how little
the art of reading has been studied! how little a clear manner,
and good delivery, have been attended to!  I speak rather of the past,
however, than the present.  There is now a spirit of improvement abroad;
but among those who were ordained twenty, thirty, forty years ago,
the larger number, to judge by their performance, must have thought
reading was reading, and preaching was preaching.  It is different now. 
The subject is more justly considered.  It is felt that distinctness
and energy may have weight in recommending the most solid truths;
and besides, there is more general observation and taste, a more
critical knowledge diffused than formerly; in every congregation
there is a larger proportion who know a little of the matter,
and who can judge and criticise."

Edmund had already gone through the service once since his ordination;
and upon this being understood, he had a variety of questions from
Crawford as to his feelings and success; questions, which being made,
though with the vivacity of friendly interest and quick taste,
without any touch of that spirit of banter or air of levity which
Edmund knew to be most offensive to Fanny, he had true pleasure
in satisfying; and when Crawford proceeded to ask his opinion and give
his own as to the properest manner in which particular passages
in the service should be delivered, shewing it to be a subject on
which he had thought before, and thought with judgment, Edmund was
still more and more pleased.  This would be the way to Fanny's heart. 
She was not to be won by all that gallantry and wit and good-nature
together could do; or, at least, she would not be won by them
nearly so soon, without the assistance of sentiment and feeling,
and seriousness on serious subjects

"Our liturgy," observed Crawford, "has beauties, which not even
a careless, slovenly style of reading can destroy; but it has
also redundancies and repetitions which require good reading not
to be felt.  For myself, at least, I must confess being not always
so attentive as I ought to be" (here was a glance at Fanny);
"that nineteen times out of twenty I am thinking how such a prayer ought
to be read, and longing to have it to read myself.  Did you speak?"
stepping eagerly to Fanny, and addressing her in a softened voice;
and upon her saying "No," he added, "Are you sure you did not speak? 
I saw your lips move.  I fancied you might be going to tell me I
ought to be more attentive, and not _allow_ my thoughts to wander. 
Are not you going to tell me so?"

"No, indeed, you know your duty too well for me to--even supposing--"

She stopt, felt herself getting into a puzzle, and could not be
prevailed on to add another word, not by dint of several minutes
of supplication and waiting.  He then returned to his former station,
and went on as if there had been no such tender interruption.

"A sermon, well delivered, is more uncommon even than prayers well read. 
A sermon, good in itself, is no rare thing.  It is more difficult
to speak well than to compose well; that is, the rules and trick
of composition are oftener an object of study.  A thoroughly
good sermon, thoroughly well delivered, is a capital gratification. 
I can never hear such a one without the greatest admiration and respect,
and more than half a mind to take orders and preach myself.  There is
something in the eloquence of the pulpit, when it is really eloquence,
which is entitled to the highest praise and honour.  The preacher
who can touch and affect such an heterogeneous mass of hearers,
on subjects limited, and long worn threadbare in all common hands;
who can say anything new or striking, anything that rouses the attention
without offending the taste, or wearing out the feelings of his hearers,
is a man whom one could not, in his public capacity, honour enough. 
I should like to be such a man."

Edmund laughed.

"I should indeed.  I never listened to a distinguished preacher in my
life without a sort of envy.  But then, I must have a London audience. 
I could not preach but to the educated; to those who were capable
of estimating my composition.  And I do not know that I should be fond
of preaching often; now and then, perhaps once or twice in the spring,
after being anxiously expected for half a dozen Sundays together;
but not for a constancy; it would not do for a constancy."

Here Fanny, who could not but listen, involuntarily shook her head,
and Crawford was instantly by her side again, entreating to know
her meaning; and as Edmund perceived, by his drawing in a chair,
and sitting down close by her, that it was to be a very thorough attack,
that looks and undertones were to be well tried, he sank as quietly
as possible into a corner, turned his back, and took up a newspaper,
very sincerely wishing that dear little Fanny might be persuaded
into explaining away that shake of the head to the satisfaction
of her ardent lover; and as earnestly trying to bury every sound
of the business from himself in murmurs of his own, over the various
advertisements of "A most desirable Estate in South Wales";
"To Parents and Guardians"; and a "Capital season'd Hunter."

Fanny, meanwhile, vexed with herself for not having been as
motionless as she was speechless, and grieved to the heart to see
Edmund's arrangements, was trying by everything in the power
of her modest, gentle nature, to repulse Mr. Crawford, and avoid
both his looks and inquiries; and he, unrepulsable, was persisting in both.

"What did that shake of the head mean?" said he.  "What was it meant
to express?  Disapprobation, I fear.  But of what?  What had I been
saying to displease you?  Did you think me speaking improperly, lightly,
irreverently on the subject?  Only tell me if I was.  Only tell me
if I was wrong.  I want to be set right.  Nay, nay, I entreat you;
for one moment put down your work.  What did that shake of the head mean?"

In vain was her "Pray, sir, don't; pray, Mr. Crawford," repeated
twice over; and in vain did she try to move away.  In the same low,
eager voice, and the same close neighbourhood, he went on, reurging
the same questions as before.  She grew more agitated and displeased.

"How can you, sir?  You quite astonish me; I wonder how you can--"

"Do I astonish you?" said he.  "Do you wonder?  Is there anything
in my present entreaty that you do not understand?  I will explain
to you instantly all that makes me urge you in this manner,
all that gives me an interest in what you look and do, and excites
my present curiosity.  I will not leave you to wonder long."

In spite of herself, she could not help half a smile, but she
said nothing.

"You shook your head at my acknowledging that I should not like
to engage in the duties of a clergyman always for a constancy. 
Yes, that was the word.  Constancy:  I am not afraid of the word. 
I would spell it, read it, write it with anybody.  I see nothing
alarming in the word.  Did you think I ought?"

"Perhaps, sir," said Fanny, wearied at last into speaking--
"perhaps, sir, I thought it was a pity you did not always know
yourself as well as you seemed to do at that moment."

Crawford, delighted to get her to speak at any rate, was determined
to keep it up; and poor Fanny, who had hoped to silence him by such
an extremity of reproof, found herself sadly mistaken, and that it
was only a change from one object of curiosity and one set of words
to another.  He had always something to entreat the explanation of. 
The opportunity was too fair.  None such had occurred since his
seeing her in her uncle's room, none such might occur again before
his leaving Mansfield.  Lady Bertram's being just on the other side
of the table was a trifle, for she might always be considered as only
half-awake, and Edmund's advertisements were still of the first utility.

"Well," said Crawford, after a course of rapid questions and
reluctant answers; "I am happier than I was, because I now understand
more clearly your opinion of me.  You think me unsteady:  easily swayed
by the whim of the moment, easily tempted, easily put aside. 
With such an opinion, no wonder that.  But we shall see.  It is not
by protestations that I shall endeavour to convince you I am wronged;
it is not by telling you that my affections are steady.  My conduct
shall speak for me; absence, distance, time shall speak for me. 
_They_ shall prove that, as far as you can be deserved by anybody,
I do deserve you.  You are infinitely my superior in merit;
all _that_ I know.  You have qualities which I had not before
supposed to exist in such a degree in any human creature. 
You have some touches of the angel in you beyond what--not merely
beyond what one sees, because one never sees anything like it--
but beyond what one fancies might be.  But still I am not frightened. 
It is not by equality of merit that you can be won.  That is out of
the question.  It is he who sees and worships your merit the strongest,
who loves you most devotedly, that has the best right to a return. 
There I build my confidence.  By that right I do and will deserve you;
and when once convinced that my attachment is what I declare it,
I know you too well not to entertain the warmest hopes.  Yes, dearest,
sweetest Fanny.  Nay" (seeing her draw back displeased), "forgive me. 
Perhaps I have as yet no right; but by what other name can I call you? 
Do you suppose you are ever present to my imagination under any other? 
No, it is 'Fanny' that I think of all day, and dream of all night. 
You have given the name such reality of sweetness, that nothing else can
now be descriptive of you."

Fanny could hardly have kept her seat any longer, or have refrained
from at least trying to get away in spite of all the too public
opposition she foresaw to it, had it not been for the sound
of approaching relief, the very sound which she had been long
watching for, and long thinking strangely delayed.

The solemn procession, headed by Baddeley, of tea-board, urn,
and cake-bearers, made its appearance, and delivered her from a grievous
imprisonment of body and mind.  Mr. Crawford was obliged to move. 
She was at liberty, she was busy, she was protected.

Edmund was not sorry to be admitted again among the number of
those who might speak and hear.  But though the conference had
seemed full long to him, and though on looking at Fanny he saw
rather a flush of vexation, he inclined to hope that so much could
not have been said and listened to without some profit to the speaker.



CHAPTER XXXV

Edmund had determined that it belonged entirely to Fanny to chuse
whether her situation with regard to Crawford should be mentioned
between them or not; and that if she did not lead the way,
it should never be touched on by him; but after a day or two of
mutual reserve, he was induced by his father to change his mind,
and try what his influence might do for his friend.

A day, and a very early day, was actually fixed for the Crawfords'
departure; and Sir Thomas thought it might be as well to make
one more effort for the young man before he left Mansfield,
that all his professions and vows of unshaken attachment
might have as much hope to sustain them as possible.

Sir Thomas was most cordially anxious for the perfection of
Mr. Crawford's character in that point.  He wished him to be
a model of constancy; and fancied the best means of effecting
it would be by not trying him too long.

Edmund was not unwilling to be persuaded to engage in the business;
he wanted to know Fanny's feelings.  She had been used to consult
him in every difficulty, and he loved her too well to bear to be
denied her confidence now; he hoped to be of service to her,
he thought he must be of service to her; whom else had she to open
her heart to?  If she did not need counsel, she must need the comfort
of communication.  Fanny estranged from him, silent and reserved,
was an unnatural state of things; a state which he must break through,
and which he could easily learn to think she was wanting him to
break through.

"I will speak to her, sir:  I will take the first opportunity of
speaking to her alone," was the result of such thoughts as these;
and upon Sir Thomas's information of her being at that very time
walking alone in the shrubbery, he instantly joined her.

"I am come to walk with you, Fanny," said he.  "Shall I?" 
Drawing her arm within his.  "It is a long while since we have
had a comfortable walk together."

She assented to it all rather by look than word.  Her spirits
were low.

"But, Fanny," he presently added, "in order to have a comfortable walk,
something more is necessary than merely pacing this gravel together. 
You must talk to me.  I know you have something on your mind. 
I know what you are thinking of.  You cannot suppose me uninformed. 
Am I to hear of it from everybody but Fanny herself?"

Fanny, at once agitated and dejected, replied, "If you hear of it
from everybody, cousin, there can be nothing for me to tell."

"Not of facts, perhaps; but of feelings, Fanny.  No one but you
can tell me them.  I do not mean to press you, however.  If it
is not what you wish yourself, I have done.  I had thought it
might be a relief."

"I am afraid we think too differently for me to find any relief
in talking of what I feel."

"Do you suppose that we think differently?  I have no idea of it. 
I dare say that, on a comparison of our opinions, they would be
found as much alike as they have been used to be:  to the point--
I consider Crawford's proposals as most advantageous and desirable,
if you could return his affection.  I consider it as most natural
that all your family should wish you could return it; but that,
as you cannot, you have done exactly as you ought in refusing him. 
Can there be any disagreement between us here?"

"Oh no!  But I thought you blamed me.  I thought you were against me. 
This is such a comfort!"

"This comfort you might have had sooner, Fanny, had you sought it. 
But how could you possibly suppose me against you?  How could
you imagine me an advocate for marriage without love?  Were I
even careless in general on such matters, how could you imagine me
so where your happiness was at stake?"

"My uncle thought me wrong, and I knew he had been talking to you."

"As far as you have gone, Fanny, I think you perfectly right. 
I may be sorry, I may be surprised--though hardly _that_, for you
had not had time to attach yourself--but I think you perfectly right. 
Can it admit of a question?  It is disgraceful to us if it does. 
You did not love him; nothing could have justified your accepting him."

Fanny had not felt so comfortable for days and days.

"So far your conduct has been faultless, and they were quite mistaken
who wished you to do otherwise.  But the matter does not end here. 
Crawford's is no common attachment; he perseveres, with the hope
of creating that regard which had not been created before.  This,
we know, must be a work of time.  But" (with an affectionate smile)
"let him succeed at last, Fanny, let him succeed at last. 
You have proved yourself upright and disinterested, prove yourself
grateful and tender-hearted; and then you will be the perfect model
of a woman which I have always believed you born for."

"Oh! never, never, never! he never will succeed with me."  And she
spoke with a warmth which quite astonished Edmund, and which she
blushed at the recollection of herself, when she saw his look,
and heard him reply, "Never!  Fanny!--so very determined and positive! 
This is not like yourself, your rational self."

"I mean," she cried, sorrowfully correcting herself, "that I
_think_ I never shall, as far as the future can be answered for;
I think I never shall return his regard."

"I must hope better things.  I am aware, more aware than Crawford
can be, that the man who means to make you love him (you having due
notice of his intentions) must have very uphill work, for there are
all your early attachments and habits in battle array; and before he
can get your heart for his own use he has to unfasten it from all
the holds upon things animate and inanimate, which so many years'
growth have confirmed, and which are considerably tightened for the moment
by the very idea of separation.  I know that the apprehension of being
forced to quit Mansfield will for a time be arming you against him. 
I wish he had not been obliged to tell you what he was trying for. 
I wish he had known you as well as I do, Fanny.  Between us, I think
we should have won you.  My theoretical and his practical knowledge
together could not have failed.  He should have worked upon my plans. 
I must hope, however, that time, proving him (as I firmly believe it will)
to deserve you by his steady affection, will give him his reward. 
I cannot suppose that you have not the _wish_ to love him--the natural
wish of gratitude.  You must have some feeling of that sort. 
You must be sorry for your own indifference."

"We are so totally unlike," said Fanny, avoiding a direct answer,
"we are so very, very different in all our inclinations and ways,
that I consider it as quite impossible we should ever be tolerably
happy together, even if I _could_ like him.  There never were
two people more dissimilar.  We have not one taste in common. 
We should be miserable.

"You are mistaken, Fanny.  The dissimilarity is not so strong. 
You are quite enough alike.  You _have_ tastes in common.  You have
moral and literary tastes in common.  You have both warm hearts and
benevolent feelings; and, Fanny, who that heard him read, and saw you listen
to Shakespeare the other night, will think you unfitted as companions? 
You forget yourself:  there is a decided difference in your tempers,
I allow.  He is lively, you are serious; but so much the better: 
his spirits will support yours.  It is your disposition to be
easily dejected and to fancy difficulties greater than they are. 
His cheerfulness will counteract this.  He sees difficulties nowhere: 
and his pleasantness and gaiety will be a constant support to you. 
Your being so far unlike, Fanny, does not in the smallest degree make
against the probability of your happiness together:  do not imagine it. 
I am myself convinced that it is rather a favourable circumstance. 
I am perfectly persuaded that the tempers had better be unlike: 
I mean unlike in the flow of the spirits, in the manners, in the
inclination for much or little company, in the propensity to talk
or to be silent, to be grave or to be gay.  Some opposition here is,
I am thoroughly convinced, friendly to matrimonial happiness. 
I exclude extremes, of course; and a very close resemblance in all
those points would be the likeliest way to produce an extreme. 
A counteraction, gentle and continual, is the best safeguard of manners
and conduct."

Full well could Fanny guess where his thoughts were now: 
Miss Crawford's power was all returning.  He had been speaking of her
cheerfully from the hour of his coming home.  His avoiding her was
quite at an end.  He had dined at the Parsonage only the preceding day.

After leaving him to his happier thoughts for some minutes, Fanny,
feeling it due to herself, returned to Mr. Crawford, and said,
"It is not merely in _temper_ that I consider him as totally unsuited
to myself; though, in _that_ respect, I think the difference between
us too great, infinitely too great:  his spirits often oppress me;
but there is something in him which I object to still more. 
I must say, cousin, that I cannot approve his character.  I have
not thought well of him from the time of the play.  I then saw
him behaving, as it appeared to me, so very improperly and unfeelingly--
I may speak of it now because it is all over--so improperly by poor
Mr. Rushworth, not seeming to care how he exposed or hurt him,
and paying attentions to my cousin Maria, which--in short,
at the time of the play, I received an impression which will never
be got over."

"My dear Fanny," replied Edmund, scarcely hearing her to the end,
"let us not, any of us, be judged by what we appeared at that period
of general folly.  The time of the play is a time which I hate
to recollect.  Maria was wrong, Crawford was wrong, we were all
wrong together; but none so wrong as myself.  Compared with me,
all the rest were blameless.  I was playing the fool with my
eyes open."

"As a bystander," said Fanny, "perhaps I saw more than you did;
and I do think that Mr. Rushworth was sometimes very jealous."

"Very possibly.  No wonder.  Nothing could be more improper than
the whole business.  I am shocked whenever I think that Maria
could be capable of it; but, if she could undertake the part,
we must not be surprised at the rest."

"Before the play, I am much mistaken if _Julia_ did not think he
was paying her attentions.

"Julia!  I have heard before from some one of his being in love
with Julia; but I could never see anything of it.  And, Fanny,
though I hope I do justice to my sisters' good qualities, I think
it very possible that they might, one or both, be more desirous
of being admired by Crawford, and might shew that desire rather more
unguardedly than was perfectly prudent.  I can remember that they
were evidently fond of his society; and with such encouragement,
a man like Crawford, lively, and it may be, a little unthinking,
might be led on to--there could be nothing very striking, because it
is clear that he had no pretensions:  his heart was reserved for you. 
And I must say, that its being for you has raised him inconceivably
in my opinion.  It does him the highest honour; it shews his proper
estimation of the blessing of domestic happiness and pure attachment. 
It proves him unspoilt by his uncle.  It proves him, in short,
everything that I had been used to wish to believe him, and feared he
was not."

"I am persuaded that he does not think, as he ought, on serious subjects."

"Say, rather, that he has not thought at all upon serious subjects,
which I believe to be a good deal the case.  How could it be otherwise,
with such an education and adviser?  Under the disadvantages,
indeed, which both have had, is it not wonderful that they should be
what they are?  Crawford's _feelings_, I am ready to acknowledge,
have hitherto been too much his guides.  Happily, those feelings
have generally been good.  You will supply the rest; and a most
fortunate man he is to attach himself to such a creature--to a
woman who, firm as a rock in her own principles, has a gentleness
of character so well adapted to recommend them.  He has chosen
his partner, indeed, with rare felicity.  He will make you happy,
Fanny; I know he will make you happy; but you will make him everything."

"I would not engage in such a charge," cried Fanny,
in a shrinking accent; "in such an office of high responsibility!"

"As usual, believing yourself unequal to anything! fancying
everything too much for you!  Well, though I may not be able
to persuade you into different feelings, you will be persuaded
into them, I trust.  I confess myself sincerely anxious that
you may.  I have no common interest in Crawford's well-doing.
Next to your happiness, Fanny, his has the first claim on me. 
You are aware of my having no common interest in Crawford."

Fanny was too well aware of it to have anything to say; and they walked
on together some fifty yards in mutual silence and abstraction. 
Edmund first began again--

"I was very much pleased by her manner of speaking of it yesterday,
particularly pleased, because I had not depended upon her seeing
everything in so just a light.  I knew she was very fond of you;
but yet I was afraid of her not estimating your worth to her brother
quite as it deserved, and of her regretting that he had not rather fixed
on some woman of distinction or fortune.  I was afraid of the bias
of those worldly maxims, which she has been too much used to hear. 
But it was very different.  She spoke of you, Fanny, just as she ought. 
She desires the connexion as warmly as your uncle or myself. 
We had a long talk about it.  I should not have mentioned the subject,
though very anxious to know her sentiments; but I had not been
in the room five minutes before she began introducing it with all
that openness of heart, and sweet peculiarity of manner, that spirit
and ingenuousness which are so much a part of herself.  Mrs. Grant
laughed at her for her rapidity."

"Was Mrs. Grant in the room, then?"

"Yes, when I reached the house I found the two sisters together
by themselves; and when once we had begun, we had not done
with you, Fanny, till Crawford and Dr. Grant came in."

"It is above a week since I saw Miss Crawford."

"Yes, she laments it; yet owns it may have been best.  You will see her,
however, before she goes.  She is very angry with you, Fanny; you must
be prepared for that.  She calls herself very angry, but you can
imagine her anger.  It is the regret and disappointment of a sister,
who thinks her brother has a right to everything he may wish for,
at the first moment.  She is hurt, as you would be for William;
but she loves and esteems you with all her heart."

"I knew she would be very angry with me."

"My dearest Fanny," cried Edmund, pressing her arm closer to him,
"do not let the idea of her anger distress you.  It is anger to be
talked of rather than felt.  Her heart is made for love and kindness,
not for resentment.  I wish you could have overheard her tribute
of praise; I wish you could have seen her countenance, when she
said that you _should_ be Henry's wife.  And I observed that she
always spoke of you as 'Fanny,' which she was never used to do;
and it had a sound of most sisterly cordiality."

"And Mrs. Grant, did she say--did she speak; was she there all
the time?"

"Yes, she was agreeing exactly with her sister.  The surprise of
your refusal, Fanny, seems to have been unbounded.  That you could refuse
such a man as Henry Crawford seems more than they can understand. 
I said what I could for you; but in good truth, as they stated
the case--you must prove yourself to be in your senses as soon
as you can by a different conduct; nothing else will satisfy them. 
But this is teasing you.  I have done.  Do not turn away from me."

"I _should_ have thought," said Fanny, after a pause of recollection
and exertion, "that every woman must have felt the possibility
of a man's not being approved, not being loved by some one
of her sex at least, let him be ever so generally agreeable. 
Let him have all the perfections in the world, I think it ought
not to be set down as certain that a man must be acceptable to every
woman he may happen to like himself.  But, even supposing it is so,
allowing Mr. Crawford to have all the claims which his sisters
think he has, how was I to be prepared to meet him with any
feeling answerable to his own?  He took me wholly by surprise. 
I had not an idea that his behaviour to me before had any meaning;
and surely I was not to be teaching myself to like him only because he
was taking what seemed very idle notice of me.  In my situation,
it would have been the extreme of vanity to be forming expectations
on Mr. Crawford.  I am sure his sisters, rating him as they do,
must have thought it so, supposing he had meant nothing.  How, then,
was I to be--to be in love with him the moment he said he was with me? 
How was I to have an attachment at his service, as soon as it
was asked for?  His sisters should consider me as well as him. 
The higher his deserts, the more improper for me ever to have thought
of him.  And, and--we think very differently of the nature of women,
if they can imagine a woman so very soon capable of returning an
affection as this seems to imply."

"My dear, dear Fanny, now I have the truth.  I know this to be
the truth; and most worthy of you are such feelings.  I had
attributed them to you before.  I thought I could understand you. 
You have now given exactly the explanation which I ventured
to make for you to your friend and Mrs. Grant, and they were both
better satisfied, though your warm-hearted friend was still run
away with a little by the enthusiasm of her fondness for Henry. 
I told them that you were of all human creatures the one over
whom habit had most power and novelty least; and that the very
circumstance of the novelty of Crawford's addresses was against him. 
Their being so new and so recent was all in their disfavour;
that you could tolerate nothing that you were not used to;
and a great deal more to the same purpose, to give them a knowledge
of your character.  Miss Crawford made us laugh by her plans of
encouragement for her brother.  She meant to urge him to persevere
in the hope of being loved in time, and of having his addresses
most kindly received at the end of about ten years' happy marriage."

Fanny could with difficulty give the smile that was here asked for. 
Her feelings were all in revolt.  She feared she had been doing wrong: 
saying too much, overacting the caution which she had been
fancying necessary; in guarding against one evil, laying herself open
to another; and to have Miss Crawford's liveliness repeated to her
at such a moment, and on such a subject, was a bitter aggravation.

Edmund saw weariness and distress in her face, and immediately resolved
to forbear all farther discussion; and not even to mention the name
of Crawford again, except as it might be connected with what _must_
be agreeable to her.  On this principle, he soon afterwards observed--
"They go on Monday.  You are sure, therefore, of seeing your friend
either to-morrow or Sunday.  They really go on Monday; and I was within
a trifle of being persuaded to stay at Lessingby till that very day! 
I had almost promised it.  What a difference it might have made! 
Those five or six days more at Lessingby might have been felt all
my life."

"You were near staying there?"

"Very.  I was most kindly pressed, and had nearly consented. 
Had I received any letter from Mansfield, to tell me how you were
all going on, I believe I should certainly have staid; but I knew
nothing that had happened here for a fortnight, and felt that I had
been away long enough."

"You spent your time pleasantly there?"

"Yes; that is, it was the fault of my own mind if I did not. 
They were all very pleasant.  I doubt their finding me so. 
I took uneasiness with me, and there was no getting rid of it till
I was in Mansfield again."

"The Miss Owens--you liked them, did not you?"

"Yes, very well.  Pleasant, good-humoured, unaffected girls.  But I
am spoilt, Fanny, for common female society.  Good-humoured, unaffected
girls will not do for a man who has been used to sensible women. 
They are two distinct orders of being.  You and Miss Crawford have
made me too nice."

Still, however, Fanny was oppressed and wearied; he saw it in her looks,
it could not be talked away; and attempting it no more, he led
her directly, with the kind authority of a privileged guardian,
into the house.



CHAPTER XXXVI

Edmund now believed himself perfectly acquainted with all that Fanny
could tell, or could leave to be conjectured of her sentiments,
and he was satisfied.  It had been, as he before presumed,
too hasty a measure on Crawford's side, and time must be given
to make the idea first familiar, and then agreeable to her. 
She must be used to the consideration of his being in love with her,
and then a return of affection might not be very distant.

He gave this opinion as the result of the conversation to his father;
and recommended there being nothing more said to her:  no farther
attempts to influence or persuade; but that everything should be
left to Crawford's assiduities, and the natural workings of her
own mind.

Sir Thomas promised that it should be so.  Edmund's account of Fanny's
disposition he could believe to be just; he supposed she had all
those feelings, but he must consider it as very unfortunate that
she _had_; for, less willing than his son to trust to the future,
he could not help fearing that if such very long allowances of time
and habit were necessary for her, she might not have persuaded
herself into receiving his addresses properly before the young
man's inclination for paying them were over.  There was nothing
to be done, however, but to submit quietly and hope the best.

The promised visit from "her friend," as Edmund called Miss Crawford,
was a formidable threat to Fanny, and she lived in continual terror
of it.  As a sister, so partial and so angry, and so little scrupulous
of what she said, and in another light so triumphant and secure,
she was in every way an object of painful alarm.  Her displeasure,
her penetration, and her happiness were all fearful to encounter;
and the dependence of having others present when they met was Fanny's
only support in looking forward to it.  She absented herself as
little as possible from Lady Bertram, kept away from the East room,
and took no solitary walk in the shrubbery, in her caution to avoid
any sudden attack.

She succeeded.  She was safe in the breakfast-room, with her aunt,
when Miss Crawford did come; and the first misery over, and Miss
Crawford looking and speaking with much less particularity of
expression than she had anticipated, Fanny began to hope there would
be nothing worse to be endured than a half-hour of moderate agitation. 
But here she hoped too much; Miss Crawford was not the slave
of opportunity.  She was determined to see Fanny alone, and therefore
said to her tolerably soon, in a low voice, "I must speak to you
for a few minutes somewhere"; words that Fanny felt all over her,
in all her pulses and all her nerves.  Denial was impossible. 
Her habits of ready submission, on the contrary, made her almost
instantly rise and lead the way out of the room.  She did it with
wretched feelings, but it was inevitable.

They were no sooner in the hall than all restraint of countenance
was over on Miss Crawford's side.  She immediately shook her head
at Fanny with arch, yet affectionate reproach, and taking her hand,
seemed hardly able to help beginning directly.  She said nothing,
however, but, "Sad, sad girl!  I do not know when I shall have
done scolding you," and had discretion enough to reserve the rest
till they might be secure of having four walls to themselves. 
Fanny naturally turned upstairs, and took her guest to the apartment
which was now always fit for comfortable use; opening the door,
however, with a most aching heart, and feeling that she had a more
distressing scene before her than ever that spot had yet witnessed. 
But the evil ready to burst on her was at least delayed by the sudden
change in Miss Crawford's ideas; by the strong effect on her mind
which the finding herself in the East room again produced.

"Ha!" she cried, with instant animation, "am I here again? 
The East room!  Once only was I in this room before"; and after
stopping to look about her, and seemingly to retrace all that had
then passed, she added, "Once only before.  Do you remember it? 
I came to rehearse.  Your cousin came too; and we had a rehearsal. 
You were our audience and prompter.  A delightful rehearsal. 
I shall never forget it.  Here we were, just in this part of the room: 
here was your cousin, here was I, here were the chairs.  Oh! why will
such things ever pass away?"

Happily for her companion, she wanted no answer.  Her mind was
entirely self-engrossed. She was in a reverie of sweet remembrances.

"The scene we were rehearsing was so very remarkable! 
The subject of it so very--very--what shall I say?  He was to
be describing and recommending matrimony to me.  I think I see
him now, trying to be as demure and composed as Anhalt ought,
through the two long speeches.  'When two sympathetic hearts meet
in the marriage state, matrimony may be called a happy life.' 
I suppose no time can ever wear out the impression I have of his looks
and voice as he said those words.  It was curious, very curious,
that we should have such a scene to play!  If I had the power
of recalling any one week of my existence, it should be that week--
that acting week.  Say what you would, Fanny, it should be _that_;
for I never knew such exquisite happiness in any other.  His sturdy
spirit to bend as it did!  Oh! it was sweet beyond expression. 
But alas, that very evening destroyed it all.  That very evening
brought your most unwelcome uncle.  Poor Sir Thomas, who was glad to
see you?  Yet, Fanny, do not imagine I would now speak disrespectfully
of Sir Thomas, though I certainly did hate him for many a week. 
No, I do him justice now.  He is just what the head of such a family
should be.  Nay, in sober sadness, I believe I now love you all." 
And having said so, with a degree of tenderness and consciousness
which Fanny had never seen in her before, and now thought only
too becoming, she turned away for a moment to recover herself. 
"I have had a little fit since I came into this room, as you
may perceive," said she presently, with a playful smile,
"but it is over now; so let us sit down and be comfortable;
for as to scolding you, Fanny, which I came fully intending to do,
I have not the heart for it when it comes to the point." 
And embracing her very affectionately, "Good, gentle Fanny! when I
think of this being the last time of seeing you for I do not know
how long, I feel it quite impossible to do anything but love you."

Fanny was affected.  She had not foreseen anything of this,
and her feelings could seldom withstand the melancholy influence
of the word "last."  She cried as if she had loved Miss Crawford
more than she possibly could; and Miss Crawford, yet farther softened
by the sight of such emotion, hung about her with fondness, and said,
"I hate to leave you.  I shall see no one half so amiable where I
am going.  Who says we shall not be sisters?  I know we shall. 
I feel that we are born to be connected; and those tears convince me
that you feel it too, dear Fanny."

Fanny roused herself, and replying only in part, said, "But you
are only going from one set of friends to another.  You are going
to a very particular friend."

"Yes, very true.  Mrs. Fraser has been my intimate friend for years. 
But I have not the least inclination to go near her.  I can
think only of the friends I am leaving:  my excellent sister,
yourself, and the Bertrams in general.  You have all so much
more _heart_ among you than one finds in the world at large. 
You all give me a feeling of being able to trust and confide in you,
which in common intercourse one knows nothing of.  I wish I
had settled with Mrs. Fraser not to go to her till after Easter,
a much better time for the visit, but now I cannot put her off. 
And when I have done with her I must go to her sister, Lady Stornaway,
because _she_ was rather my most particular friend of the two,
but I have not cared much for _her_ these three years."

After this speech the two girls sat many minutes silent, each thoughtful: 
Fanny meditating on the different sorts of friendship in the world,
Mary on something of less philosophic tendency.  _She_ first spoke again.

"How perfectly I remember my resolving to look for you upstairs,
and setting off to find my way to the East room, without having an idea
whereabouts it was!  How well I remember what I was thinking of as I
came along, and my looking in and seeing you here sitting at this
table at work; and then your cousin's astonishment, when he opened
the door, at seeing me here!  To be sure, your uncle's returning
that very evening!  There never was anything quite like it."

Another short fit of abstraction followed, when, shaking it off,
she thus attacked her companion.

"Why, Fanny, you are absolutely in a reverie.  Thinking, I hope,
of one who is always thinking of you.  Oh! that I could transport you
for a short time into our circle in town, that you might understand
how your power over Henry is thought of there!  Oh! the envyings
and heartburnings of dozens and dozens; the wonder, the incredulity
that will be felt at hearing what you have done!  For as to secrecy,
Henry is quite the hero of an old romance, and glories in his chains. 
You should come to London to know how to estimate your conquest. 
If you were to see how he is courted, and how I am courted
for his sake!  Now, I am well aware that I shall not be half so
welcome to Mrs. Fraser in consequence of his situation with you. 
When she comes to know the truth she will, very likely, wish me
in Northamptonshire again; for there is a daughter of Mr. Fraser,
by a first wife, whom she is wild to get married, and wants Henry
to take.  Oh! she has been trying for him to such a degree. 
Innocent and quiet as you sit here, you cannot have an idea of
the _sensation_ that you will be occasioning, of the curiosity there
will be to see you, of the endless questions I shall have to answer! 
Poor Margaret Fraser will be at me for ever about your eyes and
your teeth, and how you do your hair, and who makes your shoes. 
I wish Margaret were married, for my poor friend's sake, for I look
upon the Frasers to be about as unhappy as most other married people. 
And yet it was a most desirable match for Janet at the time. 
We were all delighted.  She could not do otherwise than accept him,
for he was rich, and she had nothing; but he turns out ill-tempered
and _exigeant_, and wants a young woman, a beautiful young woman
of five-and-twenty, to be as steady as himself.  And my friend does
not manage him well; she does not seem to know how to make the best
of it.  There is a spirit of irritation which, to say nothing worse,
is certainly very ill-bred. In their house I shall call to mind
the conjugal manners of Mansfield Parsonage with respect. 
Even Dr. Grant does shew a thorough confidence in my sister, and a
certain consideration for her judgment, which makes one feel there
_is_ attachment; but of that I shall see nothing with the Frasers. 
I shall be at Mansfield for ever, Fanny.  My own sister as a wife,
Sir Thomas Bertram as a husband, are my standards of perfection. 
Poor Janet has been sadly taken in, and yet there was nothing improper
on her side:  she did not run into the match inconsiderately; there was
no want of foresight.  She took three days to consider of his proposals,
and during those three days asked the advice of everybody connected
with her whose opinion was worth having, and especially applied
to my late dear aunt, whose knowledge of the world made her judgment
very generally and deservedly looked up to by all the young people
of her acquaintance, and she was decidedly in favour of Mr. Fraser. 
This seems as if nothing were a security for matrimonial comfort. 
I have not so much to say for my friend Flora, who jilted a very nice
young man in the Blues for the sake of that horrid Lord Stornaway,
who has about as much sense, Fanny, as Mr. Rushworth, but much
worse-looking, and with a blackguard character.  I _had_ my doubts
at the time about her being right, for he has not even the air
of a gentleman, and now I am sure she was wrong.  By the bye,
Flora Ross was dying for Henry the first winter she came out. 
But were I to attempt to tell you of all the women whom I have known
to be in love with him, I should never have done.  It is you, only you,
insensible Fanny, who can think of him with anything like indifference. 
But are you so insensible as you profess yourself?  No, no, I see you are
not."

There was, indeed, so deep a blush over Fanny's face at that moment
as might warrant strong suspicion in a predisposed mind.

"Excellent creature!  I will not tease you.  Everything shall
take its course.  But, dear Fanny, you must allow that you were
not so absolutely unprepared to have the question asked as your
cousin fancies.  It is not possible but that you must have had
some thoughts on the subject, some surmises as to what might be. 
You must have seen that he was trying to please you by every
attention in his power.  Was not he devoted to you at the ball? 
And then before the ball, the necklace!  Oh! you received it just
as it was meant.  You were as conscious as heart could desire. 
I remember it perfectly."

"Do you mean, then, that your brother
knew of the necklace beforehand?  Oh!  Miss Crawford, _that_ was not fair."

"Knew of it!  It was his own doing entirely, his own thought. 
I am ashamed to say that it had never entered my head, but I was
delighted to act on his proposal for both your sakes."

"I will not say," replied Fanny, "that I was not half afraid at
the time of its being so, for there was something in your look
that frightened me, but not at first; I was as unsuspicious of it
at first--indeed, indeed I was.  It is as true as that I sit here. 
And had I had an idea of it, nothing should have induced me to accept
the necklace.  As to your brother's behaviour, certainly I was sensible
of a particularity:  I had been sensible of it some little time,
perhaps two or three weeks; but then I considered it as meaning nothing: 
I put it down as simply being his way, and was as far from supposing
as from wishing him to have any serious thoughts of me.  I had not,
Miss Crawford, been an inattentive observer of what was passing
between him and some part of this family in the summer and autumn. 
I was quiet, but I was not blind.  I could not but see that Mr. Crawford
allowed himself in gallantries which did mean nothing."

"Ah!  I cannot deny it.  He has now and then been a sad flirt,
and cared very little for the havoc he might be making in
young ladies' affections.  I have often scolded him for it, but it
is his only fault; and there is this to be said, that very few
young ladies have any affections worth caring for.  And then,
Fanny, the glory of fixing one who has been shot at by so many;
of having it in one's power to pay off the debts of one's sex! 
Oh!  I am sure it is not in woman's nature to refuse such a triumph."

Fanny shook her head.  "I cannot think well of a man who sports
with any woman's feelings; and there may often be a great deal
more suffered than a stander-by can judge of."

"I do not defend him.  I leave him entirely to your mercy, and when he
has got you at Everingham, I do not care how much you lecture him. 
But this I will say, that his fault, the liking to make girls
a little in love with him, is not half so dangerous to a wife's
happiness as a tendency to fall in love himself, which he has never
been addicted to.  And I do seriously and truly believe that he
is attached to you in a way that he never was to any woman before;
that he loves you with all his heart, and will love you as nearly
for ever as possible.  If any man ever loved a woman for ever,
I think Henry will do as much for you."

Fanny could not avoid a faint smile, but had nothing to say.

"I cannot imagine Henry ever to have been happier," continued Mary
presently, "than when he had succeeded in getting your brother's commission."

She had made a sure push at Fanny's feelings here.

"Oh! yes.  How very, very kind of him."

"I know he must have exerted himself very much, for I know the parties
he had to move.  The Admiral hates trouble, and scorns asking favours;
and there are so many young men's claims to be attended to in
the same way, that a friendship and energy, not very determined,
is easily put by.  What a happy creature William must be! 
I wish we could see him."

Poor Fanny's mind was thrown into the most distressing of all
its varieties.  The recollection of what had been done for William
was always the most powerful disturber of every decision against
Mr. Crawford; and she sat thinking deeply of it till Mary,
who had been first watching her complacently, and then musing
on something else, suddenly called her attention by saying: 
"I should like to sit talking with you here all day, but we
must not forget the ladies below, and so good-bye, my dear,
my amiable, my excellent Fanny, for though we shall nominally
part in the breakfast-parlour, I must take leave of you here. 
And I do take leave, longing for a happy reunion, and trusting
that when we meet again, it will be under circumstances which may
open our hearts to each other without any remnant or shadow of reserve."

A very, very kind embrace, and some agitation of manner,
accompanied these words.

"I shall see your cousin in town soon:  he talks of being there
tolerably soon; and Sir Thomas, I dare say, in the course of the spring;
and your eldest cousin, and the Rushworths, and Julia, I am sure
of meeting again and again, and all but you.  I have two favours
to ask, Fanny:  one is your correspondence.  You must write to me. 
And the other, that you will often call on Mrs. Grant, and make her
amends for my being gone."

The first, at least, of these favours Fanny would rather not have
been asked; but it was impossible for her to refuse the correspondence;
it was impossible for her even not to accede to it more readily
than her own judgment authorised.  There was no resisting so much
apparent affection.  Her disposition was peculiarly calculated
to value a fond treatment, and from having hitherto known so little
of it, she was the more overcome by Miss Crawford's. Besides,
there was gratitude towards her, for having made their _tete-a-tete_
so much less painful than her fears had predicted.

It was over, and she had escaped without reproaches and without detection. 
Her secret was still her own; and while that was the case,
she thought she could resign herself to almost everything.

In the evening there was another parting.  Henry Crawford came
and sat some time with them; and her spirits not being previously
in the strongest state, her heart was softened for a while towards him,
because he really seemed to feel.  Quite unlike his usual self,
he scarcely said anything.  He was evidently oppressed, and Fanny
must grieve for him, though hoping she might never see him again
till he were the husband of some other woman.

When it came to the moment of parting, he would take her hand,
he would not be denied it; he said nothing, however, or nothing
that she heard, and when he had left the room, she was better pleased
that such a token of friendship had passed.

On the morrow the Crawfords were gone.



CHAPTER XXXVII

Mr. Crawford gone, Sir Thomas's next object was that he should be missed;
and he entertained great hope that his niece would find a blank in
the loss of those attentions which at the time she had felt, or fancied,
an evil.  She had tasted of consequence in its most flattering form;
and he did hope that the loss of it, the sinking again into nothing,
would awaken very wholesome regrets in her mind.  He watched
her with this idea; but he could hardly tell with what success. 
He hardly knew whether there were any difference in her spirits
or not.  She was always so gentle and retiring that her emotions
were beyond his discrimination.  He did not understand her: 
he felt that he did not; and therefore applied to Edmund to tell
him how she stood affected on the present occasion, and whether she
were more or less happy than she had been.

Edmund did not discern any symptoms of regret, and thought his
father a little unreasonable in supposing the first three or four
days could produce any.

What chiefly surprised Edmund was, that Crawford's sister, the friend
and companion who had been so much to her, should not be more
visibly regretted.  He wondered that Fanny spoke so seldom of _her_,
and had so little voluntarily to say of her concern at this separation.

Alas! it was this sister, this friend and companion, who was now
the chief bane of Fanny's comfort.  If she could have believed Mary's
future fate as unconnected with Mansfield as she was determined
the brother's should be, if she could have hoped her return thither
to be as distant as she was much inclined to think his, she would have
been light of heart indeed; but the more she recollected and observed,
the more deeply was she convinced that everything was now in a fairer
train for Miss Crawford's marrying Edmund than it had ever been before. 
On his side the inclination was stronger, on hers less equivocal. 
His objections, the scruples of his integrity, seemed all done away,
nobody could tell how; and the doubts and hesitations of her ambition
were equally got over--and equally without apparent reason. 
It could only be imputed to increasing attachment.  His good and
her bad feelings yielded to love, and such love must unite them. 
He was to go to town as soon as some business relative to Thornton
Lacey were completed--perhaps within a fortnight; he talked of going,
he loved to talk of it; and when once with her again, Fanny could
not doubt the rest.  Her acceptance must be as certain as his offer;
and yet there were bad feelings still remaining which made the
prospect of it most sorrowful to her, independently, she believed,
independently of self.

In their very last conversation, Miss Crawford, in spite of some
amiable sensations, and much personal kindness, had still been
Miss Crawford; still shewn a mind led astray and bewildered, and without
any suspicion of being so; darkened, yet fancying itself light. 
She might love, but she did not deserve Edmund by any other sentiment. 
Fanny believed there was scarcely a second feeling in common between them;
and she may be forgiven by older sages for looking on the chance of
Miss Crawford's future improvement as nearly desperate, for thinking
that if Edmund's influence in this season of love had already done
so little in clearing her judgment, and regulating her notions,
his worth would be finally wasted on her even in years of matrimony.

Experience might have hoped more for any young people so circumstanced,
and impartiality would not have denied to Miss Crawford's nature
that participation of the general nature of women which would lead her
to adopt the opinions of the man she loved and respected as her own. 
But as such were Fanny's persuasions, she suffered very much from them,
and could never speak of Miss Crawford without pain.

Sir Thomas, meanwhile, went on with his own hopes and his own observations,
still feeling a right, by all his knowledge of human nature,
to expect to see the effect of the loss of power and consequence
on his niece's spirits, and the past attentions of the lover
producing a craving for their return; and he was soon afterwards
able to account for his not yet completely and indubitably seeing
all this, by the prospect of another visitor, whose approach he could
allow to be quite enough to support the spirits he was watching. 
William had obtained a ten days' leave of absence, to be given
to Northamptonshire, and was coming, the happiest of lieutenants,
because the latest made, to shew his happiness and describe his uniform.

He came; and he would have been delighted to shew his uniform there too,
had not cruel custom prohibited its appearance except on duty. 
So the uniform remained at Portsmouth, and Edmund conjectured that
before Fanny had any chance of seeing it, all its own freshness and all
the freshness of its wearer's feelings must be worn away.  It would
be sunk into a badge of disgrace; for what can be more unbecoming,
or more worthless, than the uniform of a lieutenant, who has been a
lieutenant a year or two, and sees others made commanders before him? 
So reasoned Edmund, till his father made him the confidant of a
scheme which placed Fanny's chance of seeing the second lieutenant
of H.M.S. Thrush in all his glory in another light.

This scheme was that she should accompany her brother back
to Portsmouth, and spend a little time with her own family. 
It had occurred to Sir Thomas, in one of his dignified musings,
as a right and desirable measure; but before he absolutely made up
his mind, he consulted his son.  Edmund considered it every way,
and saw nothing but what was right.  The thing was good in itself,
and could not be done at a better time; and he had no doubt of it being
highly agreeable to Fanny.  This was enough to determine Sir Thomas;
and a decisive "then so it shall be" closed that stage of the business;
Sir Thomas retiring from it with some feelings of satisfaction,
and views of good over and above what he had communicated to his son;
for his prime motive in sending her away had very little to do
with the propriety of her seeing her parents again, and nothing
at all with any idea of making her happy.  He certainly wished
her to go willingly, but he as certainly wished her to be heartily
sick of home before her visit ended; and that a little abstinence
from the elegancies and luxuries of Mansfield Park would bring
her mind into a sober state, and incline her to a juster estimate
of the value of that home of greater permanence, and equal comfort,
of which she had the offer.

It was a medicinal project upon his niece's understanding, which he
must consider as at present diseased.  A residence of eight or nine
years in the abode of wealth and plenty had a little disordered
her powers of comparing and judging.  Her father's house would,
in all probability, teach her the value of a good income; and he
trusted that she would be the wiser and happier woman, all her life,
for the experiment he had devised.

Had Fanny been at all addicted to raptures, she must have had a strong
attack of them when she first understood what was intended, when her
uncle first made her the offer of visiting the parents, and brothers,
and sisters, from whom she had been divided almost half her life;
of returning for a couple of months to the scenes of her infancy,
with William for the protector and companion of her journey,
and the certainty of continuing to see William to the last hour of
his remaining on land.  Had she ever given way to bursts of delight,
it must have been then, for she was delighted, but her happiness was
of a quiet, deep, heart-swelling sort; and though never a great talker,
she was always more inclined to silence when feeling most strongly. 
At the moment she could only thank and accept.  Afterwards, when
familiarised with the visions of enjoyment so suddenly opened,
she could speak more largely to William and Edmund of what she felt;
but still there were emotions of tenderness that could not be
clothed in words.  The remembrance of all her earliest pleasures,
and of what she had suffered in being torn from them, came over
her with renewed strength, and it seemed as if to be at home again
would heal every pain that had since grown out of the separation. 
To be in the centre of such a circle, loved by so many, and more loved
by all than she had ever been before; to feel affection without fear
or restraint; to feel herself the equal of those who surrounded her;
to be at peace from all mention of the Crawfords, safe from
every look which could be fancied a reproach on their account. 
This was a prospect to be dwelt on with a fondness that could be but
half acknowledged.

Edmund, too--to be two months from _him_ (and perhaps she might be
allowed to make her absence three) must do her good.  At a distance,
unassailed by his looks or his kindness, and safe from the perpetual
irritation of knowing his heart, and striving to avoid his confidence,
she should be able to reason herself into a properer state;
she should be able to think of him as in London, and arranging
everything there, without wretchedness.  What might have been hard
to bear at Mansfield was to become a slight evil at Portsmouth.

The only drawback was the doubt of her aunt Bertram's being
comfortable without her.  She was of use to no one else; but _there_
she might be missed to a degree that she did not like to think of;
and that part of the arrangement was, indeed, the hardest for Sir
Thomas to accomplish, and what only _he_ could have accomplished
at all.

But he was master at Mansfield Park.  When he had really resolved on
any measure, he could always carry it through; and now by dint of long
talking on the subject, explaining and dwelling on the duty of Fanny's
sometimes seeing her family, he did induce his wife to let her go;
obtaining it rather from submission, however, than conviction,
for Lady Bertram was convinced of very little more than that Sir
Thomas thought Fanny ought to go, and therefore that she must. 
In the calmness of her own dressing-room, in the impartial flow
of her own meditations, unbiassed by his bewildering statements,
she could not acknowledge any necessity for Fanny's ever going near
a father and mother who had done without her so long, while she
was so useful to herself And as to the not missing her, which under
Mrs. Norris's discussion was the point attempted to be proved,
she set herself very steadily against admitting any such thing.

Sir Thomas had appealed to her reason, conscience, and dignity. 
He called it a sacrifice, and demanded it of her goodness
and self-command as such.  But Mrs. Norris wanted to persuade
her that Fanny could be very well spared--_she_ being ready
to give up all her own time to her as requested--and, in short,
could not really be wanted or missed.

"That may be, sister," was all Lady Bertram's reply.  "I dare say
you are very right; but I am sure I shall miss her very much."

The next step was to communicate with Portsmouth.  Fanny wrote to
offer herself; and her mother's answer, though short, was so kind--
a few simple lines expressed so natural and motherly a joy in the prospect
of seeing her child again, as to confirm all the daughter's views
of happiness in being with her--convincing her that she should now find
a warm and affectionate friend in the "mama" who had certainly shewn
no remarkable fondness for her formerly; but this she could easily
suppose to have been her own fault or her own fancy.  She had probably
alienated love by the helplessness and fretfulness of a fearful temper,
or been unreasonable in wanting a larger share than any one among
so many could deserve.  Now, when she knew better how to be useful,
and how to forbear, and when her mother could be no longer occupied
by the incessant demands of a house full of little children,
there would be leisure and inclination for every comfort, and they
should soon be what mother and daughter ought to be to each other.

William was almost as happy in the plan as his sister.  It would
be the greatest pleasure to him to have her there to the last moment
before he sailed, and perhaps find her there still when he came
in from his first cruise.  And besides, he wanted her so very much
to see the Thrush before she went out of harbour--the Thrush was
certainly the finest sloop in the service--and there were several
improvements in the dockyard, too, which he quite longed to shew her.

He did not scruple to add that her being at home for a while would
be a great advantage to everybody.

"I do not know how it is," said he; "but we seem to want some of
your nice ways and orderliness at my father's. The house is always
in confusion.  You will set things going in a better way, I am sure. 
You will tell my mother how it all ought to be, and you will be
so useful to Susan, and you will teach Betsey, and make the boys
love and mind you.  How right and comfortable it will all be!"

By the time Mrs. Price's answer arrived, there remained but a
very few days more to be spent at Mansfield; and for part of one
of those days the young travellers were in a good deal of alarm
on the subject of their journey, for when the mode of it came
to be talked of, and Mrs. Norris found that all her anxiety
to save her brother-in-law's money was vain, and that in spite
of her wishes and hints for a less expensive conveyance of Fanny,
they were to travel post; when she saw Sir Thomas actually give
William notes for the purpose, she was struck with the idea of
there being room for a third in the carriage, and suddenly seized
with a strong inclination to go with them, to go and see her poor
dear sister Price.  She proclaimed her thoughts.  She must say
that she had more than half a mind to go with the young people;
it would be such an indulgence to her; she had not seen her poor
dear sister Price for more than twenty years; and it would be a help
to the young people in their journey to have her older head to manage
for them; and she could not help thinking her poor dear sister
Price would feel it very unkind of her not to come by such an opportunity.

William and Fanny were horror-struck at the idea.

All the comfort of their comfortable journey would be destroyed at once. 
With woeful countenances they looked at each other.  Their suspense
lasted an hour or two.  No one interfered to encourage or dissuade. 
Mrs. Norris was left to settle the matter by herself; and it ended,
to the infinite joy of her nephew and niece, in the recollection
that she could not possibly be spared from Mansfield Park at present;
that she was a great deal too necessary to Sir Thomas and Lady
Bertram for her to be able to answer it to herself to leave them
even for a week, and therefore must certainly sacrifice every other
pleasure to that of being useful to them.

It had, in fact, occurred to her, that though taken to Portsmouth
for nothing, it would be hardly possible for her to avoid paying
her own expenses back again.  So her poor dear sister Price was
left to all the disappointment of her missing such an opportunity,
and another twenty years' absence, perhaps, begun.

Edmund's plans were affected by this Portsmouth journey,
this absence of Fanny's. He too had a sacrifice to make to Mansfield
Park as well as his aunt.  He had intended, about this time,
to be going to London; but he could not leave his father and mother
just when everybody else of most importance to their comfort
was leaving them; and with an effort, felt but not boasted of,
he delayed for a week or two longer a journey which he was looking
forward to with the hope of its fixing his happiness for ever.

He told Fanny of it.  She knew so much already, that she must
know everything.  It made the substance of one other confidential
discourse about Miss Crawford; and Fanny was the more affected
from feeling it to be the last time in which Miss Crawford's name
would ever be mentioned between them with any remains of liberty. 
Once afterwards she was alluded to by him.  Lady Bertram had been
telling her niece in the evening to write to her soon and often,
and promising to be a good correspondent herself; and Edmund,
at a convenient moment, then added in a whisper, "And _I_ shall
write to you, Fanny, when I have anything worth writing about,
anything to say that I think you will like to hear, and that you will
not hear so soon from any other quarter."  Had she doubted his meaning
while she listened, the glow in his face, when she looked up at him,
would have been decisive.

For this letter she must try to arm herself.  That a letter from
Edmund should be a subject of terror!  She began to feel that she
had not yet gone through all the changes of opinion and sentiment
which the progress of time and variation of circumstances occasion
in this world of changes.  The vicissitudes of the human mind
had not yet been exhausted by her.

Poor Fanny! though going as she did willingly and eagerly,
the last evening at Mansfield Park must still be wretchedness. 
Her heart was completely sad at parting.  She had tears for every
room in the house, much more for every beloved inhabitant. 
She clung to her aunt, because she would miss her; she kissed the hand
of her uncle with struggling sobs, because she had displeased him;
and as for Edmund, she could neither speak, nor look, nor think,
when the last moment came with _him_; and it was not till it was
over that she knew he was giving her the affectionate farewell of
a brother.

All this passed overnight, for the journey was to begin very early
in the morning; and when the small, diminished party met at breakfast,
William and Fanny were talked of as already advanced one stage.



CHAPTER XXXVIII

The novelty of travelling, and the happiness of being with William,
soon produced their natural effect on Fanny's spirits, when Mansfield
Park was fairly left behind; and by the time their first stage
was ended, and they were to quit Sir Thomas's carriage, she was able
to take leave of the old coachman, and send back proper messages,
with cheerful looks.

Of pleasant talk between the brother and sister there was no end. 
Everything supplied an amusement to the high glee of William's mind,
and he was full of frolic and joke in the intervals of their
higher-toned subjects, all of which ended, if they did not begin,
in praise of the Thrush, conjectures how she would be employed,
schemes for an action with some superior force, which (supposing
the first lieutenant out of the way, and William was not very merciful
to the first lieutenant) was to give himself the next step as soon
as possible, or speculations upon prize-money, which was to be
generously distributed at home, with only the reservation of enough
to make the little cottage comfortable, in which he and Fanny were
to pass all their middle and later life together.

Fanny's immediate concerns, as far as they involved Mr. Crawford,
made no part of their conversation.  William knew what had passed,
and from his heart lamented that his sister's feelings should be so cold
towards a man whom he must consider as the first of human characters;
but he was of an age to be all for love, and therefore unable to blame;
and knowing her wish on the subject, he would not distress her by
the slightest allusion.

She had reason to suppose herself not yet forgotten by Mr. Crawford. 
She had heard repeatedly from his sister within the three weeks
which had passed since their leaving Mansfield, and in each letter
there had been a few lines from himself, warm and determined like
his speeches.  It was a correspondence which Fanny found quite
as unpleasant as she had feared.  Miss Crawford's style of writing,
lively and affectionate, was itself an evil, independent of what she
was thus forced into reading from the brother's pen, for Edmund
would never rest till she had read the chief of the letter to him;
and then she had to listen to his admiration of her language,
and the warmth of her attachments.  There had, in fact, been so much
of message, of allusion, of recollection, so much of Mansfield
in every letter, that Fanny could not but suppose it meant for him
to hear; and to find herself forced into a purpose of that kind,
compelled into a correspondence which was bringing her the addresses
of the man she did not love, and obliging her to administer to
the adverse passion of the man she did, was cruelly mortifying. 
Here, too, her present removal promised advantage.  When no longer
under the same roof with Edmund, she trusted that Miss Crawford would
have no motive for writing strong enough to overcome the trouble,
and that at Portsmouth their correspondence would dwindle into nothing.

With such thoughts as these, among ten hundred others, Fanny proceeded
in her journey safely and cheerfully, and as expeditiously
as could rationally be hoped in the dirty month of February. 
They entered Oxford, but she could take only a hasty glimpse of
Edmund's college as they passed along, and made no stop anywhere
till they reached Newbury, where a comfortable meal, uniting dinner
and supper, wound up the enjoyments and fatigues of the day.

The next morning saw them off again at an early hour;
and with no events, and no delays, they regularly advanced,
and were in the environs of Portsmouth while there was yet daylight
for Fanny to look around her, and wonder at the new buildings. 
They passed the drawbridge, and entered the town; and the light
was only beginning to fail as, guided by William's powerful voice,
they were rattled into a narrow street, leading from the High Street,
and drawn up before the door of a small house now inhabited by Mr. Price.

Fanny was all agitation and flutter; all hope and apprehension. 
The moment they stopped, a trollopy-looking maidservant, seemingly in
waiting for them at the door, stepped forward, and more intent on
telling the news than giving them any help, immediately began with,
"The Thrush is gone out of harbour, please sir, and one of the officers
has been here to--" She was interrupted by a fine tall boy of eleven
years old, who, rushing out of the house, pushed the maid aside,
and while William was opening the chaise-door himself, called out,
"You are just in time.  We have been looking for you this half-hour.
The Thrush went out of harbour this morning.  I saw her.  It was
a beautiful sight.  And they think she will have her orders in a day
or two.  And Mr. Campbell was here at four o'clock to ask for you: 
he has got one of the Thrush's boats, and is going off to her at six,
and hoped you would be here in time to go with him."

A stare or two at Fanny, as William helped her out of the carriage,
was all the voluntary notice which this brother bestowed; but he
made no objection to her kissing him, though still entirely engaged
in detailing farther particulars of the Thrush's going out of harbour,
in which he had a strong right of interest, being to commence his
career of seamanship in her at this very time.

Another moment and Fanny was in the narrow entrance-passage of
the house, and in her mother's arms, who met her there with looks
of true kindness, and with features which Fanny loved the more,
because they brought her aunt Bertram's before her, and there
were her two sisters:  Susan, a well-grown fine girl of fourteen,
and Betsey, the youngest of the family, about five--both glad to see
her in their way, though with no advantage of manner in receiving her. 
But manner Fanny did not want.  Would they but love her, she should
be satisfied.

She was then taken into a parlour, so small that her first
conviction was of its being only a passage-room to something
better, and she stood for a moment expecting to be invited on;
but when she saw there was no other door, and that there were
signs of habitation before her, she called back her thoughts,
reproved herself, and grieved lest they should have been suspected. 
Her mother, however, could not stay long enough to suspect anything. 
She was gone again to the street-door, to welcome William. 
"Oh! my dear William, how glad I am to see you.  But have you heard
about the Thrush?  She is gone out of harbour already; three days
before we had any thought of it; and I do not know what I am to do
about Sam's things, they will never be ready in time; for she may
have her orders to-morrow, perhaps.  It takes me quite unawares. 
And now you must be off for Spithead too.  Campbell has been here,
quite in a worry about you; and now what shall we do?  I thought
to have had such a comfortable evening with you, and here everything
comes upon me at once."

Her son answered cheerfully, telling her that everything was always
for the best; and making light of his own inconvenience in being
obliged to hurry away so soon.

"To be sure, I had much rather she had stayed in harbour, that I
might have sat a few hours with you in comfort; but as there is a
boat ashore, I had better go off at once, and there is no help for it. 
Whereabouts does the Thrush lay at Spithead?  Near the Canopus? 
But no matter; here's Fanny in the parlour, and why should we stay
in the passage?  Come, mother, you have hardly looked at your own
dear Fanny yet."

In they both came, and Mrs. Price having kindly kissed her
daughter again, and commented a little on her growth, began with
very natural solicitude to feel for their fatigues and wants as travellers.

"Poor dears! how tired you must both be! and now, what will you have? 
I began to think you would never come.  Betsey and I have been watching
for you this half-hour. And when did you get anything to eat? 
And what would you like to have now?  I could not tell whether you
would be for some meat, or only a dish of tea, after your journey,
or else I would have got something ready.  And now I am afraid
Campbell will be here before there is time to dress a steak,
and we have no butcher at hand.  It is very inconvenient to have
no butcher in the street.  We were better off in our last house. 
Perhaps you would like some tea as soon as it can be got."

They both declared they should prefer it to anything.  "Then, Betsey,
my dear, run into the kitchen and see if Rebecca has put the water on;
and tell her to bring in the tea-things as soon as she can. 
I wish we could get the bell mended; but Betsey is a very handy
little messenger."

Betsey went with alacrity, proud to shew her abilities before her
fine new sister.

"Dear me!" continued the anxious mother, "what a sad fire we have got,
and I dare say you are both starved with cold.  Draw your chair nearer,
my dear.  I cannot think what Rebecca has been about.  I am sure I
told her to bring some coals half an hour ago.  Susan, you should
have taken care of the fire."

"I was upstairs, mama, moving my things," said Susan, in a fearless,
self-defending tone, which startled Fanny.  "You know you had but
just settled that my sister Fanny and I should have the other room;
and I could not get Rebecca to give me any help."

Farther discussion was prevented by various bustles:  first, the driver
came to be paid; then there was a squabble between Sam and Rebecca
about the manner of carrying up his sister's trunk, which he would
manage all his own way; and lastly, in walked Mr. Price himself,
his own loud voice preceding him, as with something of the oath
kind he kicked away his son's port-manteau and his daughter's
bandbox in the passage, and called out for a candle; no candle
was brought, however, and he walked into the room.

Fanny with doubting feelings had risen to meet him, but sank down again
on finding herself undistinguished in the dusk, and unthought of. 
With a friendly shake of his son's hand, and an eager voice,
he instantly began--"Ha! welcome back, my boy.  Glad to see you. 
Have you heard the news?  The Thrush went out of harbour this morning. 
Sharp is the word, you see!  By G--, you are just in time!  The doctor
has been here inquiring for you:  he has got one of the boats,
and is to be off for Spithead by six, so you had better go with him. 
I have been to Turner's about your mess; it is all in a way to be done. 
I should not wonder if you had your orders to-morrow: but you
cannot sail with this wind, if you are to cruise to the westward;
and Captain Walsh thinks you will certainly have a cruise to
the westward, with the Elephant.  By G--, I wish you may!  But old
Scholey was saying, just now, that he thought you would be sent
first to the Texel.  Well, well, we are ready, whatever happens. 
But by G--, you lost a fine sight by not being here in the morning
to see the Thrush go out of harbour!  I would not have been out of
the way for a thousand pounds.  Old Scholey ran in at breakfast-time,
to say she had slipped her moorings and was coming out, I jumped up,
and made but two steps to the platform.  If ever there was a
perfect beauty afloat, she is one; and there she lays at Spithead,
and anybody in England would take her for an eight-and-twenty. I
was upon the platform two hours this afternoon looking at her. 
She lays close to the Endymion, between her and the Cleopatra, just to
the eastward of the sheer hulk."

"Ha!" cried William, "_that's_ just where I should have put
her myself.  It's the best berth at Spithead.  But here is
my sister, sir; here is Fanny," turning and leading her forward;
"it is so dark you do not see her."

With an acknowledgment that he had quite forgot her, Mr. Price now
received his daughter; and having given her a cordial hug, and observed
that she was grown into a woman, and he supposed would be wanting
a husband soon, seemed very much inclined to forget her again. 
Fanny shrunk back to her seat, with feelings sadly pained by his
language and his smell of spirits; and he talked on only to his son,
and only of the Thrush, though William, warmly interested as he
was in that subject, more than once tried to make his father think
of Fanny, and her long absence and long journey.

After sitting some time longer, a candle was obtained; but as there was
still no appearance of tea, nor, from Betsey's reports from the kitchen,
much hope of any under a considerable period, William determined to go
and change his dress, and make the necessary preparations for his
removal on board directly, that he might have his tea in comfort afterwards.

As he left the room, two rosy-faced boys, ragged and dirty,
about eight and nine years old, rushed into it just released
from school, and coming eagerly to see their sister, and tell that
the Thrush was gone out of harbour; Tom and Charles.  Charles had
been born since Fanny's going away, but Tom she had often helped
to nurse, and now felt a particular pleasure in seeing again. 
Both were kissed very tenderly, but Tom she wanted to keep by her,
to try to trace the features of the baby she had loved, and talked to,
of his infant preference of herself.  Tom, however, had no mind
for such treatment:  he came home not to stand and be talked to,
but to run about and make a noise; and both boys had soon burst
from her, and slammed the parlour-door till her temples ached.

She had now seen all that were at home; there remained only two
brothers between herself and Susan, one of whom was a clerk in a public
office in London, and the other midshipman on board an Indiaman. 
But though she had _seen_ all the members of the family, she had not
yet _heard_ all the noise they could make.  Another quarter of an hour
brought her a great deal more.  William was soon calling out from
the landing-place of the second story for his mother and for Rebecca. 
He was in distress for something that he had left there, and did
not find again.  A key was mislaid, Betsey accused of having got
at his new hat, and some slight, but essential alteration of his
uniform waistcoat, which he had been promised to have done for him,
entirely neglected.

Mrs. Price, Rebecca, and Betsey all went up to defend themselves,
all talking together, but Rebecca loudest, and the job was to be done
as well as it could in a great hurry; William trying in vain to send
Betsey down again, or keep her from being troublesome where she was;
the whole of which, as almost every door in the house was open,
could be plainly distinguished in the parlour, except when drowned
at intervals by the superior noise of Sam, Tom, and Charles chasing
each other up and down stairs, and tumbling about and hallooing.

Fanny was almost stunned.  The smallness of the house and thinness
of the walls brought everything so close to her, that, added to
the fatigue of her journey, and all her recent agitation, she hardly
knew how to bear it.  _Within_ the room all was tranquil enough,
for Susan having disappeared with the others, there were soon only
her father and herself remaining; and he, taking out a newspaper,
the accustomary loan of a neighbour, applied himself to studying it,
without seeming to recollect her existence.  The solitary candle
was held between himself and the paper, without any reference
to her possible convenience; but she had nothing to do, and was
glad to have the light screened from her aching head, as she sat
in bewildered, broken, sorrowful contemplation.

She was at home.  But, alas! it was not such a home, she had not
such a welcome, as--she checked herself; she was unreasonable. 
What right had she to be of importance to her family?  She could
have none, so long lost sight of!  William's concerns must be dearest,
they always had been, and he had every right.  Yet to have so little
said or asked about herself, to have scarcely an inquiry made
after Mansfield!  It did pain her to have Mansfield forgotten;
the friends who had done so much--the dear, dear friends!  But here,
one subject swallowed up all the rest.  Perhaps it must be so. 
The destination of the Thrush must be now preeminently interesting. 
A day or two might shew the difference.  _She_ only was to blame. 
Yet she thought it would not have been so at Mansfield.  No, in her
uncle's house there would have been a consideration of times and seasons,
a regulation of subject, a propriety, an attention towards everybody
which there was not here.

The only interruption which thoughts like these received for nearly
half an hour was from a sudden burst of her father's, not at all
calculated to compose them.  At a more than ordinary pitch of thumping
and hallooing in the passage, he exclaimed, "Devil take those young dogs! 
How they are singing out!  Ay, Sam's voice louder than all the rest! 
That boy is fit for a boatswain.  Holla, you there!  Sam, stop your
confounded pipe, or I shall be after you."

This threat was so palpably disregarded, that though within five
minutes afterwards the three boys all burst into the room together
and sat down, Fanny could not consider it as a proof of anything
more than their being for the time thoroughly fagged, which their
hot faces and panting breaths seemed to prove, especially as they
were still kicking each other's shins, and hallooing out at sudden
starts immediately under their father's eye.

The next opening of the door brought something more welcome:  it was
for the tea-things, which she had begun almost to despair of seeing
that evening.  Susan and an attendant girl, whose inferior appearance
informed Fanny, to her great surprise, that she had previously seen
the upper servant, brought in everything necessary for the meal;
Susan looking, as she put the kettle on the fire and glanced at
her sister, as if divided between the agreeable triumph of shewing
her activity and usefulness, and the dread of being thought to demean
herself by such an office.  "She had been into the kitchen," she said,
"to hurry Sally and help make the toast, and spread the bread
and butter, or she did not know when they should have got tea,
and she was sure her sister must want something after her journey."

Fanny was very thankful.  She could not but own that she should be
very glad of a little tea, and Susan immediately set about making it,
as if pleased to have the employment all to herself; and with only
a little unnecessary bustle, and some few injudicious attempts at
keeping her brothers in better order than she could, acquitted herself
very well.  Fanny's spirit was as much refreshed as her body;
her head and heart were soon the better for such well-timed kindness. 
Susan had an open, sensible countenance; she was like William,
and Fanny hoped to find her like him in disposition and goodwill
towards herself.

In this more placid state of things William reentered, followed not
far behind by his mother and Betsey.  He, complete in his
lieutenant's uniform, looking and moving all the taller, firmer,
and more graceful for it, and with the happiest smile over
his face, walked up directly to Fanny, who, rising from her seat,
looked at him for a moment in speechless admiration, and then threw
her arms round his neck to sob out her various emotions of pain and pleasure.

Anxious not to appear unhappy, she soon recovered herself; and wiping
away her tears, was able to notice and admire all the striking
parts of his dress; listening with reviving spirits to his cheerful
hopes of being on shore some part of every day before they sailed,
and even of getting her to Spithead to see the sloop.

The next bustle brought in Mr. Campbell, the surgeon of the Thrush,
a very well-behaved young man, who came to call for his friend,
and for whom there was with some contrivance found a chair, and with
some hasty washing of the young tea-maker's, a cup and saucer;
and after another quarter of an hour of earnest talk between
the gentlemen, noise rising upon noise, and bustle upon bustle,
men and boys at last all in motion together, the moment came for
setting off; everything was ready, William took leave, and all of them
were gone; for the three boys, in spite of their mother's entreaty,
determined to see their brother and Mr. Campbell to the sally-port;
and Mr. Price walked off at the same time to carry back his
neighbour's newspaper.

Something like tranquillity might now be hoped for; and accordingly,
when Rebecca had been prevailed on to carry away the tea-things,
and Mrs. Price had walked about the room some time looking for a
shirt-sleeve, which Betsey at last hunted out from a drawer in
the kitchen, the small party of females were pretty well composed,
and the mother having lamented again over the impossibility of
getting Sam ready in time, was at leisure to think of her eldest
daughter and the friends she had come from.

A few inquiries began:  but one of the earliest--"How did sister
Bertram manage about her servants?  "Was she as much plagued
as herself to get tolerable servants?"--soon led her mind away
from Northamptonshire, and fixed it on her own domestic grievances,
and the shocking character of all the Portsmouth servants, of whom she
believed her own two were the very worst, engrossed her completely. 
The Bertrams were all forgotten in detailing the faults of Rebecca,
against whom Susan had also much to depose, and little Betsey
a great deal more, and who did seem so thoroughly without a
single recommendation, that Fanny could not help modestly presuming
that her mother meant to part with her when her year was up.

"Her year!" cried Mrs. Price; "I am sure I hope I shall be rid of her
before she has staid a year, for that will not be up till November. 
Servants are come to such a pass, my dear, in Portsmouth, that it
is quite a miracle if one keeps them more than half a year.  I have
no hope of ever being settled; and if I was to part with Rebecca,
I should only get something worse.  And yet I do not think I am
a very difficult mistress to please; and I am sure the place is
easy enough, for there is always a girl under her, and I often do
half the work myself."

Fanny was silent; but not from being convinced that there might not
be a remedy found for some of these evils.  As she now sat looking
at Betsey, she could not but think particularly of another sister,
a very pretty little girl, whom she had left there not much
younger when she went into Northamptonshire, who had died a few
years afterwards.  There had been something remarkably amiable
about her.  Fanny in those early days had preferred her to Susan;
and when the news of her death had at last reached Mansfield,
had for a short time been quite afflicted.  The sight of Betsey
brought the image of little Mary back again, but she would
not have pained her mother by alluding to her for the world. 
While considering her with these ideas, Betsey, at a small distance,
was holding out something to catch her eyes, meaning to screen it
at the same time from Susan's.

"What have you got there, my love?" said Fanny; "come and shew it
to me."

It was a silver knife.  Up jumped Susan, claiming it as her own,
and trying to get it away; but the child ran to her mother's protection,
and Susan could only reproach, which she did very warmly,
and evidently hoping to interest Fanny on her side.  "It was very hard
that she was not to have her _own_ knife; it was her own knife;
little sister Mary had left it to her upon her deathbed, and she
ought to have had it to keep herself long ago.  But mama kept it
from her, and was always letting Betsey get hold of it; and the end
of it would be that Betsey would spoil it, and get it for her own,
though mama had _promised_ her that Betsey should not have it
in her own hands."

Fanny was quite shocked.  Every feeling of duty, honour, and tenderness
was wounded by her sister's speech and her mother's reply.

"Now, Susan," cried Mrs. Price, in a complaining voice, "now, how can
you be so cross?  You are always quarrelling about that knife. 
I wish you would not be so quarrelsome.  Poor little Betsey;
how cross Susan is to you!  But you should not have taken it out,
my dear, when I sent you to the drawer.  You know I told you not
to touch it, because Susan is so cross about it.  I must hide it
another time, Betsey.  Poor Mary little thought it would be such
a bone of contention when she gave it me to keep, only two hours
before she died.  Poor little soul! she could but just speak
to be heard, and she said so prettily, "Let sister Susan have
my knife, mama, when I am dead and buried."  Poor little dear! she
was so fond of it, Fanny, that she would have it lay by her in bed,
all through her illness.  It was the gift of her good godmother,
old Mrs. Admiral Maxwell, only six weeks before she was taken for death. 
Poor little sweet creature!  Well, she was taken away from evil
to come.  My own Betsey" (fondling her), "_you_ have not the luck
of such a good godmother.  Aunt Norris lives too far off to think
of such little people as you."

Fanny had indeed nothing to convey from aunt Norris, but a message
to say she hoped that her god-daughter was a good girl, and learnt
her book.  There had been at one moment a slight murmur in the
drawing-room at Mansfield Park about sending her a prayer-book;
but no second sound had been heard of such a purpose.  Mrs. Norris,
however, had gone home and taken down two old prayer-books
of her husband with that idea; but, upon examination, the ardour
of generosity went off.  One was found to have too small a print
for a child's eyes, and the other to be too cumbersome for her to carry about.

Fanny, fatigued and fatigued again, was thankful to accept the
first invitation of going to bed; and before Betsey had finished
her cry at being allowed to sit up only one hour extraordinary
in honour of sister, she was off, leaving all below in confusion
and noise again; the boys begging for toasted cheese, her father
calling out for his rum and water, and Rebecca never where she ought to be.

There was nothing to raise her spirits in the confined and scantily
furnished chamber that she was to share with Susan.  The smallness
of the rooms above and below, indeed, and the narrowness of the passage
and staircase, struck her beyond her imagination.  She soon learned
to think with respect of her own little attic at Mansfield Park,
in _that_ house reckoned too small for anybody's comfort.



CHAPTER XXXIX

Could Sir Thomas have seen all his niece's feelings, when she
wrote her first letter to her aunt, he would not have despaired;
for though a good night's rest, a pleasant morning, the hope of soon
seeing William again, and the comparatively quiet state of the house,
from Tom and Charles being gone to school, Sam on some project
of his own, and her father on his usual lounges, enabled her to
express herself cheerfully on the subject of home, there were still,
to her own perfect consciousness, many drawbacks suppressed. 
Could he have seen only half that she felt before the end of a week,
he would have thought Mr. Crawford sure of her, and been delighted
with his own sagacity.

Before the week ended, it was all disappointment.  In the first place,
William was gone.  The Thrush had had her orders, the wind had changed,
and he was sailed within four days from their reaching Portsmouth;
and during those days she had seen him only twice, in a short and
hurried way, when he had come ashore on duty.  There had been no
free conversation, no walk on the ramparts, no visit to the dockyard,
no acquaintance with the Thrush, nothing of all that they had
planned and depended on.  Everything in that quarter failed her,
except William's affection.  His last thought on leaving home
was for her.  He stepped back again to the door to say, "Take care
of Fanny, mother.  She is tender, and not used to rough it like
the rest of us.  I charge you, take care of Fanny."

William was gone:  and the home he had left her in was, Fanny could
not conceal it from herself, in almost every respect the very reverse
of what she could have wished.  It was the abode of noise, disorder,
and impropriety.  Nobody was in their right place, nothing was
done as it ought to be.  She could not respect her parents as she
had hoped.  On her father, her confidence had not been sanguine,
but he was more negligent of his family, his habits were worse,
and his manners coarser, than she had been prepared for.  He did
not want abilities but he had no curiosity, and no information beyond
his profession; he read only the newspaper and the navy-list; he talked
only of the dockyard, the harbour, Spithead, and the Motherbank;
he swore and he drank, he was dirty and gross.  She had never been
able to recall anything approaching to tenderness in his former
treatment of herself.  There had remained only a general impression
of roughness and loudness; and now he scarcely ever noticed her,
but to make her the object of a coarse joke.

Her disappointment in her mother was greater:  _there_ she had
hoped much, and found almost nothing.  Every flattering scheme of
being of consequence to her soon fell to the ground.  Mrs. Price was
not unkind; but, instead of gaining on her affection and confidence,
and becoming more and more dear, her daughter never met with
greater kindness from her than on the first day of her arrival. 
The instinct of nature was soon satisfied, and Mrs. Price's attachment
had no other source.  Her heart and her time were already quite full;
she had neither leisure nor affection to bestow on Fanny. 
Her daughters never had been much to her.  She was fond of her sons,
especially of William, but Betsey was the first of her girls whom she
had ever much regarded.  To her she was most injudiciously indulgent. 
William was her pride; Betsey her darling; and John, Richard, Sam, Tom,
and Charles occupied all the rest of her maternal solicitude,
alternately her worries and her comforts.  These shared her heart: 
her time was given chiefly to her house and her servants.  Her days
were spent in a kind of slow bustle; all was busy without getting on,
always behindhand and lamenting it, without altering her ways;
wishing to be an economist, without contrivance or regularity;
dissatisfied with her servants, without skill to make them better,
and whether helping, or reprimanding, or indulging them, without any
power of engaging their respect.

Of her two sisters, Mrs. Price very much more resembled Lady Bertram
than Mrs. Norris.  She was a manager by necessity, without any
of Mrs. Norris's inclination for it, or any of her activity. 
Her disposition was naturally easy and indolent, like Lady Bertram's;
and a situation of similar affluence and do-nothingness would
have been much more suited to her capacity than the exertions
and self-denials of the one which her imprudent marriage had placed
her in.  She might have made just as good a woman of consequence
as Lady Bertram, but Mrs. Norris would have been a more respectable
mother of nine children on a small income.

Much of all this Fanny could not but be sensible of.  She might
scruple to make use of the words, but she must and did feel that her
mother was a partial, ill-judging parent, a dawdle, a slattern,
who neither taught nor restrained her children, whose house was
the scene of mismanagement and discomfort from beginning to end,
and who had no talent, no conversation, no affection towards herself;
no curiosity to know her better, no desire of her friendship,
and no inclination for her company that could lessen her sense of
such feelings.

Fanny was very anxious to be useful, and not to appear above her home,
or in any way disqualified or disinclined, by her foreign education,
from contributing her help to its comforts, and therefore set
about working for Sam immediately; and by working early and late,
with perseverance and great despatch, did so much that the boy
was shipped off at last, with more than half his linen ready. 
She had great pleasure in feeling her usefulness, but could not
conceive how they would have managed without her.

Sam, loud and overbearing as he was, she rather regretted when
he went, for he was clever and intelligent, and glad to be employed
in any errand in the town; and though spurning the remonstrances
of Susan, given as they were, though very reasonable in themselves,
with ill-timed and powerless warmth, was beginning to be influenced
by Fanny's services and gentle persuasions; and she found that
the best of the three younger ones was gone in him:  Tom and Charles
being at least as many years as they were his juniors distant from
that age of feeling and reason, which might suggest the expediency
of making friends, and of endeavouring to be less disagreeable. 
Their sister soon despaired of making the smallest impression on _them_;
they were quite untameable by any means of address which she
had spirits or time to attempt.  Every afternoon brought a return
of their riotous games all over the house; and she very early
learned to sigh at the approach of Saturday's constant half-holiday.

Betsey, too, a spoiled child, trained up to think the alphabet
her greatest enemy, left to be with the servants at her pleasure,
and then encouraged to report any evil of them, she was almost as ready
to despair of being able to love or assist; and of Susan's temper
she had many doubts.  Her continual disagreements with her mother,
her rash squabbles with Tom and Charles, and petulance with Betsey,
were at least so distressing to Fanny that, though admitting they
were by no means without provocation, she feared the disposition
that could push them to such length must be far from amiable,
and from affording any repose to herself.

Such was the home which was to put Mansfield out of her head, and teach
her to think of her cousin Edmund with moderated feelings.  On the contrary,
she could think of nothing but Mansfield, its beloved inmates,
its happy ways.  Everything where she now was in full contrast to it. 
The elegance, propriety, regularity, harmony, and perhaps, above all,
the peace and tranquillity of Mansfield, were brought to her remembrance every
hour of the day, by the prevalence of everything opposite to them _here_.

The living in incessant noise was, to a frame and temper delicate and
nervous like Fanny's, an evil which no superadded elegance or harmony
could have entirely atoned for.  It was the greatest misery of all. 
At Mansfield, no sounds of contention, no raised voice, no abrupt bursts,
no tread of violence, was ever heard; all proceeded in a regular
course of cheerful orderliness; everybody had their due importance;
everybody's feelings were consulted.  If tenderness could be ever
supposed wanting, good sense and good breeding supplied its place;
and as to the little irritations sometimes introduced by aunt Norris,
they were short, they were trifling, they were as a drop of water
to the ocean, compared with the ceaseless tumult of her present abode. 
Here everybody was noisy, every voice was loud (excepting, perhaps,
her mother's, which resembled the soft monotony of Lady Bertram's,
only worn into fretfulness). Whatever was wanted was hallooed for,
and the servants hallooed out their excuses from the kitchen. 
The doors were in constant banging, the stairs were never at rest,
nothing was done without a clatter, nobody sat still, and nobody could
command attention when they spoke.

In a review of the two houses, as they appeared to her before the end
of a week, Fanny was tempted to apply to them Dr. Johnson's celebrated
judgment as to matrimony and celibacy, and say, that though Mansfield
Park might have some pains, Portsmouth could have no pleasures.



CHAPTER XL

Fanny was right enough in not expecting to hear from Miss Crawford
now at the rapid rate in which their correspondence had begun;
Mary's next letter was after a decidedly longer interval than the last,
but she was not right in supposing that such an interval would be
felt a great relief to herself.  Here was another strange revolution
of mind!  She was really glad to receive the letter when it did come. 
In her present exile from good society, and distance from everything
that had been wont to interest her, a letter from one belonging to
the set where her heart lived, written with affection, and some degree
of elegance, was thoroughly acceptable.  The usual plea of increasing
engagements was made in excuse for not having written to her earlier;
"And now that I have begun," she continued, "my letter will not be
worth your reading, for there will be no little offering of love at
the end, no three or four lines _passionnees_ from the most devoted
H. C. in the world, for Henry is in Norfolk; business called him
to Everingham ten days ago, or perhaps he only pretended to call,
for the sake of being travelling at the same time that you were. 
But there he is, and, by the bye, his absence may sufficiently
account for any remissness of his sister's in writing, for there has
been no 'Well, Mary, when do you write to Fanny?  Is not it time
for you to write to Fanny?' to spur me on.  At last, after various
attempts at meeting, I have seen your cousins, 'dear Julia and dearest
Mrs. Rushworth'; they found me at home yesterday, and we were glad
to see each other again.  We _seemed_ _very_ glad to see each other,
and I do really think we were a little.  We had a vast deal to say. 
Shall I tell you how Mrs. Rushworth looked when your name was mentioned? 
I did not use to think her wanting in self-possession, but she
had not quite enough for the demands of yesterday.  Upon the whole,
Julia was in the best looks of the two, at least after you were
spoken of.  There was no recovering the complexion from the moment
that I spoke of 'Fanny,' and spoke of her as a sister should. 
But Mrs. Rushworth's day of good looks will come; we have cards
for her first party on the 28th.  Then she will be in beauty,
for she will open one of the best houses in Wimpole Street. 
I was in it two years ago, when it was Lady Lascelle's, and prefer
it to almost any I know in London, and certainly she will then feel,
to use a vulgar phrase, that she has got her pennyworth for
her penny.  Henry could not have afforded her such a house. 
I hope she will recollect it, and be satisfied, as well as she may,
with moving the queen of a palace, though the king may appear
best in the background; and as I have no desire to tease her,
I shall never _force_ your name upon her again.  She will grow sober
by degrees.  From all that I hear and guess, Baron Wildenheim's
attentions to Julia continue, but I do not know that he has any
serious encouragement.  She ought to do better.  A poor honourable
is no catch, and I cannot imagine any liking in the case, for take
away his rants, and the poor baron has nothing.  What a difference
a vowel makes!  If his rents were but equal to his rants! 
Your cousin Edmund moves slowly; detained, perchance, by parish duties. 
There may be some old woman at Thornton Lacey to be converted. 
I am unwilling to fancy myself neglected for a _young_ one. 
Adieu! my dear sweet Fanny, this is a long letter from London: 
write me a pretty one in reply to gladden Henry's eyes, when he
comes back, and send me an account of all the dashing young captains
whom you disdain for his sake."

There was great food for meditation in this letter, and chiefly for
unpleasant meditation; and yet, with all the uneasiness it supplied,
it connected her with the absent, it told her of people and things
about whom she had never felt so much curiosity as now, and she
would have been glad to have been sure of such a letter every week. 
Her correspondence with her aunt Bertram was her only concern of
higher interest.

As for any society in Portsmouth, that could at all make amends for
deficiencies at home, there were none within the circle of her father's
and mother's acquaintance to afford her the smallest satisfaction: 
she saw nobody in whose favour she could wish to overcome her own
shyness and reserve.  The men appeared to her all coarse, the women
all pert, everybody underbred; and she gave as little contentment
as she received from introductions either to old or new acquaintance. 
The young ladies who approached her at first with some respect,
in consideration of her coming from a baronet's family,
were soon offended by what they termed "airs"; for, as she neither
played on the pianoforte nor wore fine pelisses, they could,
on farther observation, admit no right of superiority.

The first solid consolation which Fanny received for the evils
of home, the first which her judgment could entirely approve,
and which gave any promise of durability, was in a better knowledge
of Susan, and a hope of being of service to her.  Susan had always
behaved pleasantly to herself, but the determined character of her
general manners had astonished and alarmed her, and it was at least
a fortnight before she began to understand a disposition so totally
different from her own.  Susan saw that much was wrong at home,
and wanted to set it right.  That a girl of fourteen, acting only
on her own unassisted reason, should err in the method of reform,
was not wonderful; and Fanny soon became more disposed to admire
the natural light of the mind which could so early distinguish justly,
than to censure severely the faults of conduct to which it led. 
Susan was only acting on the same truths, and pursuing the same system,
which her own judgment acknowledged, but which her more supine
and yielding temper would have shrunk from asserting.  Susan tried
to be useful, where _she_ could only have gone away and cried;
and that Susan was useful she could perceive; that things,
bad as they were, would have been worse but for such interposition,
and that both her mother and Betsey were restrained from some excesses
of very offensive indulgence and vulgarity.

In every argument with her mother, Susan had in point of reason
the advantage, and never was there any maternal tenderness to buy
her off.  The blind fondness which was for ever producing evil around
her she had never known.  There was no gratitude for affection past
or present to make her better bear with its excesses to the others.

All this became gradually evident, and gradually placed Susan
before her sister as an object of mingled compassion and respect. 
That her manner was wrong, however, at times very wrong,
her measures often ill-chosen and ill-timed, and her looks and
language very often indefensible, Fanny could not cease to feel;
but she began to hope they might be rectified.  Susan, she found,
looked up to her and wished for her good opinion; and new as anything
like an office of authority was to Fanny, new as it was to imagine
herself capable of guiding or informing any one, she did resolve
to give occasional hints to Susan, and endeavour to exercise
for her advantage the juster notions of what was due to everybody,
and what would be wisest for herself, which her own more favoured
education had fixed in her.

Her influence, or at least the consciousness and use of it,
originated in an act of kindness by Susan, which, after many
hesitations of delicacy, she at last worked herself up to.  It had
very early occurred to her that a small sum of money might, perhaps,
restore peace for ever on the sore subject of the silver knife,
canvassed as it now was continually, and the riches which she was
in possession of herself, her uncle having given her 10 at parting,
made her as able as she was willing to be generous.  But she
was so wholly unused to confer favours, except on the very poor,
so unpractised in removing evils, or bestowing kindnesses among
her equals, and so fearful of appearing to elevate herself
as a great lady at home, that it took some time to determine
that it would not be unbecoming in her to make such a present. 
It was made, however, at last:  a silver knife was bought for Betsey,
and accepted with great delight, its newness giving it every
advantage over the other that could be desired; Susan was established
in the full possession of her own, Betsey handsomely declaring
that now she had got one so much prettier herself, she should never
want _that_ again; and no reproach seemed conveyed to the equally
satisfied mother, which Fanny had almost feared to be impossible. 
The deed thoroughly answered:  a source of domestic altercation was
entirely done away, and it was the means of opening Susan's heart
to her, and giving her something more to love and be interested in. 
Susan shewed that she had delicacy:  pleased as she was to be mistress
of property which she had been struggling for at least two years,
she yet feared that her sister's judgment had been against her,
and that a reproof was designed her for having so struggled
as to make the purchase necessary for the tranquillity of the house.

Her temper was open.  She acknowledged her fears, blamed herself
for having contended so warmly; and from that hour Fanny,
understanding the worth of her disposition and perceiving how fully
she was inclined to seek her good opinion and refer to her judgment,
began to feel again the blessing of affection, and to entertain
the hope of being useful to a mind so much in need of help,
and so much deserving it.  She gave advice, advice too sound
to be resisted by a good understanding, and given so mildly
and considerately as not to irritate an imperfect temper, and she
had the happiness of observing its good effects not unfrequently. 
More was not expected by one who, while seeing all the obligation
and expediency of submission and forbearance, saw also with sympathetic
acuteness of feeling all that must be hourly grating to a girl
like Susan.  Her greatest wonder on the subject soon became--
not that Susan should have been provoked into disrespect and impatience
against her better knowledge--but that so much better knowledge,
so many good notions should have been hers at all; and that,
brought up in the midst of negligence and error, she should have
formed such proper opinions of what ought to be; she, who had
had no cousin Edmund to direct her thoughts or fix her principles.

The intimacy thus begun between them was a material advantage
to each.  By sitting together upstairs, they avoided a great deal
of the disturbance of the house; Fanny had peace, and Susan learned
to think it no misfortune to be quietly employed.  They sat
without a fire; but that was a privation familiar even to Fanny,
and she suffered the less because reminded by it of the East room. 
It was the only point of resemblance.  In space, light, furniture,
and prospect, there was nothing alike in the two apartments;
and she often heaved a sigh at the remembrance of all her books
and boxes, and various comforts there.  By degrees the girls came
to spend the chief of the morning upstairs, at first only in working
and talking, but after a few days, the remembrance of the said
books grew so potent and stimulative that Fanny found it impossible
not to try for books again.  There were none in her father's house;
but wealth is luxurious and daring, and some of hers found
its way to a circulating library.  She became a subscriber;
amazed at being anything _in_ _propria_ _persona_, amazed at her
own doings in every way, to be a renter, a chuser of books! 
And to be having any one's improvement in view in her choice! 
But so it was.  Susan had read nothing, and Fanny longed to give
her a share in her own first pleasures, and inspire a taste for
the biography and poetry which she delighted in herself.

In this occupation she hoped, moreover, to bury some of the recollections
of Mansfield, which were too apt to seize her mind if her fingers
only were busy; and, especially at this time, hoped it might be
useful in diverting her thoughts from pursuing Edmund to London,
whither, on the authority of her aunt's last letter, she knew he
was gone.  She had no doubt of what would ensue.  The promised
notification was hanging over her head.  The postman's knock within
the neighbourhood was beginning to bring its daily terrors, and if
reading could banish the idea for even half an hour, it was something gained.



CHAPTER XLI

A week was gone since Edmund might be supposed in town, and Fanny had
heard nothing of him.  There were three different conclusions to be
drawn from his silence, between which her mind was in fluctuation;
each of them at times being held the most probable.  Either his
going had been again delayed, or he had yet procured no opportunity
of seeing Miss Crawford alone, or he was too happy for letter-writing!

One morning, about this time, Fanny having now been nearly four
weeks from Mansfield, a point which she never failed to think over
and calculate every day, as she and Susan were preparing to remove,
as usual, upstairs, they were stopped by the knock of a visitor,
whom they felt they could not avoid, from Rebecca's alertness
in going to the door, a duty which always interested her beyond
any other.

It was a gentleman's voice; it was a voice that Fanny was just
turning pale about, when Mr. Crawford walked into the room.

Good sense, like hers, will always act when really called upon;
and she found that she had been able to name him to her mother,
and recall her remembrance of the name, as that of "William's friend,"
though she could not previously have believed herself capable
of uttering a syllable at such a moment.  The consciousness of his
being known there only as William's friend was some support. 
Having introduced him, however, and being all reseated, the terrors
that occurred of what this visit might lead to were overpowering,
and she fancied herself on the point of fainting away.

While trying to keep herself alive, their visitor, who had at first
approached her with as animated a countenance as ever, was wisely
and kindly keeping his eyes away, and giving her time to recover,
while he devoted himself entirely to her mother, addressing her,
and attending to her with the utmost politeness and propriety,
at the same time with a degree of friendliness, of interest at least,
which was making his manner perfect.

Mrs. Price's manners were also at their best.  Warmed by the sight
of such a friend to her son, and regulated by the wish of appearing
to advantage before him, she was overflowing with gratitude--
artless, maternal gratitude--which could not be unpleasing. 
Mr. Price was out, which she regretted very much.  Fanny was
just recovered enough to feel that _she_ could not regret it;
for to her many other sources of uneasiness was added the severe
one of shame for the home in which he found her.  She might scold
herself for the weakness, but there was no scolding it away. 
She was ashamed, and she would have been yet more ashamed of her
father than of all the rest.

They talked of William, a subject on which Mrs. Price could never tire;
and Mr. Crawford was as warm in his commendation as even her heart
could wish.  She felt that she had never seen so agreeable a man
in her life; and was only astonished to find that, so great and so
agreeable as he was, he should be come down to Portsmouth neither
on a visit to the port-admiral, nor the commissioner, nor yet with
the intention of going over to the island, nor of seeing the dockyard. 
Nothing of all that she had been used to think of as the proof
of importance, or the employment of wealth, had brought him
to Portsmouth.  He had reached it late the night before, was come
for a day or two, was staying at the Crown, had accidentally met
with a navy officer or two of his acquaintance since his arrival,
but had no object of that kind in coming.

By the time he had given all this information, it was not unreasonable
to suppose that Fanny might be looked at and spoken to; and she
was tolerably able to bear his eye, and hear that he had spent half
an hour with his sister the evening before his leaving London;
that she had sent her best and kindest love, but had had no time
for writing; that he thought himself lucky in seeing Mary for even
half an hour, having spent scarcely twenty-four hours in London,
after his return from Norfolk, before he set off again; that her
cousin Edmund was in town, had been in town, he understood,
a few days; that he had not seen him himself, but that he was well,
had left them all well at Mansfield, and was to dine, as yesterday,
with the Frasers.

Fanny listened collectedly, even to the last-mentioned circumstance;
nay, it seemed a relief to her worn mind to be at any certainty;
and the words, "then by this time it is all settled," passed internally,
without more evidence of emotion than a faint blush

After talking a little more about Mansfield, a subject in
which her interest was most apparent, Crawford began to hint
at the expediency of an early walk.  "It was a lovely morning,
and at that season of the year a fine morning so often turned off,
that it was wisest for everybody not to delay their exercise";
and such hints producing nothing, he soon proceeded to a positive
recommendation to Mrs. Price and her daughters to take their walk
without loss of time.  Now they came to an understanding.  Mrs. Price,
it appeared, scarcely ever stirred out of doors, except of a Sunday;
she owned she could seldom, with her large family, find time for a walk. 
"Would she not, then, persuade her daughters to take advantage
of such weather, and allow him the pleasure of attending them?" 
Mrs. Price was greatly obliged and very complying.  "Her daughters
were very much confined; Portsmouth was a sad place; they did
not often get out; and she knew they had some errands in the town,
which they would be very glad to do."  And the consequence was,
that Fanny, strange as it was--strange, awkward, and distressing--
found herself and Susan, within ten minutes, walking towards the High
Street with Mr. Crawford.

It was soon pain upon pain, confusion upon confusion; for they
were hardly in the High Street before they met her father,
whose appearance was not the better from its being Saturday. 
He stopt; and, ungentlemanlike as he looked, Fanny was obliged
to introduce him to Mr. Crawford.  She could not have a doubt
of the manner in which Mr. Crawford must be struck.  He must
be ashamed and disgusted altogether.  He must soon give her up,
and cease to have the smallest inclination for the match; and yet,
though she had been so much wanting his affection to be cured,
this was a sort of cure that would be almost as bad as the complaint;
and I believe there is scarcely a young lady in the United Kingdoms
who would not rather put up with the misfortune of being sought by
a clever, agreeable man, than have him driven away by the vulgarity
of her nearest relations.

Mr. Crawford probably could not regard his future father-in-law with
any idea of taking him for a model in dress; but (as Fanny instantly,
and to her great relief, discerned) her father was a very different man,
a very different Mr. Price in his behaviour to this most highly
respected stranger, from what he was in his own family at home. 
His manners now, though not polished, were more than passable: 
they were grateful, animated, manly; his expressions were those of
an attached father, and a sensible man; his loud tones did very well
in the open air, and there was not a single oath to be heard. 
Such was his instinctive compliment to the good manners of Mr. Crawford;
and, be the consequence what it might, Fanny's immediate feelings
were infinitely soothed.

The conclusion of the two gentlemen's civilities was an offer of
Mr. Price's to take Mr. Crawford into the dockyard, which Mr. Crawford,
desirous of accepting as a favour what was intended as such,
though he had seen the dockyard again and again, and hoping to be
so much the longer with Fanny, was very gratefully disposed to avail
himself of, if the Miss Prices were not afraid of the fatigue;
and as it was somehow or other ascertained, or inferred,
or at least acted upon, that they were not at all afraid,
to the dockyard they were all to go; and but for Mr. Crawford,
Mr. Price would have turned thither directly, without the smallest
consideration for his daughters' errands in the High Street. 
He took care, however, that they should be allowed to go to the shops
they came out expressly to visit; and it did not delay them long,
for Fanny could so little bear to excite impatience, or be waited for,
that before the gentlemen, as they stood at the door, could do more
than begin upon the last naval regulations, or settle the number
of three-deckers now in commission, their companions were ready to proceed.

They were then to set forward for the dockyard at once, and the walk
would have been conducted--according to Mr. Crawford's opinion--
in a singular manner, had Mr. Price been allowed the entire regulation
of it, as the two girls, he found, would have been left to follow,
and keep up with them or not, as they could, while they walked on
together at their own hasty pace.  He was able to introduce some
improvement occasionally, though by no means to the extent he wished;
he absolutely would not walk away from them; and at any crossing
or any crowd, when Mr. Price was only calling out, "Come, girls;
come, Fan; come, Sue, take care of yourselves; keep a sharp lookout!"
he would give them his particular attendance.

Once fairly in the dockyard, he began to reckon upon some happy
intercourse with Fanny, as they were very soon joined by a brother
lounger of Mr. Price's, who was come to take his daily survey of
how things went on, and who must prove a far more worthy companion
than himself; and after a time the two officers seemed very well
satisfied going about together, and discussing matters of equal
and never-failing interest, while the young people sat down upon
some timbers in the yard, or found a seat on board a vessel in the
stocks which they all went to look at.  Fanny was most conveniently
in want of rest.  Crawford could not have wished her more fatigued
or more ready to sit down; but he could have wished her sister away. 
A quick-looking girl of Susan's age was the very worst third in
the world:  totally different from Lady Bertram, all eyes and ears;
and there was no introducing the main point before her.  He must
content himself with being only generally agreeable, and letting Susan
have her share of entertainment, with the indulgence, now and then,
of a look or hint for the better-informed and conscious Fanny. 
Norfolk was what he had mostly to talk of:  there he had been some time,
and everything there was rising in importance from his present schemes. 
Such a man could come from no place, no society, without importing
something to amuse; his journeys and his acquaintance were all of use,
and Susan was entertained in a way quite new to her.  For Fanny,
somewhat more was related than the accidental agreeableness of the parties
he had been in.  For her approbation, the particular reason of his
going into Norfolk at all, at this unusual time of year, was given. 
It had been real business, relative to the renewal of a lease in
which the welfare of a large and--he believed--industrious family
was at stake.  He had suspected his agent of some underhand dealing;
of meaning to bias him against the deserving; and he had determined
to go himself, and thoroughly investigate the merits of the case. 
He had gone, had done even more good than he had foreseen, had been
useful to more than his first plan had comprehended, and was now able
to congratulate himself upon it, and to feel that in performing
a duty, he had secured agreeable recollections for his own mind. 
He had introduced himself to some tenants whom he had never seen before;
he had begun making acquaintance with cottages whose very existence,
though on his own estate, had been hitherto unknown to him. 
This was aimed, and well aimed, at Fanny.  It was pleasing to hear
him speak so properly; here he had been acting as he ought to do. 
To be the friend of the poor and the oppressed!  Nothing could
be more grateful to her; and she was on the point of giving him
an approving look, when it was all frightened off by his adding
a something too pointed of his hoping soon to have an assistant,
a friend, a guide in every plan of utility or charity for Everingham: 
a somebody that would make Everingham and all about it a dearer object
than it had ever been yet.

She turned away, and wished he would not say such things. 
She was willing to allow he might have more good qualities than she
had been wont to suppose.  She began to feel the possibility of his
turning out well at last; but he was and must ever be completely
unsuited to her, and ought not to think of her.

He perceived that enough had been said of Everingham, and that it
would be as well to talk of something else, and turned to Mansfield. 
He could not have chosen better; that was a topic to bring back her
attention and her looks almost instantly.  It was a real indulgence
to her to hear or to speak of Mansfield.  Now so long divided from
everybody who knew the place, she felt it quite the voice of a friend
when he mentioned it, and led the way to her fond exclamations
in praise of its beauties and comforts, and by his honourable
tribute to its inhabitants allowed her to gratify her own heart
in the warmest eulogium, in speaking of her uncle as all that was
clever and good, and her aunt as having the sweetest of all sweet tempers.

He had a great attachment to Mansfield himself; he said so; he looked
forward with the hope of spending much, very much, of his time there;
always there, or in the neighbourhood.  He particularly built upon
a very happy summer and autumn there this year; he felt that it
would be so:  he depended upon it; a summer and autumn infinitely
superior to the last.  As animated, as diversified, as social,
but with circumstances of superiority undescribable.

"Mansfield, Sotherton, Thornton Lacey," he continued; "what a society
will be comprised in those houses!  And at Michaelmas, perhaps, a fourth
may be added:  some small hunting-box in the vicinity of everything
so dear; for as to any partnership in Thornton Lacey, as Edmund Bertram
once good-humouredly proposed, I hope I foresee two objections: 
two fair, excellent, irresistible objections to that plan."

Fanny was doubly silenced here; though when the moment was passed,
could regret that she had not forced herself into the acknowledged
comprehension of one half of his meaning, and encouraged him to say
something more of his sister and Edmund.  It was a subject which she
must learn to speak of, and the weakness that shrunk from it would
soon be quite unpardonable.

When Mr. Price and his friend had seen all that they wished,
or had time for, the others were ready to return; and in the course
of their walk back, Mr. Crawford contrived a minute's privacy for
telling Fanny that his only business in Portsmouth was to see her;
that he was come down for a couple of days on her account, and hers
only, and because he could not endure a longer total separation. 
She was sorry, really sorry; and yet in spite of this and the two
or three other things which she wished he had not said, she thought
him altogether improved since she had seen him; he was much
more gentle, obliging, and attentive to other people's feelings than
he had ever been at Mansfield; she had never seen him so agreeable--
so _near_ being agreeable; his behaviour to her father could
not offend, and there was something particularly kind and proper
in the notice he took of Susan.  He was decidedly improved. 
She wished the next day over, she wished he had come only for
one day; but it was not so very bad as she would have expected: 
the pleasure of talking of Mansfield was so very great!

Before they parted, she had to thank him for another pleasure,
and one of no trivial kind.  Her father asked him to do them the honour
of taking his mutton with them, and Fanny had time for only one thrill
of horror, before he declared himself prevented by a prior engagement. 
He was engaged to dinner already both for that day and the next;
he had met with some acquaintance at the Crown who would not be denied;
he should have the honour, however, of waiting on them again on
the morrow, etc., and so they parted--Fanny in a state of actual
felicity from escaping so horrible an evil!

To have had him join their family dinner-party, and see all
their deficiencies, would have been dreadful!  Rebecca's cookery
and Rebecca's waiting, and Betsey's eating at table without restraint,
and pulling everything about as she chose, were what Fanny herself
was not yet enough inured to for her often to make a tolerable meal. 
_She_ was nice only from natural delicacy, but _he_ had been
brought up in a school of luxury and epicurism.



CHAPTER XLII

The Prices were just setting off for church the next day when
Mr. Crawford appeared again.  He came, not to stop, but to join them;
he was asked to go with them to the Garrison chapel, which was
exactly what he had intended, and they all walked thither together.

The family were now seen to advantage.  Nature had given them
no inconsiderable share of beauty, and every Sunday dressed them
in their cleanest skins and best attire.  Sunday always brought this
comfort to Fanny, and on this Sunday she felt it more than ever. 
Her poor mother now did not look so very unworthy of being Lady
Bertram's sister as she was but too apt to look.  It often grieved
her to the heart to think of the contrast between them; to think
that where nature had made so little difference, circumstances should
have made so much, and that her mother, as handsome as Lady Bertram,
and some years her junior, should have an appearance so much
more worn and faded, so comfortless, so slatternly, so shabby. 
But Sunday made her a very creditable and tolerably cheerful-looking
Mrs. Price, coming abroad with a fine family of children, feeling a
little respite of her weekly cares, and only discomposed if she saw
her boys run into danger, or Rebecca pass by with a flower in her hat.

In chapel they were obliged to divide, but Mr. Crawford took care
not to be divided from the female branch; and after chapel he still
continued with them, and made one in the family party on the ramparts.

Mrs. Price took her weekly walk on the ramparts every fine Sunday
throughout the year, always going directly after morning service
and staying till dinner-time. It was her public place:  there she
met her acquaintance, heard a little news, talked over the badness
of the Portsmouth servants, and wound up her spirits for the six
days ensuing.

Thither they now went; Mr. Crawford most happy to consider the Miss
Prices as his peculiar charge; and before they had been there long,
somehow or other, there was no saying how, Fanny could not have
believed it, but he was walking between them with an arm of each
under his, and she did not know how to prevent or put an end to it. 
It made her uncomfortable for a time, but yet there were enjoyments
in the day and in the view which would be felt.

The day was uncommonly lovely.  It was really March; but it
was April in its mild air, brisk soft wind, and bright sun,
occasionally clouded for a minute; and everything looked so beautiful
under the influence of such a sky, the effects of the shadows
pursuing each other on the ships at Spithead and the island beyond,
with the ever-varying hues of the sea, now at high water, dancing in
its glee and dashing against the ramparts with so fine a sound,
produced altogether such a combination of charms for Fanny,
as made her gradually almost careless of the circumstances under
which she felt them.  Nay, had she been without his arm, she would
soon have known that she needed it, for she wanted strength for
a two hours' saunter of this kind, coming, as it generally did,
upon a week's previous inactivity.  Fanny was beginning to feel
the effect of being debarred from her usual regular exercise;
she had lost ground as to health since her being in Portsmouth;
and but for Mr. Crawford and the beauty of the weather would soon
have been knocked up now.

The loveliness of the day, and of the view, he felt like herself. 
They often stopt with the same sentiment and taste, leaning against
the wall, some minutes, to look and admire; and considering he was
not Edmund, Fanny could not but allow that he was sufficiently open
to the charms of nature, and very well able to express his admiration. 
She had a few tender reveries now and then, which he could sometimes
take advantage of to look in her face without detection; and the result
of these looks was, that though as bewitching as ever, her face was
less blooming than it ought to be.  She _said_ she was very well,
and did not like to be supposed otherwise; but take it all in all,
he was convinced that her present residence could not be comfortable,
and therefore could not be salutary for her, and he was growing
anxious for her being again at Mansfield, where her own happiness,
and his in seeing her, must be so much greater.

"You have been here a month, I think?" said he.

"No; not quite a month.  It is only four weeks to-morrow since I
left Mansfield."

"You are a most accurate and honest reckoner.  I should call
that a month."

"I did not arrive here till Tuesday evening."

"And it is to be a two months' visit, is not?"

"Yes.  My uncle talked of two months.  I suppose it will not be less."

"And how are you to be conveyed back again?  Who comes for you?"

"I do not know.  I have heard nothing about it yet from my aunt. 
Perhaps I may be to stay longer.  It may not be convenient for me
to be fetched exactly at the two months' end."

After a moment's reflection, Mr. Crawford replied, "I know Mansfield,
I know its way, I know its faults towards _you_.  I know the danger
of your being so far forgotten, as to have your comforts give way
to the imaginary convenience of any single being in the family. 
I am aware that you may be left here week after week, if Sir Thomas
cannot settle everything for coming himself, or sending your aunt's maid
for you, without involving the slightest alteration of the arrangements
which he may have laid down for the next quarter of a year. 
This will not do.  Two months is an ample allowance; I should think
six weeks quite enough.  I am considering your sister's health,"
said he, addressing himself to Susan, "which I think the confinement
of Portsmouth unfavourable to.  She requires constant air and exercise. 
When you know her as well as I do, I am sure you will agree that
she does, and that she ought never to be long banished from the free
air and liberty of the country.  If, therefore" (turning again
to Fanny), "you find yourself growing unwell, and any difficulties
arise about your returning to Mansfield, without waiting for the two
months to be ended, _that_ must not be regarded as of any consequence,
if you feel yourself at all less strong or comfortable than usual,
and will only let my sister know it, give her only the slightest hint,
she and I will immediately come down, and take you back to Mansfield. 
You know the ease and the pleasure with which this would be done. 
You know all that would be felt on the occasion."

Fanny thanked him, but tried to laugh it off.

"I am perfectly serious," he replied, "as you perfectly know. 
And I hope you will not be cruelly concealing any tendency
to indisposition.  Indeed, you shall _not_; it shall not be in your power;
for so long only as you positively say, in every letter to Mary,
'I am well,' and I know you cannot speak or write a falsehood,
so long only shall you be considered as well."

Fanny thanked him again, but was affected and distressed to a degree
that made it impossible for her to say much, or even to be certain
of what she ought to say.  This was towards the close of their walk. 
He attended them to the last, and left them only at the door
of their own house, when he knew them to be going to dinner,
and therefore pretended to be waited for elsewhere.

"I wish you were not so tired," said he, still detaining Fanny
after all the others were in the house--"I wish I left you in
stronger health.  Is there anything I can do for you in town? 
I have half an idea of going into Norfolk again soon.  I am not
satisfied about Maddison.  I am sure he still means to impose on me
if possible, and get a cousin of his own into a certain mill, which I
design for somebody else.  I must come to an understanding with him. 
I must make him know that I will not be tricked on the south side
of Everingham, any more than on the north:  that I will be master
of my own property.  I was not explicit enough with him before. 
The mischief such a man does on an estate, both as to the credit
of his employer and the welfare of the poor, is inconceivable. 
I have a great mind to go back into Norfolk directly, and put everything
at once on such a footing as cannot be afterwards swerved from. 
Maddison is a clever fellow; I do not wish to displace him,
provided he does not try to displace _me_; but it would be simple
to be duped by a man who has no right of creditor to dupe me,
and worse than simple to let him give me a hard-hearted, griping fellow
for a tenant, instead of an honest man, to whom I have given half
a promise already.  Would it not be worse than simple?  Shall I go? 
Do you advise it?"

"I advise!  You know very well what is right."

"Yes.  When you give me your opinion, I always know what is right. 
Your judgment is my rule of right."

"Oh, no! do not say so.  We have all a better guide in ourselves,
if we would attend to it, than any other person can be.  Good-bye;
I wish you a pleasant journey to-morrow."

"Is there nothing I can do for you in town?"

"Nothing; I am much obliged to you."

"Have you no message for anybody?"

"My love to your sister, if you please; and when you see my cousin,
my cousin Edmund, I wish you would be so good as to say that I
suppose I shall soon hear from him."

"Certainly; and if he is lazy or negligent, I will write his
excuses myself."

He could say no more, for Fanny would be no longer detained. 
He pressed her hand, looked at her, and was gone.  _He_ went to while
away the next three hours as he could, with his other acquaintance,
till the best dinner that a capital inn afforded was ready for
their enjoyment, and _she_ turned in to her more simple one immediately.

Their general fare bore a very different character; and could he
have suspected how many privations, besides that of exercise,
she endured in her father's house, he would have wondered
that her looks were not much more affected than he found them. 
She was so little equal to Rebecca's puddings and Rebecca's hashes,
brought to table, as they all were, with such accompaniments
of half-cleaned plates, and not half-cleaned knives and forks,
that she was very often constrained to defer her heartiest meal till
she could send her brothers in the evening for biscuits and buns. 
After being nursed up at Mansfield, it was too late in the day to be
hardened at Portsmouth; and though Sir Thomas, had he known all,
might have thought his niece in the most promising way of being starved,
both mind and body, into a much juster value for Mr. Crawford's
good company and good fortune, he would probably have feared to push
his experiment farther, lest she might die under the cure.

Fanny was out of spirits all the rest of the day.  Though tolerably
secure of not seeing Mr. Crawford again, she could not help being low. 
It was parting with somebody of the nature of a friend; and though,
in one light, glad to have him gone, it seemed as if she was
now deserted by everybody; it was a sort of renewed separation
from Mansfield; and she could not think of his returning to town,
and being frequently with Mary and Edmund, without feelings so near
akin to envy as made her hate herself for having them.

Her dejection had no abatement from anything passing around her;
a friend or two of her father's, as always happened if he was not
with them, spent the long, long evening there; and from six o'clock
till half-past nine, there was little intermission of noise or grog. 
She was very low.  The wonderful improvement which she still fancied
in Mr. Crawford was the nearest to administering comfort of anything
within the current of her thoughts.  Not considering in how different
a circle she had been just seeing him, nor how much might be owing
to contrast, she was quite persuaded of his being astonishingly more
gentle and regardful of others than formerly.  And, if in little things,
must it not be so in great?  So anxious for her health and comfort,
so very feeling as he now expressed himself, and really seemed,
might not it be fairly supposed that he would not much longer
persevere in a suit so distressing to her?



CHAPTER XLIII

It was presumed that Mr. Crawford was travelling back, to London,
on the morrow, for nothing more was seen of him at Mr. Price's;
and two days afterwards, it was a fact ascertained to Fanny
by the following letter from his sister, opened and read by her,
on another account, with the most anxious curiosity:--

"I have to inform you, my dearest Fanny, that Henry has been down
to Portsmouth to see you; that he had a delightful walk with you
to the dockyard last Saturday, and one still more to be dwelt on
the next day, on the ramparts; when the balmy air, the sparkling sea,
and your sweet looks and conversation were altogether in the most
delicious harmony, and afforded sensations which are to raise
ecstasy even in retrospect.  This, as well as I understand,
is to be the substance of my information.  He makes me write,
but I do not know what else is to be communicated, except this said
visit to Portsmouth, and these two said walks, and his introduction
to your family, especially to a fair sister of yours, a fine girl
of fifteen, who was of the party on the ramparts, taking her
first lesson, I presume, in love.  I have not time for writing much,
but it would be out of place if I had, for this is to be a mere
letter of business, penned for the purpose of conveying necessary
information, which could not be delayed without risk of evil. 
My dear, dear Fanny, if I had you here, how I would talk to you! 
You should listen to me till you were tired, and advise me till
you were still tired more; but it is impossible to put a hundredth
part of my great mind on paper, so I will abstain altogether,
and leave you to guess what you like.  I have no news for you. 
You have politics, of course; and it would be too bad to plague
you with the names of people and parties that fill up my time. 
I ought to have sent you an account of your cousin's first party,
but I was lazy, and now it is too long ago; suffice it, that everything
was just as it ought to be, in a style that any of her connexions
must have been gratified to witness, and that her own dress
and manners did her the greatest credit.  My friend, Mrs. Fraser,
is mad for such a house, and it would not make _me_ miserable. 
I go to Lady Stornaway after Easter; she seems in high spirits,
and very happy.  I fancy Lord S. is very good-humoured and pleasant
in his own family, and I do not think him so very ill-looking as I did--
at least, one sees many worse.  He will not do by the side of your
cousin Edmund.  Of the last-mentioned hero, what shall I say? 
If I avoided his name entirely, it would look suspicious. 
I will say, then, that we have seen him two or three times, and that my
friends here are very much struck with his gentlemanlike appearance. 
Mrs. Fraser (no bad judge) declares she knows but three men in town
who have so good a person, height, and air; and I must confess,
when he dined here the other day, there were none to compare with him,
and we were a party of sixteen.  Luckily there is no distinction of
dress nowadays to tell tales, but--but but Yours affectionately."

I had almost forgot (it was Edmund's fault:  he gets into my head more
than does me good) one very material thing I had to say from Henry
and myself--I mean about our taking you back into Northamptonshire. 
My dear little creature, do not stay at Portsmouth to lose your
pretty looks.  Those vile sea-breezes are the ruin of beauty and health. 
My poor aunt always felt affected if within ten miles of the sea,
which the Admiral of course never believed, but I know it was so. 
I am at your service and Henry's, at an hour's notice.  I should like
the scheme, and we would make a little circuit, and shew you Everingham
in our way, and perhaps you would not mind passing through London,
and seeing the inside of St. George's, Hanover Square.  Only keep your
cousin Edmund from me at such a time:  I should not like to be tempted. 
What a long letter! one word more.  Henry, I find, has some idea
of going into Norfolk again upon some business that _you_ approve;
but this cannot possibly be permitted before the middle of next week;
that is, he cannot anyhow be spared till after the l4th, for _we_
have a party that evening.  The value of a man like Henry, on such
an occasion, is what you can have no conception of; so you must take
it upon my word to be inestimable.  He will see the Rushworths,
which own I am not sorry for--having a little curiosity, and so I
think has he--though he will not acknowledge it."

This was a letter to be run through eagerly, to be read deliberately,
to supply matter for much reflection, and to leave everything in greater
suspense than ever.  The only certainty to be drawn from it was,
that nothing decisive had yet taken place.  Edmund had not yet spoken. 
How Miss Crawford really felt, how she meant to act, or might act
without or against her meaning; whether his importance to her
were quite what it had been before the last separation; whether,
if lessened, it were likely to lessen more, or to recover itself,
were subjects for endless conjecture, and to be thought of on that day
and many days to come, without producing any conclusion.  The idea
that returned the oftenest was that Miss Crawford, after proving
herself cooled and staggered by a return to London habits, would yet
prove herself in the end too much attached to him to give him up. 
She would try to be more ambitious than her heart would allow. 
She would hesitate, she would tease, she would condition, she would
require a great deal, but she would finally accept.

This was Fanny's most frequent expectation.  A house in town--
that, she thought, must be impossible.  Yet there was no saying
what Miss Crawford might not ask.  The prospect for her cousin grew
worse and worse.  The woman who could speak of him, and speak only
of his appearance!  What an unworthy attachment!  To be deriving
support from the commendations of Mrs. Fraser!  _She_ who had known
him intimately half a year!  Fanny was ashamed of her.  Those parts of
the letter which related only to Mr. Crawford and herself, touched her,
in comparison, slightly.  Whether Mr. Crawford went into Norfolk
before or after the 14th was certainly no concern of hers, though,
everything considered, she thought he _would_ go without delay. 
That Miss Crawford should endeavour to secure a meeting between him
and Mrs. Rushworth, was all in her worst line of conduct, and grossly
unkind and ill-judged; but she hoped _he_ would not be actuated by any
such degrading curiosity.  He acknowledged no such inducement, and
his sister ought to have given him credit for better feelings than her own.

She was yet more impatient for another letter from town after receiving
this than she had been before; and for a few days was so unsettled
by it altogether, by what had come, and what might come, that her
usual readings and conversation with Susan were much suspended. 
She could not command her attention as she wished.  If Mr. Crawford
remembered her message to her cousin, she thought it very likely,
most likely, that he would write to her at all events; it would
be most consistent with his usual kindness; and till she got rid
of this idea, till it gradually wore off, by no letters appearing
in the course of three or four days more, she was in a most restless,
anxious state

At length, a something like composure succeeded.  Suspense must
be submitted to, and must not be allowed to wear her out, and make
her useless.  Time did something, her own exertions something more,
and she resumed her attentions to Susan, and again awakened the same
interest in them.

Susan was growing very fond of her, and though without any of
the early delight in books which had been so strong in Fanny,
with a disposition much less inclined to sedentary pursuits, or to
information for information's sake, she had so strong a desire of not
_appearing_ ignorant, as, with a good clear understanding, made her
a most attentive, profitable, thankful pupil.  Fanny was her oracle. 
Fanny's explanations and remarks were a most important addition
to every essay, or every chapter of history.  What Fanny told her
of former times dwelt more on her mind than the pages of Goldsmith;
and she paid her sister the compliment of preferring her style
to that of any printed author.  The early habit of reading was wanting.

Their conversations, however, were not always on subjects so high
as history or morals.  Others had their hour; and of lesser matters,
none returned so often, or remained so long between them,
as Mansfield Park, a description of the people, the manners,
the amusements, the ways of Mansfield Park.  Susan, who had an innate
taste for the genteel and well-appointed, was eager to hear, and Fanny
could not but indulge herself in dwelling on so beloved a theme. 
She hoped it was not wrong; though, after a time, Susan's very
great admiration of everything said or done in her uncle's house,
and earnest longing to go into Northamptonshire, seemed almost
to blame her for exciting feelings which could not be gratified.

Poor Susan was very little better fitted for home than her
elder sister; and as Fanny grew thoroughly to understand this,
she began to feel that when her own release from Portsmouth came,
her happiness would have a material drawback in leaving Susan behind. 
That a girl so capable of being made everything good should be left
in such hands, distressed her more and more.  Were _she_ likely
to have a home to invite her to, what a blessing it would be! 
And had it been possible for her to return Mr. Crawford's regard,
the probability of his being very far from objecting to such a measure
would have been the greatest increase of all her own comforts. 
She thought he was really good-tempered, and could fancy his entering
into a plan of that sort most pleasantly.



CHAPTER XLIV

Seven weeks of the two months were very nearly gone, when the one letter,
the letter from Edmund, so long expected, was put into Fanny's hands. 
As she opened, and saw its length, she prepared herself for a
minute detail of happiness and a profusion of love and praise
towards the fortunate creature who was now mistress of his fate. 
These were the contents--

"My Dear Fanny,--Excuse me that I have not written before. 
Crawford told me that you were wishing to hear from me, but I found
it impossible to write from London, and persuaded myself that you
would understand my silence.  Could I have sent a few happy lines,
they should not have been wanting, but nothing of that nature
was ever in my power.  I am returned to Mansfield in a less
assured state that when I left it.  My hopes are much weaker. 
You are probably aware of this already.  So very fond of you
as Miss Crawford is, it is most natural that she should tell you
enough of her own feelings to furnish a tolerable guess at mine. 
I will not be prevented, however, from making my own communication. 
Our confidences in you need not clash.  I ask no questions. 
There is something soothing in the idea that we have the same friend,
and that whatever unhappy differences of opinion may exist between us,
we are united in our love of you.  It will be a comfort to me
to tell you how things now are, and what are my present plans,
if plans I can be said to have.  I have been returned since Saturday. 
I was three weeks in London, and saw her (for London)
very often.  I had every attention from the Frasers that could be
reasonably expected.  I dare say I was not reasonable in carrying
with me hopes of an intercourse at all like that of Mansfield. 
It was her manner, however, rather than any unfrequency of meeting. 
Had she been different when I did see her, I should have made
no complaint, but from the very first she was altered:  my first
reception was so unlike what I had hoped, that I had almost resolved
on leaving London again directly.  I need not particularise. 
You know the weak side of her character, and may imagine the sentiments
and expressions which were torturing me.  She was in high spirits,
and surrounded by those who were giving all the support of their
own bad sense to her too lively mind.  I do not like Mrs. Fraser. 
She is a cold-hearted, vain woman, who has married entirely
from convenience, and though evidently unhappy in her marriage,
places her disappointment not to faults of judgment, or temper,
or disproportion of age, but to her being, after all, less affluent than
many of her acquaintance, especially than her sister, Lady Stornaway,
and is the determined supporter of everything mercenary and ambitious,
provided it be only mercenary and ambitious enough.  I look upon
her intimacy with those two sisters as the greatest misfortune
of her life and mine.  They have been leading her astray for years. 
Could she be detached from them!--and sometimes I do not despair
of it, for the affection appears to me principally on their side. 
They are very fond of her; but I am sure she does not love them
as she loves you.  When I think of her great attachment to you,
indeed, and the whole of her judicious, upright conduct as a sister,
she appears a very different creature, capable of everything noble,
and I am ready to blame myself for a too harsh construction
of a playful manner.  I cannot give her up, Fanny.  She is the
only woman in the world whom I could ever think of as a wife. 
If I did not believe that she had some regard for me, of course
I should not say this, but I do believe it.  I am convinced
that she is not without a decided preference.  I have no jealousy
of any individual.  It is the influence of the fashionable world
altogether that I am jealous of.  It is the habits of wealth that
I fear.  Her ideas are not higher than her own fortune may warrant,
but they are beyond what our incomes united could authorise. 
There is comfort, however, even here.  I could better bear to lose
her because not rich enough, than because of my profession.  That would
only prove her affection not equal to sacrifices, which, in fact,
I am scarcely justified in asking; and, if I am refused, that, I think,
will be the honest motive.  Her prejudices, I trust, are not so
strong as they were.  You have my thoughts exactly as they arise,
my dear Fanny; perhaps they are sometimes contradictory, but it
will not be a less faithful picture of my mind.  Having once begun,
it is a pleasure to me to tell you all I feel.  I cannot give her up. 
Connected as we already are, and, I hope, are to be, to give up Mary
Crawford would be to give up the society of some of those most dear
to me; to banish myself from the very houses and friends whom,
under any other distress, I should turn to for consolation. 
The loss of Mary I must consider as comprehending the loss of
Crawford and of Fanny.  Were it a decided thing, an actual refusal,
I hope I should know how to bear it, and how to endeavour to
weaken her hold on my heart, and in the course of a few years--
but I am writing nonsense.  Were I refused, I must bear it;
and till I am, I can never cease to try for her.  This is the truth. 
The only question is _how_?  What may be the likeliest means? 
I have sometimes thought of going to London again after Easter,
and sometimes resolved on doing nothing till she returns to Mansfield. 
Even now, she speaks with pleasure of being in Mansfield in June;
but June is at a great distance, and I believe I shall write
to her.  I have nearly determined on explaining myself by letter. 
To be at an early certainty is a material object.  My present state
is miserably irksome.  Considering everything, I think a letter
will be decidedly the best method of explanation.  I shall be able
to write much that I could not say, and shall be giving her time
for reflection before she resolves on her answer, and I am less afraid
of the result of reflection than of an immediate hasty impulse;
I think I am.  My greatest danger would lie in her consulting
Mrs. Fraser, and I at a distance unable to help my own cause. 
A letter exposes to all the evil of consultation, and where
the mind is anything short of perfect decision, an adviser may,
in an unlucky moment, lead it to do what it may afterwards regret. 
I must think this matter over a little.  This long letter, full of
my own concerns alone, will be enough to tire even the friendship
of a Fanny.  The last time I saw Crawford was at Mrs. Fraser's party. 
I am more and more satisfied with all that I see and hear of him. 
There is not a shadow of wavering.  He thoroughly knows his own mind,
and acts up to his resolutions:  an inestimable quality.  I could not see
him and my eldest sister in the same room without recollecting what you
once told me, and I acknowledge that they did not meet as friends. 
There was marked coolness on her side.  They scarcely spoke. 
I saw him draw back surprised, and I was sorry that Mrs. Rushworth
should resent any former supposed slight to Miss Bertram.  You will
wish to hear my opinion of Maria's degree of comfort as a wife. 
There is no appearance of unhappiness.  I hope they get on pretty
well together.  I dined twice in Wimpole Street, and might have
been there oftener, but it is mortifying to be with Rushworth as
a brother.  Julia seems to enjoy London exceedingly.  I had little
enjoyment there, but have less here.  We are not a lively party. 
You are very much wanted.  I miss you more than I can express. 
My mother desires her best love, and hopes to hear from you soon. 
She talks of you almost every hour, and I am sorry to find
how many weeks more she is likely to be without you.  My father
means to fetch you himself, but it will not be till after Easter,
when he has business in town.  You are happy at Portsmouth, I hope,
but this must not be a yearly visit.  I want you at home, that I
may have your opinion about Thornton Lacey.  I have little heart for
extensive improvements till I know that it will ever have a mistress. 
I think I shall certainly write.  It is quite settled that the Grants
go to Bath; they leave Mansfield on Monday.  I am glad of it. 
I am not comfortable enough to be fit for anybody; but your aunt
seems to feel out of luck that such an article of Mansfield news
should fall to my pen instead of hers.--Yours ever, my dearest
Fanny."

"I never will, no, I certainly never will wish for a letter again,"
was Fanny's secret declaration as she finished this.  "What do they
bring but disappointment and sorrow?  Not till after Easter! 
How shall I bear it?  And my poor aunt talking of me every hour!"

Fanny checked the tendency of these thoughts as well as she could,
but she was within half a minute of starting the idea that Sir
Thomas was quite unkind, both to her aunt and to herself. 
As for the main subject of the letter, there was nothing in that to
soothe irritation.  She was almost vexed into displeasure and anger
against Edmund.  "There is no good in this delay," said she. 
"Why is not it settled?  He is blinded, and nothing will open his eyes;
nothing can, after having had truths before him so long in vain. 
He will marry her, and be poor and miserable.  God grant that her
influence do not make him cease to be respectable!"  She looked
over the letter again.  "'So very fond of me!' 'tis nonsense all. 
She loves nobody but herself and her brother.  Her friends
leading her astray for years!  She is quite as likely to have led
_them_ astray.  They have all, perhaps, been corrupting one another;
but if they are so much fonder of her than she is of them, she is
the less likely to have been hurt, except by their flattery. 
'The only woman in the world whom he could ever think of as a wife.' 
I firmly believe it.  It is an attachment to govern his whole life. 
Accepted or refused, his heart is wedded to her for ever.  'The loss
of Mary I must consider as comprehending the loss of Crawford
and Fanny.'  Edmund, you do not know me.  The families would never be
connected if you did not connect them!  Oh! write, write.  Finish it
at once.  Let there be an end of this suspense.  Fix, commit,
condemn yourself."

Such sensations, however, were too near akin to resentment to be long
guiding Fanny's soliloquies.  She was soon more softened and sorrowful. 
His warm regard, his kind expressions, his confidential treatment,
touched her strongly.  He was only too good to everybody.  It was
a letter, in short, which she would not but have had for the world,
and which could never be valued enough.  This was the end of it.

Everybody at all addicted to letter-writing, without having much
to say, which will include a large proportion of the female world
at least, must feel with Lady Bertram that she was out of luck
in having such a capital piece of Mansfield news as the certainty
of the Grants going to Bath, occur at a time when she could make
no advantage of it, and will admit that it must have been very
mortifying to her to see it fall to the share of her thankless son,
and treated as concisely as possible at the end of a long letter,
instead of having it to spread over the largest part of a page of
her own.  For though Lady Bertram rather shone in the epistolary line,
having early in her marriage, from the want of other employment,
and the circumstance of Sir Thomas's being in Parliament,
got into the way of making and keeping correspondents, and formed
for herself a very creditable, common-place, amplifying style,
so that a very little matter was enough for her:  she could not
do entirely without any; she must have something to write about,
even to her niece; and being so soon to lose all the benefit
of Dr. Grant's gouty symptoms and Mrs. Grant's morning calls,
it was very hard upon her to be deprived of one of the last epistolary
uses she could put them to.

There was a rich amends, however, preparing for her.  Lady Bertram's
hour of good luck came.  Within a few days from the receipt
of Edmund's letter, Fanny had one from her aunt, beginning thus--

"My Dear Fanny,--I take up my pen to communicate some very alarming
intelligence, which I make no doubt will give you much concern".

This was a great deal better than to have to take up the pen to
acquaint her with all the particulars of the Grants' intended journey,
for the present intelligence was of a nature to promise occupation
for the pen for many days to come, being no less than the dangerous
illness of her eldest son, of which they had received notice
by express a few hours before.

Tom had gone from London with a party of young men to Newmarket,
where a neglected fall and a good deal of drinking had brought
on a fever; and when the party broke up, being unable to move,
had been left by himself at the house of one of these young men
to the comforts of sickness and solitude, and the attendance only
of servants.  Instead of being soon well enough to follow his friends,
as he had then hoped, his disorder increased considerably, and it
was not long before he thought so ill of himself as to be as ready
as his physician to have a letter despatched to Mansfield.

"This distressing intelligence, as you may suppose," observed her ladyship,
after giving the substance of it, "has agitated us exceedingly, and we
cannot prevent ourselves from being greatly alarmed and apprehensive
for the poor invalid, whose state Sir Thomas fears may be very critical;
and Edmund kindly proposes attending his brother immediately,
but I am happy to add that Sir Thomas will not leave me on this
distressing occasion, as it would be too trying for me.  We shall greatly
miss Edmund in our small circle, but I trust and hope he will find
the poor invalid in a less alarming state than might be apprehended,
and that he will be able to bring him to Mansfield shortly,
which Sir Thomas proposes should be done, and thinks best on
every account, and I flatter myself the poor sufferer will soon be
able to bear the removal without material inconvenience or injury. 
As I have little doubt of your feeling for us, my dear Fanny,
under these distressing circumstances, I will write again very soon."

Fanny's feelings on the occasion were indeed considerably
more warm and genuine than her aunt's style of writing. 
She felt truly for them all.  Tom dangerously ill, Edmund gone
to attend him, and the sadly small party remaining at Mansfield,
were cares to shut out every other care, or almost every other. 
She could just find selfishness enough to wonder whether Edmund
_had_ written to Miss Crawford before this summons came, but no
sentiment dwelt long with her that was not purely affectionate
and disinterestedly anxious.  Her aunt did not neglect her: 
she wrote again and again; they were receiving frequent accounts
from Edmund, and these accounts were as regularly transmitted to Fanny,
in the same diffuse style, and the same medley of trusts, hopes,
and fears, all following and producing each other at haphazard. 
It was a sort of playing at being frightened.  The sufferings
which Lady Bertram did not see had little power over her fancy;
and she wrote very comfortably about agitation, and anxiety,
and poor invalids, till Tom was actually conveyed to Mansfield,
and her own eyes had beheld his altered appearance.  Then a letter
which she had been previously preparing for Fanny was finished in a
different style, in the language of real feeling and alarm; then she
wrote as she might have spoken.  "He is just come, my dear Fanny,
and is taken upstairs; and I am so shocked to see him, that I do
not know what to do.  I am sure he has been very ill.  Poor Tom! 
I am quite grieved for him, and very much frightened, and so is
Sir Thomas; and how glad I should be if you were here to comfort me. 
But Sir Thomas hopes he will be better to-morrow, and says we must
consider his journey."

The real solicitude now awakened in the maternal bosom was not
soon over.  Tom's extreme impatience to be removed to Mansfield,
and experience those comforts of home and family which had been
little thought of in uninterrupted health, had probably induced
his being conveyed thither too early, as a return of fever came on,
and for a week he was in a more alarming state than ever.  They were
all very seriously frightened.  Lady Bertram wrote her daily terrors
to her niece, who might now be said to live upon letters, and pass
all her time between suffering from that of to-day and looking forward
to to-morrow's. Without any particular affection for her eldest cousin,
her tenderness of heart made her feel that she could not spare him,
and the purity of her principles added yet a keener solicitude,
when she considered how little useful, how little self-denying his
life had (apparently) been.

Susan was her only companion and listener on this, as on more
common occasions.  Susan was always ready to hear and to sympathise. 
Nobody else could be interested in so remote an evil as illness
in a family above an hundred miles off; not even Mrs. Price,
beyond a brief question or two, if she saw her daughter with a
letter in her hand, and now and then the quiet observation of,
"My poor sister Bertram must be in a great deal of trouble."

So long divided and so differently situated, the ties of blood were
little more than nothing.  An attachment, originally as tranquil
as their tempers, was now become a mere name.  Mrs. Price did
quite as much for Lady Bertram as Lady Bertram would have done
for Mrs. Price.  Three or four Prices might have been swept away,
any or all except Fanny and William, and Lady Bertram would have thought
little about it; or perhaps might have caught from Mrs. Norris's
lips the cant of its being a very happy thing and a great blessing
to their poor dear sister Price to have them so well provided for.



CHAPTER XLV

At about the week's end from his return to Mansfield, Tom's immediate
danger was over, and he was so far pronounced safe as to make
his mother perfectly easy; for being now used to the sight of him
in his suffering, helpless state, and hearing only the best,
and never thinking beyond what she heard, with no disposition
for alarm and no aptitude at a hint, Lady Bertram was the happiest
subject in the world for a little medical imposition.  The fever
was subdued; the fever had been his complaint; of course he would
soon be well again.  Lady Bertram could think nothing less, and Fanny
shared her aunt's security, till she received a few lines from Edmund,
written purposely to give her a clearer idea of his brother's situation,
and acquaint her with the apprehensions which he and his father had
imbibed from the physician with respect to some strong hectic symptoms,
which seemed to seize the frame on the departure of the fever. 
They judged it best that Lady Bertram should not be harassed
by alarms which, it was to be hoped, would prove unfounded;
but there was no reason why Fanny should not know the truth. 
They were apprehensive for his lungs.

A very few lines from Edmund shewed her the patient and the sickroom
in a juster and stronger light than all Lady Bertram's sheets
of paper could do.  There was hardly any one in the house who might
not have described, from personal observation, better than herself;
not one who was not more useful at times to her son.  She could do
nothing but glide in quietly and look at him; but when able to talk
or be talked to, or read to, Edmund was the companion he preferred. 
His aunt worried him by her cares, and Sir Thomas knew not how to
bring down his conversation or his voice to the level of irritation
and feebleness.  Edmund was all in all.  Fanny would certainly
believe him so at least, and must find that her estimation of him
was higher than ever when he appeared as the attendant, supporter,
cheerer of a suffering brother.  There was not only the debility
of recent illness to assist:  there was also, as she now learnt,
nerves much affected, spirits much depressed to calm and raise,
and her own imagination added that there must be a mind to be
properly guided.

The family were not consumptive, and she was more inclined to hope
than fear for her cousin, except when she thought of Miss Crawford;
but Miss Crawford gave her the idea of being the child of good luck,
and to her selfishness and vanity it would be good luck to have Edmund
the only son.

Even in the sick chamber the fortunate Mary was not forgotten. 
Edmund's letter had this postscript.  "On the subject of my last,
I had actually begun a letter when called away by Tom's illness, but I
have now changed my mind, and fear to trust the influence of friends. 
When Tom is better, I shall go."

Such was the state of Mansfield, and so it continued, with scarcely
any change, till Easter.  A line occasionally added by Edmund
to his mother's letter was enough for Fanny's information. 
Tom's amendment was alarmingly slow.

Easter came particularly late this year, as Fanny had most
sorrowfully considered, on first learning that she had no chance
of leaving Portsmouth till after it.  It came, and she had yet
heard nothing of her return--nothing even of the going to London,
which was to precede her return.  Her aunt often expressed a wish
for her, but there was no notice, no message from the uncle on
whom all depended.  She supposed he could not yet leave his son,
but it was a cruel, a terrible delay to her.  The end of April was
coming on; it would soon be almost three months, instead of two,
that she had been absent from them all, and that her days had been
passing in a state of penance, which she loved them too well to hope
they would thoroughly understand; and who could yet say when there
might be leisure to think of or fetch her?

Her eagerness, her impatience, her longings to be with them, were such
as to bring a line or two of Cowper's Tirocinium for ever before her. 
"With what intense desire she wants her home," was continually
on her tongue, as the truest description of a yearning which she
could not suppose any schoolboy's bosom to feel more keenly.

When she had been coming to Portsmouth, she had loved to call
it her home, had been fond of saying that she was going home;
the word had been very dear to her, and so it still was,
but it must be applied to Mansfield.  _That_ was now the home. 
Portsmouth was Portsmouth; Mansfield was home.  They had been long
so arranged in the indulgence of her secret meditations, and nothing was
more consolatory to her than to find her aunt using the same language: 
"I cannot but say I much regret your being from home at this
distressing time, so very trying to my spirits.  I trust and hope,
and sincerely wish you may never be absent from home so long again,"
were most delightful sentences to her.  Still, however, it was
her private regale.  Delicacy to her parents made her careful not
to betray such a preference of her uncle's house.  It was always: 
"When I go back into Northamptonshire, or when I return to Mansfield,
I shall do so and so."  For a great while it was so, but at last
the longing grew stronger, it overthrew caution, and she found
herself talking of what she should do when she went home before she
was aware.  She reproached herself, coloured, and looked fearfully
towards her father and mother.  She need not have been uneasy. 
There was no sign of displeasure, or even of hearing her.  They were
perfectly free from any jealousy of Mansfield.  She was as welcome
to wish herself there as to be there.

It was sad to Fanny to lose all the pleasures of spring.  She had
not known before what pleasures she _had_ to lose in passing March
and April in a town.  She had not known before how much the beginnings
and progress of vegetation had delighted her.  What animation,
both of body and mind, she had derived from watching the advance
of that season which cannot, in spite of its capriciousness,
be unlovely, and seeing its increasing beauties from the earliest
flowers in the warmest divisions of her aunt's garden, to the opening
of leaves of her uncle's plantations, and the glory of his woods. 
To be losing such pleasures was no trifle; to be losing them,
because she was in the midst of closeness and noise, to have confinement,
bad air, bad smells, substituted for liberty, freshness, fragrance,
and verdure, was infinitely worse:  but even these incitements
to regret were feeble, compared with what arose from the conviction
of being missed by her best friends, and the longing to be useful
to those who were wanting her!

Could she have been at home, she might have been of service to every
creature in the house.  She felt that she must have been of use
to all.  To all she must have saved some trouble of head or hand;
and were it only in supporting the spirits of her aunt Bertram,
keeping her from the evil of solitude, or the still greater evil
of a restless, officious companion, too apt to be heightening danger
in order to enhance her own importance, her being there would have been
a general good.  She loved to fancy how she could have read to her aunt,
how she could have talked to her, and tried at once to make her feel
the blessing of what was, and prepare her mind for what might be;
and how many walks up and down stairs she might have saved her,
and how many messages she might have carried.

It astonished her that Tom's sisters could be satisfied with
remaining in London at such a time, through an illness which
had now, under different degrees of danger, lasted several weeks. 
_They_ might return to Mansfield when they chose; travelling could
be no difficulty to _them_, and she could not comprehend how both
could still keep away.  If Mrs. Rushworth could imagine any
interfering obligations, Julia was certainly able to quit London
whenever she chose.  It appeared from one of her aunt's letters
that Julia had offered to return if wanted, but this was all. 
It was evident that she would rather remain where she was.

Fanny was disposed to think the influence of London very much at
war with all respectable attachments.  She saw the proof of it in
Miss Crawford, as well as in her cousins; _her_ attachment to Edmund
had been respectable, the most respectable part of her character;
her friendship for herself had at least been blameless.  Where was either
sentiment now?  It was so long since Fanny had had any letter from her,
that she had some reason to think lightly of the friendship which had
been so dwelt on.  It was weeks since she had heard anything of Miss
Crawford or of her other connexions in town, except through Mansfield,
and she was beginning to suppose that she might never know whether
Mr. Crawford had gone into Norfolk again or not till they met,
and might never hear from his sister any more this spring, when the
following letter was received to revive old and create some new sensations--

"Forgive me, my dear Fanny, as soon as you can, for my long silence,
and behave as if you could forgive me directly.  This is my modest request
and expectation, for you are so good, that I depend upon being treated
better than I deserve, and I write now to beg an immediate answer. 
I want to know the state of things at Mansfield Park, and you,
no doubt, are perfectly able to give it.  One should be a brute
not to feel for the distress they are in; and from what I hear,
poor Mr. Bertram has a bad chance of ultimate recovery.  I thought
little of his illness at first.  I looked upon him as the sort of person
to be made a fuss with, and to make a fuss himself in any trifling
disorder, and was chiefly concerned for those who had to nurse him;
but now it is confidently asserted that he is really in a decline,
that the symptoms are most alarming, and that part of the family,
at least, are aware of it.  If it be so, I am sure you must be
included in that part, that discerning part, and therefore entreat
you to let me know how far I have been rightly informed.  I need
not say how rejoiced I shall be to hear there has been any mistake,
but the report is so prevalent that I confess I cannot help trembling. 
To have such a fine young man cut off in the flower of his days
is most melancholy.  Poor Sir Thomas will feel it dreadfully. 
I really am quite agitated on the subject.  Fanny, Fanny, I see
you smile and look cunning, but, upon my honour, I never bribed
a physician in my life.  Poor young man!  If he is to die,
there will be _two_ poor young men less in the world; and with a
fearless face and bold voice would I say to any one, that wealth
and consequence could fall into no hands more deserving of them. 
It was a foolish precipitation last Christmas, but the evil of a
few days may be blotted out in part.  Varnish and gilding hide
many stains.  It will be but the loss of the Esquire after his name. 
With real affection, Fanny, like mine, more might be overlooked. 
Write to me by return of post, judge of my anxiety, and do not trifle
with it.  Tell me the real truth, as you have it from the fountainhead. 
And now, do not trouble yourself to be ashamed of either my
feelings or your own.  Believe me, they are not only natural,
they are philanthropic and virtuous.  I put it to your conscience,
whether 'Sir Edmund' would not do more good with all the Bertram
property than any other possible 'Sir.'  Had the Grants been at home
I would not have troubled you, but you are now the only one I can
apply to for the truth, his sisters not being within my reach. 
Mrs. R. has been spending the Easter with the Aylmers at Twickenham
(as to be sure you know), and is not yet returned; and Julia is with
the cousins who live near Bedford Square, but I forget their name
and street.  Could I immediately apply to either, however, I should
still prefer you, because it strikes me that they have all along
been so unwilling to have their own amusements cut up, as to shut
their eyes to the truth.  I suppose Mrs. R.'s Easter holidays will
not last much longer; no doubt they are thorough holidays to her. 
The Aylmers are pleasant people; and her husband away, she can
have nothing but enjoyment.  I give her credit for promoting his
going dutifully down to Bath, to fetch his mother; but how will
she and the dowager agree in one house?  Henry is not at hand,
so I have nothing to say from him.  Do not you think Edmund
would have been in town again long ago, but for this illness?--
Yours ever, Mary."

"I had actually begun folding my letter when Henry walked in,
but he brings no intelligence to prevent my sending it. 
Mrs. R. knows a decline is apprehended; he saw her this morning: 
she returns to Wimpole Street to-day; the old lady is come. 
Now do not make yourself uneasy with any queer fancies because he
has been spending a few days at Richmond.  He does it every spring. 
Be assured he cares for nobody but you.  At this very moment he
is wild to see you, and occupied only in contriving the means
for doing so, and for making his pleasure conduce to yours. 
In proof, he repeats, and more eagerly, what he said at Portsmouth
about our conveying you home, and I join him in it with all
my soul.  Dear Fanny, write directly, and tell us to come. 
It will do us all good.  He and I can go to the Parsonage, you know,
and be no trouble to our friends at Mansfield Park.  It would
really be gratifying to see them all again, and a little addition
of society might be of infinite use to them; and as to yourself,
you must feel yourself to be so wanted there, that you cannot
in conscience--conscientious as you are--keep away, when you have
the means of returning.  I have not time or patience to give half
Henry's messages; be satisfied that the spirit of each and every
one is unalterable affection."

Fanny's disgust at the greater part of this letter, with her extreme
reluctance to bring the writer of it and her cousin Edmund together,
would have made her (as she felt) incapable of judging impartially
whether the concluding offer might be accepted or not.  To herself,
individually, it was most tempting.  To be finding herself,
perhaps within three days, transported to Mansfield, was an image
of the greatest felicity, but it would have been a material drawback
to be owing such felicity to persons in whose feelings and conduct,
at the present moment, she saw so much to condemn:  the sister's
feelings, the brother's conduct, _her_ cold-hearted ambition,
_his_ thoughtless vanity.  To have him still the acquaintance,
the flirt perhaps, of Mrs. Rushworth!  She was mortified. 
She had thought better of him.  Happily, however, she was not left
to weigh and decide between opposite inclinations and doubtful
notions of right; there was no occasion to determine whether she
ought to keep Edmund and Mary asunder or not.  She had a rule
to apply to, which settled everything.  Her awe of her uncle,
and her dread of taking a liberty with him, made it instantly plain
to her what she had to do.  She must absolutely decline the proposal. 
If he wanted, he would send for her; and even to offer an early
return was a presumption which hardly anything would have seemed
to justify.  She thanked Miss Crawford, but gave a decided negative. 
"Her uncle, she understood, meant to fetch her; and as her cousin's
illness had continued so many weeks without her being thought
at all necessary, she must suppose her return would be unwelcome
at present, and that she should be felt an encumbrance."

Her representation of her cousin's state at this time was exactly
according to her own belief of it, and such as she supposed
would convey to the sanguine mind of her correspondent the hope
of everything she was wishing for.  Edmund would be forgiven for
being a clergyman, it seemed, under certain conditions of wealth;
and this, she suspected, was all the conquest of prejudice which he
was so ready to congratulate himself upon.  She had only learnt
to think nothing of consequence but money.



CHAPTER XLVI

As Fanny could not doubt that her answer was conveying a real disappointment,
she was rather in expectation, from her knowledge of Miss Crawford's
temper, of being urged again; and though no second letter arrived
for the space of a week, she had still the same feeling when it did come.

On receiving it, she could instantly decide on its containing
little writing, and was persuaded of its having the air of a letter
of haste and business.  Its object was unquestionable; and two moments
were enough to start the probability of its being merely to give her
notice that they should be in Portsmouth that very day, and to throw
her into all the agitation of doubting what she ought to do in such
a case.  If two moments, however, can surround with difficulties,
a third can disperse them; and before she had opened the letter,
the possibility of Mr. and Miss Crawford's having applied to her uncle
and obtained his permission was giving her ease.  This was the letter--

"A most scandalous, ill-natured rumour has just reached me,
and I write, dear Fanny, to warn you against giving the least credit
to it, should it spread into the country.  Depend upon it, there is
some mistake, and that a day or two will clear it up; at any rate,
that Henry is blameless, and in spite of a moment's _etourderie_,
thinks of nobody but you.  Say not a word of it; hear nothing,
surmise nothing, whisper nothing till I write again.  I am sure it
will be all hushed up, and nothing proved but Rushworth's folly. 
If they are gone, I would lay my life they are only gone to Mansfield Park,
and Julia with them.  But why would not you let us come for you? 
I wish you may not repent it.--Yours, etc."

Fanny stood aghast.  As no scandalous, ill-natured rumour had reached her,
it was impossible for her to understand much of this strange letter. 
She could only perceive that it must relate to Wimpole Street
and Mr. Crawford, and only conjecture that something very imprudent
had just occurred in that quarter to draw the notice of the world,
and to excite her jealousy, in Miss Crawford's apprehension,
if she heard it.  Miss Crawford need not be alarmed for her. 
She was only sorry for the parties concerned and for Mansfield,
if the report should spread so far; but she hoped it might not. 
If the Rushworths were gone themselves to Mansfield, as was to be
inferred from what Miss Crawford said, it was not likely that anything
unpleasant should have preceded them, or at least should make
any impression.

As to Mr. Crawford, she hoped it might give him a knowledge of his
own disposition, convince him that he was not capable of being
steadily attached to any one woman in the world, and shame him
from persisting any longer in addressing herself.

It was very strange!  She had begun to think he really loved her,
and to fancy his affection for her something more than common;
and his sister still said that he cared for nobody else.  Yet there
must have been some marked display of attentions to her cousin,
there must have been some strong indiscretion, since her correspondent
was not of a sort to regard a slight one.

Very uncomfortable she was, and must continue, till she heard from Miss
Crawford again.  It was impossible to banish the letter from her thoughts,
and she could not relieve herself by speaking of it to any human being. 
Miss Crawford need not have urged secrecy with so much warmth;
she might have trusted to her sense of what was due to her cousin.

The next day came and brought no second letter.  Fanny was disappointed. 
She could still think of little else all the morning; but, when her
father came back in the afternoon with the daily newspaper as usual,
she was so far from expecting any elucidation through such a channel
that the subject was for a moment out of her head.

She was deep in other musing.  The remembrance of her first evening
in that room, of her father and his newspaper, came across her. 
No candle was now wanted.  The sun was yet an hour and half above
the horizon.  She felt that she had, indeed, been three months there;
and the sun's rays falling strongly into the parlour, instead of cheering,
made her still more melancholy, for sunshine appeared to her a totally
different thing in a town and in the country.  Here, its power
was only a glare:  a stifling, sickly glare, serving but to
bring forward stains and dirt that might otherwise have slept. 
There was neither health nor gaiety in sunshine in a town. 
She sat in a blaze of oppressive heat, in a cloud of moving dust,
and her eyes could only wander from the walls, marked by her
father's head, to the table cut and notched by her brothers,
where stood the tea-board never thoroughly cleaned, the cups
and saucers wiped in streaks, the milk a mixture of motes floating
in thin blue, and the bread and butter growing every minute more
greasy than even Rebecca's hands had first produced it.  Her father
read his newspaper, and her mother lamented over the ragged carpet
as usual, while the tea was in preparation, and wished Rebecca would
mend it; and Fanny was first roused by his calling out to her,
after humphing and considering over a particular paragraph: 
"What's the name of your great cousins in town, Fan?"

A moment's recollection enabled her to say, "Rushworth, sir."

"And don't they live in Wimpole Street?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then, there's the devil to pay among them, that's all!  There"
(holding out the paper to her); "much good may such fine relations
do you.  I don't know what Sir Thomas may think of such matters;
he may be too much of the courtier and fine gentleman to like
his daughter the less.  But, by G--! if she belonged to _me_,
I'd give her the rope's end as long as I could stand over her. 
A little flogging for man and woman too would be the best way
of preventing such things."

Fanny read to herself that "it was with infinite concern the newspaper
had to announce to the world a matrimonial _fracas_ in the family
of Mr. R. of Wimpole Street; the beautiful Mrs. R., whose name
had not long been enrolled in the lists of Hymen, and who had
promised to become so brilliant a leader in the fashionable world,
having quitted her husband's roof in company with the well-known and
captivating Mr. C., the intimate friend and associate of Mr. R., and
it was not known even to the editor of the newspaper whither they were gone."

"It is a mistake, sir," said Fanny instantly; "it must be a mistake,
it cannot be true; it must mean some other people."

She spoke from the instinctive wish of delaying shame; she spoke
with a resolution which sprung from despair, for she spoke what
she did not, could not believe herself.  It had been the shock
of conviction as she read.  The truth rushed on her; and how she
could have spoken at all, how she could even have breathed,
was afterwards matter of wonder to herself.

Mr. Price cared too little about the report to make her much answer. 
"It might be all a lie," he acknowledged; "but so many fine ladies
were going to the devil nowadays that way, that there was no answering
for anybody."

"Indeed, I hope it is not true," said Mrs. Price plaintively;
"it would be so very shocking!  If I have spoken once to Rebecca
about that carpet, I am sure I have spoke at least a dozen times;
have not I, Betsey?  And it would not be ten minutes' work."

The horror of a mind like Fanny's, as it received the conviction of
such guilt, and began to take in some part of the misery that must ensue,
can hardly be described.  At first, it was a sort of stupefaction;
but every moment was quickening her perception of the horrible evil. 
She could not doubt, she dared not indulge a hope, of the paragraph
being false.  Miss Crawford's letter, which she had read so often
as to make every line her own, was in frightful conformity with it. 
Her eager defence of her brother, her hope of its being _hushed_ _up_,
her evident agitation, were all of a piece with something
very bad; and if there was a woman of character in existence,
who could treat as a trifle this sin of the first magnitude,
who would try to gloss it over, and desire to have it unpunished,
she could believe Miss Crawford to be the woman!  Now she could
see her own mistake as to _who_ were gone, or _said_ to be gone. 
It was not Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth; it was Mrs. Rushworth and
Mr. Crawford.

Fanny seemed to herself never to have been shocked before. 
There was no possibility of rest.  The evening passed without
a pause of misery, the night was totally sleepless.  She passed
only from feelings of sickness to shudderings of horror; and from
hot fits of fever to cold.  The event was so shocking, that there
were moments even when her heart revolted from it as impossible: 
when she thought it could not be.  A woman married only six months ago;
a man professing himself devoted, even _engaged_ to another;
that other her near relation; the whole family, both families connected
as they were by tie upon tie; all friends, all intimate together! 
It was too horrible a confusion of guilt, too gross a complication
of evil, for human nature, not in a state of utter barbarism, to be
capable of! yet her judgment told her it was so.  _His_ unsettled
affections, wavering with his vanity, _Maria's_ decided attachment,
and no sufficient principle on either side, gave it possibility: 
Miss Crawford's letter stampt it a fact.

What would be the consequence?  Whom would it not injure?  Whose views
might it not affect?  Whose peace would it not cut up for ever? 
Miss Crawford, herself, Edmund; but it was dangerous, perhaps, to tread
such ground.  She confined herself, or tried to confine herself,
to the simple, indubitable family misery which must envelop all,
if it were indeed a matter of certified guilt and public exposure. 
The mother's sufferings, the father's; there she paused. 
Julia's, Tom's, Edmund's; there a yet longer pause.  They were the two
on whom it would fall most horribly.  Sir Thomas's parental solicitude
and high sense of honour and decorum, Edmund's upright principles,
unsuspicious temper, and genuine strength of feeling, made her think
it scarcely possible for them to support life and reason under
such disgrace; and it appeared to her that, as far as this world
alone was concerned, the greatest blessing to every one of kindred
with Mrs. Rushworth would be instant annihilation.

Nothing happened the next day, or the next, to weaken her terrors. 
Two posts came in, and brought no refutation, public or private. 
There was no second letter to explain away the first from Miss Crawford;
there was no intelligence from Mansfield, though it was now full
time for her to hear again from her aunt.  This was an evil omen. 
She had, indeed, scarcely the shadow of a hope to soothe her mind,
and was reduced to so low and wan and trembling a condition,
as no mother, not unkind, except Mrs. Price could have overlooked,
when the third day did bring the sickening knock, and a letter was
again put into her hands.  It bore the London postmark, and came
from Edmund.

"Dear Fanny,--You know our present wretchedness.  May God support you
under your share!  We have been here two days, but there is nothing
to be done.  They cannot be traced.  You may not have heard of the
last blow--Julia's elopement; she is gone to Scotland with Yates. 
She left London a few hours before we entered it.  At any other
time this would have been felt dreadfully.  Now it seems nothing;
yet it is an heavy aggravation.  My father is not overpowered. 
More cannot be hoped.  He is still able to think and act; and I write,
by his desire, to propose your returning home.  He is anxious
to get you there for my mother's sake.  I shall be at Portsmouth
the morning after you receive this, and hope to find you ready to set
off for Mansfield.  My father wishes you to invite Susan to go with
you for a few months.  Settle it as you like; say what is proper;
I am sure you will feel such an instance of his kindness at such
a moment!  Do justice to his meaning, however I may confuse it. 
You may imagine something of my present state.  There is no end
of the evil let loose upon us.  You will see me early by the mail.--
Yours, etc."

Never had Fanny more wanted a cordial.  Never had she felt such a one as
this letter contained.  To-morrow! to leave Portsmouth to-morrow! She was,
she felt she was, in the greatest danger of being exquisitely happy,
while so many were miserable.  The evil which brought such good
to her!  She dreaded lest she should learn to be insensible of it. 
To be going so soon, sent for so kindly, sent for as a comfort,
and with leave to take Susan, was altogether such a combination
of blessings as set her heart in a glow, and for a time seemed
to distance every pain, and make her incapable of suitably sharing
the distress even of those whose distress she thought of most. 
Julia's elopement could affect her comparatively but little;
she was amazed and shocked; but it could not occupy her, could not
dwell on her mind.  She was obliged to call herself to think of it,
and acknowledge it to be terrible and grievous, or it was escaping her,
in the midst of all the agitating pressing joyful cares attending
this summons to herself.

There is nothing like employment, active indispensable employment,
for relieving sorrow.  Employment, even melancholy, may dispel
melancholy, and her occupations were hopeful.  She had so much to do,
that not even the horrible story of Mrs. Rushworth--now fixed to
the last point of certainty could affect her as it had done before. 
She had not time to be miserable.  Within twenty-four hours she
was hoping to be gone; her father and mother must be spoken to,
Susan prepared, everything got ready.  Business followed business;
the day was hardly long enough.  The happiness she was imparting,
too, happiness very little alloyed by the black communication
which must briefly precede it--the joyful consent of her father
and mother to Susan's going with her--the general satisfaction
with which the going of both seemed regarded, and the ecstasy
of Susan herself, was all serving to support her spirits.

The affliction of the Bertrams was little felt in the family. 
Mrs. Price talked of her poor sister for a few minutes, but how to
find anything to hold Susan's clothes, because Rebecca took away
all the boxes and spoilt them, was much more in her thoughts: 
and as for Susan, now unexpectedly gratified in the first wish of
her heart, and knowing nothing personally of those who had sinned,
or of those who were sorrowing--if she could help rejoicing from
beginning to end, it was as much as ought to be expected from human
virtue at fourteen.

As nothing was really left for the decision of Mrs. Price, or the good
offices of Rebecca, everything was rationally and duly accomplished,
and the girls were ready for the morrow.  The advantage of much
sleep to prepare them for their journey was impossible.  The cousin
who was travelling towards them could hardly have less than visited
their agitated spirits--one all happiness, the other all varying
and indescribable perturbation.

By eight in the morning Edmund was in the house.  The girls heard
his entrance from above, and Fanny went down.  The idea of immediately
seeing him, with the knowledge of what he must be suffering,
brought back all her own first feelings.  He so near her, and in misery. 
She was ready to sink as she entered the parlour.  He was alone,
and met her instantly; and she found herself pressed to his heart
with only these words, just articulate, "My Fanny, my only sister;
my only comfort now!"  She could say nothing; nor for some minutes
could he say more.

He turned away to recover himself, and when he spoke again,
though his voice still faltered, his manner shewed the wish of
self-command, and the resolution of avoiding any farther allusion. 
"Have you breakfasted?  When shall you be ready?  Does Susan go?"
were questions following each other rapidly.  His great object
was to be off as soon as possible.  When Mansfield was considered,
time was precious; and the state of his own mind made him find
relief only in motion.  It was settled that he should order
the carriage to the door in half an hour.  Fanny answered for
their having breakfasted and being quite ready in half an hour. 
He had already ate, and declined staying for their meal. 
He would walk round the ramparts, and join them with the carriage. 
He was gone again; glad to get away even from Fanny.

He looked very ill; evidently suffering under violent emotions,
which he was determined to suppress.  She knew it must be so,
but it was terrible to her.

The carriage came; and he entered the house again at the same moment,
just in time to spend a few minutes with the family, and be a witness--
but that he saw nothing--of the tranquil manner in which the daughters
were parted with, and just in time to prevent their sitting down
to the breakfast-table, which, by dint of much unusual activity,
was quite and completely ready as the carriage drove from the door. 
Fanny's last meal in her father's house was in character with her first: 
she was dismissed from it as hospitably as she had been welcomed.

How her heart swelled with joy and gratitude as she passed the barriers
of Portsmouth, and how Susan's face wore its broadest smiles,
may be easily conceived.  Sitting forwards, however, and screened
by her bonnet, those smiles were unseen.

The journey was likely to be a silent one.  Edmund's deep sighs
often reached Fanny.  Had he been alone with her, his heart must
have opened in spite of every resolution; but Susan's presence drove
him quite into himself, and his attempts to talk on indifferent
subjects could never be long supported.

Fanny watched him with never-failing solicitude, and sometimes
catching his eye, revived an affectionate smile, which comforted her;
but the first day's journey passed without her hearing a word from
him on the subjects that were weighing him down.  The next morning
produced a little more.  Just before their setting out from Oxford,
while Susan was stationed at a window, in eager observation of the
departure of a large family from the inn, the other two were standing
by the fire; and Edmund, particularly struck by the alteration
in Fanny's looks, and from his ignorance of the daily evils
of her father's house, attributing an undue share of the change,
attributing _all_ to the recent event, took her hand, and said
in a low, but very expressive tone, "No wonder--you must feel it--
you must suffer.  How a man who had once loved, could desert you! 
But _yours_--your regard was new compared with----Fanny, think
of _me_!"

The first division of their journey occupied a long day, and brought them,
almost knocked up, to Oxford; but the second was over at a much
earlier hour.  They were in the environs of Mansfield long before
the usual dinner-time, and as they approached the beloved place,
the hearts of both sisters sank a little.  Fanny began to dread
the meeting with her aunts and Tom, under so dreadful a humiliation;
and Susan to feel with some anxiety, that all her best manners,
all her lately acquired knowledge of what was practised here, was on
the point of being called into action.  Visions of good and ill breeding,
of old vulgarisms and new gentilities, were before her; and she
was meditating much upon silver forks, napkins, and finger-glasses.
Fanny had been everywhere awake to the difference of the country
since February; but when they entered the Park her perceptions
and her pleasures were of the keenest sort.  It was three months,
full three months, since her quitting it, and the change was from
winter to summer.  Her eye fell everywhere on lawns and plantations
of the freshest green; and the trees, though not fully clothed,
were in that delightful state when farther beauty is known to be
at hand, and when, while much is actually given to the sight,
more yet remains for the imagination.  Her enjoyment, however,
was for herself alone.  Edmund could not share it.  She looked
at him, but he was leaning back, sunk in a deeper gloom than ever,
and with eyes closed, as if the view of cheerfulness oppressed him,
and the lovely scenes of home must be shut out.

It made her melancholy again; and the knowledge of what must be
enduring there, invested even the house, modern, airy, and well
situated as it was, with a melancholy aspect.

By one of the suffering party within they were expected with such
impatience as she had never known before.  Fanny had scarcely
passed the solemn-looking servants, when Lady Bertram came
from the drawing-room to meet her; came with no indolent step;
and falling on her neck, said, "Dear Fanny! now I shall be comfortable.



CHAPTER XLVII

It had been a miserable party, each of the three believing themselves
most miserable.  Mrs. Norris, however, as most attached to Maria,
was really the greatest sufferer.  Maria was her first favourite,
the dearest of all; the match had been her own contriving, as she
had been wont with such pride of heart to feel and say, and this
conclusion of it almost overpowered her.

She was an altered creature, quieted, stupefied, indifferent to
everything that passed.  The being left with her sister and nephew,
and all the house under her care, had been an advantage entirely
thrown away; she had been unable to direct or dictate, or even fancy
herself useful.  When really touched by affliction, her active
powers had been all benumbed; and neither Lady Bertram nor Tom
had received from her the smallest support or attempt at support. 
She had done no more for them than they had done for each other. 
They had been all solitary, helpless, and forlorn alike; and now the
arrival of the others only established her superiority in wretchedness. 
Her companions were relieved, but there was no good for _her_. 
Edmund was almost as welcome to his brother as Fanny to her aunt;
but Mrs. Norris, instead of having comfort from either, was but
the more irritated by the sight of the person whom, in the blindness
of her anger, she could have charged as the daemon of the piece. 
Had Fanny accepted Mr. Crawford this could not have happened.

Susan too was a grievance.  She had not spirits to notice her
in more than a few repulsive looks, but she felt her as a spy,
and an intruder, and an indigent niece, and everything most odious. 
By her other aunt, Susan was received with quiet kindness. 
Lady Bertram could not give her much time, or many words, but she
felt her, as Fanny's sister, to have a claim at Mansfield, and was
ready to kiss and like her; and Susan was more than satisfied,
for she came perfectly aware that nothing but ill-humour was to be
expected from aunt Norris; and was so provided with happiness,
so strong in that best of blessings, an escape from many certain evils,
that she could have stood against a great deal more indifference than
she met with from the others.

She was now left a good deal to herself, to get acquainted with the house
and grounds as she could, and spent her days very happily in so doing,
while those who might otherwise have attended to her were shut up,
or wholly occupied each with the person quite dependent on them,
at this time, for everything like comfort; Edmund trying to bury
his own feelings in exertions for the relief of his brother's,
and Fanny devoted to her aunt Bertram, returning to every former
office with more than former zeal, and thinking she could never
do enough for one who seemed so much to want her.

To talk over the dreadful business with Fanny, talk and lament,
was all Lady Bertram's consolation.  To be listened to and borne with,
and hear the voice of kindness and sympathy in return, was everything
that could be done for her.  To be otherwise comforted was out of
the question.  The case admitted of no comfort.  Lady Bertram did
not think deeply, but, guided by Sir Thomas, she thought justly on
all important points; and she saw, therefore, in all its enormity,
what had happened, and neither endeavoured herself, nor required
Fanny to advise her, to think little of guilt and infamy.

Her affections were not acute, nor was her mind tenacious. 
After a time, Fanny found it not impossible to direct her thoughts
to other subjects, and revive some interest in the usual occupations;
but whenever Lady Bertram _was_ fixed on the event, she could see
it only in one light, as comprehending the loss of a daughter,
and a disgrace never to be wiped off.

Fanny learnt from her all the particulars which had yet transpired. 
Her aunt was no very methodical narrator, but with the help of some
letters to and from Sir Thomas, and what she already knew herself,
and could reasonably combine, she was soon able to understand quite
as much as she wished of the circumstances attending the story.

Mrs. Rushworth had gone, for the Easter holidays, to Twickenham,
with a family whom she had just grown intimate with:  a family of lively,
agreeable manners, and probably of morals and discretion to suit,
for to _their_ house Mr. Crawford had constant access at all times. 
His having been in the same neighbourhood Fanny already knew. 
Mr. Rushworth had been gone at this time to Bath, to pass a few
days with his mother, and bring her back to town, and Maria was
with these friends without any restraint, without even Julia;
for Julia had removed from Wimpole Street two or three weeks before,
on a visit to some relations of Sir Thomas; a removal which her
father and mother were now disposed to attribute to some view of
convenience on Mr. Yates's account.  Very soon after the Rushworths'
return to Wimpole Street, Sir Thomas had received a letter from an old
and most particular friend in London, who hearing and witnessing
a good deal to alarm him in that quarter, wrote to recommend Sir
Thomas's coming to London himself, and using his influence with his
daughter to put an end to the intimacy which was already exposing her
to unpleasant remarks, and evidently making Mr. Rushworth uneasy.

Sir Thomas was preparing to act upon this letter, without communicating
its contents to any creature at Mansfield, when it was followed
by another, sent express from the same friend, to break to him
the almost desperate situation in which affairs then stood with
the young people.  Mrs. Rushworth had left her husband's house: 
Mr. Rushworth had been in great anger and distress to _him_ (Mr. Harding)
for his advice; Mr. Harding feared there had been _at_ _least_
very flagrant indiscretion.  The maidservant of Mrs. Rushworth,
senior, threatened alarmingly.  He was doing all in his power
to quiet everything, with the hope of Mrs. Rushworth's return,
but was so much counteracted in Wimpole Street by the influence
of Mr. Rushworth's mother, that the worst consequences might be apprehended.

This dreadful communication could not be kept from the rest
of the family.  Sir Thomas set off, Edmund would go with him,
and the others had been left in a state of wretchedness,
inferior only to what followed the receipt of the next letters
from London.  Everything was by that time public beyond a hope. 
The servant of Mrs. Rushworth, the mother, had exposure in her power,
and supported by her mistress, was not to be silenced.  The two ladies,
even in the short time they had been together, had disagreed;
and the bitterness of the elder against her daughter-in-law might
perhaps arise almost as much from the personal disrespect with
which she had herself been treated as from sensibility for her son.

However that might be, she was unmanageable.  But had she been
less obstinate, or of less weight with her son, who was always guided
by the last speaker, by the person who could get hold of and shut
him up, the case would still have been hopeless, for Mrs. Rushworth
did not appear again, and there was every reason to conclude her
to be concealed somewhere with Mr. Crawford, who had quitted his
uncle's house, as for a journey, on the very day of her absenting herself.

Sir Thomas, however, remained yet a little longer in town,
in the hope of discovering and snatching her from farther vice,
though all was lost on the side of character.

_His_ present state Fanny could hardly bear to think of.  There was
but one of his children who was not at this time a source of misery
to him.  Tom's complaints had been greatly heightened by the shock
of his sister's conduct, and his recovery so much thrown back by it,
that even Lady Bertram had been struck by the difference, and all her
alarms were regularly sent off to her husband; and Julia's elopement,
the additional blow which had met him on his arrival in London,
though its force had been deadened at the moment, must, she knew,
be sorely felt.  She saw that it was.  His letters expressed how
much he deplored it.  Under any circumstances it would have been
an unwelcome alliance; but to have it so clandestinely formed,
and such a period chosen for its completion, placed Julia's feelings
in a most unfavourable light, and severely aggravated the folly
of her choice.  He called it a bad thing, done in the worst manner,
and at the worst time; and though Julia was yet as more pardonable
than Maria as folly than vice, he could not but regard the step she
had taken as opening the worst probabilities of a conclusion hereafter
like her sister's. Such was his opinion of the set into which she
had thrown herself.

Fanny felt for him most acutely.  He could have no comfort
but in Edmund.  Every other child must be racking his heart. 
His displeasure against herself she trusted, reasoning differently
from Mrs. Norris, would now be done away.  _She_ should be justified. 
Mr. Crawford would have fully acquitted her conduct in refusing him;
but this, though most material to herself, would be poor consolation
to Sir Thomas.  Her uncle's displeasure was terrible to her; but what
could her justification or her gratitude and attachment do for him? 
His stay must be on Edmund alone.

She was mistaken, however, in supposing that Edmund gave his father
no present pain.  It was of a much less poignant nature than what
the others excited; but Sir Thomas was considering his happiness
as very deeply involved in the offence of his sister and friend;
cut off by it, as he must be, from the woman whom he had been
pursuing with undoubted attachment and strong probability of success;
and who, in everything but this despicable brother, would have
been so eligible a connexion.  He was aware of what Edmund must
be suffering on his own behalf, in addition to all the rest,
when they were in town:  he had seen or conjectured his feelings;
and, having reason to think that one interview with Miss Crawford
had taken place, from which Edmund derived only increased distress,
had been as anxious on that account as on others to get him out
of town, and had engaged him in taking Fanny home to her aunt,
with a view to his relief and benefit, no less than theirs. 
Fanny was not in the secret of her uncle's feelings, Sir Thomas
not in the secret of Miss Crawford's character.  Had he been privy
to her conversation with his son, he would not have wished her to
belong to him, though her twenty thousand pounds had been forty.

That Edmund must be for ever divided from Miss Crawford did not admit
of a doubt with Fanny; and yet, till she knew that he felt the same,
her own conviction was insufficient.  She thought he did, but she
wanted to be assured of it.  If he would now speak to her with the
unreserve which had sometimes been too much for her before, it would
be most consoling; but _that_ she found was not to be.  She seldom
saw him:  never alone.  He probably avoided being alone with her. 
What was to be inferred?  That his judgment submitted to all his own
peculiar and bitter share of this family affliction, but that it
was too keenly felt to be a subject of the slightest communication. 
This must be his state.  He yielded, but it was with agonies which did
not admit of speech.  Long, long would it be ere Miss Crawford's
name passed his lips again, or she could hope for a renewal of such
confidential intercourse as had been.

It _was_ long.  They reached Mansfield on Thursday, and it was not
till Sunday evening that Edmund began to talk to her on the subject. 
Sitting with her on Sunday evening--a wet Sunday evening--
the very time of all others when, if a friend is at hand, the heart
must be opened, and everything told; no one else in the room,
except his mother, who, after hearing an affecting sermon,
had cried herself to sleep, it was impossible not to speak; and so,
with the usual beginnings, hardly to be traced as to what came first,
and the usual declaration that if she would listen to him for a
few minutes, he should be very brief, and certainly never tax her
kindness in the same way again; she need not fear a repetition;
it would be a subject prohibited entirely:  he entered upon the luxury
of relating circumstances and sensations of the first interest
to himself, to one of whose affectionate sympathy he was quite
convinced

How Fanny listened, with what curiosity and concern, what pain
and what delight, how the agitation of his voice was watched,
and how carefully her own eyes were fixed on any object but himself,
may be imagined.  The opening was alarming.  He had seen Miss Crawford. 
He had been invited to see her.  He had received a note from Lady
Stornaway to beg him to call; and regarding it as what was meant
to be the last, last interview of friendship, and investing her
with all the feelings of shame and wretchedness which Crawford's
sister ought to have known, he had gone to her in such a state
of mind, so softened, so devoted, as made it for a few moments
impossible to Fanny's fears that it should be the last.  But as he
proceeded in his story, these fears were over.  She had met him,
he said, with a serious--certainly a serious--even an agitated air;
but before he had been able to speak one intelligible sentence,
she had introduced the subject in a manner which he owned had
shocked him.  "'I heard you were in town,' said she; 'I wanted
to see you.  Let us talk over this sad business.  What can equal
the folly of our two relations?'  I could not answer, but I believe
my looks spoke.  She felt reproved.  Sometimes how quick to feel! 
With a graver look and voice she then added, 'I do not mean to
defend Henry at your sister's expense.'  So she began, but how she
went on, Fanny, is not fit, is hardly fit to be repeated to you. 
I cannot recall all her words.  I would not dwell upon them if
I could.  Their substance was great anger at the _folly_ of each. 
She reprobated her brother's folly in being drawn on by a woman whom
he had never cared for, to do what must lose him the woman he adored;
but still more the folly of poor Maria, in sacrificing such a situation,
plunging into such difficulties, under the idea of being really
loved by a man who had long ago made his indifference clear. 
Guess what I must have felt.  To hear the woman whom--no harsher
name than folly given!  So voluntarily, so freely, so coolly to
canvass it!  No reluctance, no horror, no feminine, shall I say,
no modest loathings?  This is what the world does.  For where,
Fanny, shall we find a woman whom nature had so richly endowed? 
Spoilt, spoilt!"

After a little reflection, he went on with a sort of desperate calmness. 
"I will tell you everything, and then have done for ever. 
She saw it only as folly, and that folly stamped only by exposure. 
The want of common discretion, of caution:  his going down to Richmond
for the whole time of her being at Twickenham; her putting herself
in the power of a servant; it was the detection, in short--oh, Fanny! it
was the detection, not the offence, which she reprobated.  It was
the imprudence which had brought things to extremity, and obliged
her brother to give up every dearer plan in order to fly with her."

He stopt.  "And what," said Fanny (believing herself required
to speak), "what could you say?"

"Nothing, nothing to be understood.  I was like a man stunned. 
She went on, began to talk of you; yes, then she began to talk
of you, regretting, as well she might, the loss of such a--. There
she spoke very rationally.  But she has always done justice to you. 
'He has thrown away,' said she, 'such a woman as he will never see again. 
She would have fixed him; she would have made him happy for ever.' 
My dearest Fanny, I am giving you, I hope, more pleasure than pain
by this retrospect of what might have been--but what never can be now. 
You do not wish me to be silent?  If you do, give me but a look, a word,
and I have done."

No look or word was given.

"Thank God," said he.  "We were all disposed to wonder, but it seems
to have been the merciful appointment of Providence that the heart
which knew no guile should not suffer.  She spoke of you with high
praise and warm affection; yet, even here, there was alloy,
a dash of evil; for in the midst of it she could exclaim,
'Why would not she have him?  It is all her fault.  Simple girl! 
I shall never forgive her.  Had she accepted him as she ought,
they might now have been on the point of marriage, and Henry
would have been too happy and too busy to want any other object. 
He would have taken no pains to be on terms with Mrs. Rushworth again. 
It would have all ended in a regular standing flirtation, in yearly
meetings at Sotherton and Everingham.'  Could you have believed
it possible?  But the charm is broken.  My eyes are opened."

"Cruel!" said Fanny, "quite cruel.  At such a moment to give way
to gaiety, to speak with lightness, and to you!  Absolute cruelty."

"Cruelty, do you call it?  We differ there.  No, hers is not
a cruel nature.  I do not consider her as meaning to wound
my feelings.  The evil lies yet deeper:  in her total ignorance,
unsuspiciousness of there being such feelings; in a perversion of
mind which made it natural to her to treat the subject as she did. 
She was speaking only as she had been used to hear others speak,
as she imagined everybody else would speak.  Hers are not faults
of temper.  She would not voluntarily give unnecessary pain to any one,
and though I may deceive myself, I cannot but think that for me,
for my feelings, she would--Hers are faults of principle, Fanny;
of blunted delicacy and a corrupted, vitiated mind.  Perhaps it is best
for me, since it leaves me so little to regret.  Not so, however. 
Gladly would I submit to all the increased pain of losing her,
rather than have to think of her as I do.  I told her so."

"Did you?"

"Yes; when I left her I told her so."

"How long were you together?"

"Five-and-twenty minutes.  Well, she went on to say that what
remained now to be done was to bring about a marriage between them. 
She spoke of it, Fanny, with a steadier voice than I can." 
He was obliged to pause more than once as he continued.  "'We must
persuade Henry to marry her,' said she; 'and what with honour,
and the certainty of having shut himself out for ever from Fanny,
I do not despair of it.  Fanny he must give up.  I do not think
that even _he_ could now hope to succeed with one of her stamp,
and therefore I hope we may find no insuperable difficulty. 
My influence, which is not small shall all go that way;
and when once married, and properly supported by her own family,
people of respectability as they are, she may recover her footing
in society to a certain degree.  In some circles, we know, she would
never be admitted, but with good dinners, and large parties,
there will always be those who will be glad of her acquaintance;
and there is, undoubtedly, more liberality and candour on those
points than formerly.  What I advise is, that your father be quiet. 
Do not let him injure his own cause by interference.  Persuade him
to let things take their course.  If by any officious exertions
of his, she is induced to leave Henry's protection, there will be
much less chance of his marrying her than if she remain with him. 
I know how he is likely to be influenced.  Let Sir Thomas trust to his
honour and compassion, and it may all end well; but if he get his
daughter away, it will be destroying the chief hold.'"

After repeating this, Edmund was so much affected that Fanny,
watching him with silent, but most tender concern, was almost sorry
that the subject had been entered on at all.  It was long before he
could speak again.  At last, "Now, Fanny," said he, "I shall soon
have done.  I have told you the substance of all that she said. 
As soon as I could speak, I replied that I had not supposed it possible,
coming in such a state of mind into that house as I had done,
that anything could occur to make me suffer more, but that she had
been inflicting deeper wounds in almost every sentence.  That though
I had, in the course of our acquaintance, been often sensible
of some difference in our opinions, on points, too, of some moment,
it had not entered my imagination to conceive the difference could
be such as she had now proved it.  That the manner in which she
treated the dreadful crime committed by her brother and my sister
(with whom lay the greater seduction I pretended not to say),
but the manner in which she spoke of the crime itself, giving it
every reproach but the right; considering its ill consequences
only as they were to be braved or overborne by a defiance of
decency and impudence in wrong; and last of all, and above all,
recommending to us a compliance, a compromise, an acquiescence
in the continuance of the sin, on the chance of a marriage which,
thinking as I now thought of her brother, should rather be prevented
than sought; all this together most grievously convinced me that I
had never understood her before, and that, as far as related to mind,
it had been the creature of my own imagination, not Miss Crawford,
that I had been too apt to dwell on for many months past. 
That, perhaps, it was best for me; I had less to regret in sacrificing
a friendship, feelings, hopes which must, at any rate, have been
torn from me now.  And yet, that I must and would confess that,
could I have restored her to what she had appeared to me before,
I would infinitely prefer any increase of the pain of parting,
for the sake of carrying with me the right of tenderness and esteem. 
This is what I said, the purport of it; but, as you may imagine,
not spoken so collectedly or methodically as I have repeated it to you. 
She was astonished, exceedingly astonished--more than astonished. 
I saw her change countenance.  She turned extremely red.  I imagined
I saw a mixture of many feelings:  a great, though short struggle;
half a wish of yielding to truths, half a sense of shame,
but habit, habit carried it.  She would have laughed if she could. 
It was a sort of laugh, as she answered, 'A pretty good lecture,
upon my word.  Was it part of your last sermon?  At this rate you
will soon reform everybody at Mansfield and Thornton Lacey; and when I
hear of you next, it may be as a celebrated preacher in some great
society of Methodists, or as a missionary into foreign parts.' 
She tried to speak carelessly, but she was not so careless as she
wanted to appear.  I only said in reply, that from my heart I wished
her well, and earnestly hoped that she might soon learn to think
more justly, and not owe the most valuable knowledge we could
any of us acquire, the knowledge of ourselves and of our duty,
to the lessons of affliction, and immediately left the room. 
I had gone a few steps, Fanny, when I heard the door open behind me. 
'Mr. Bertram,' said she.  I looked back.  'Mr. Bertram,' said she,
with a smile; but it was a smile ill-suited to the conversation
that had passed, a saucy playful smile, seeming to invite in
order to subdue me; at least it appeared so to me.  I resisted;
it was the impulse of the moment to resist, and still walked on. 
I have since, sometimes, for a moment, regretted that I did not go back,
but I know I was right, and such has been the end of our acquaintance. 
And what an acquaintance has it been!  How have I been deceived! 
Equally in brother and sister deceived!  I thank you for your patience,
Fanny.  This has been the greatest relief, and now we will have
done."

And such was Fanny's dependence on his words, that for five minutes
she thought they _had_ done.  Then, however, it all came on again,
or something very like it, and nothing less than Lady Bertram's
rousing thoroughly up could really close such a conversation. 
Till that happened, they continued to talk of Miss Crawford alone,
and how she had attached him, and how delightful nature had made her,
and how excellent she would have been, had she fallen into good
hands earlier.  Fanny, now at liberty to speak openly, felt more
than justified in adding to his knowledge of her real character,
by some hint of what share his brother's state of health might
be supposed to have in her wish for a complete reconciliation. 
This was not an agreeable intimation.  Nature resisted it for a while. 
It would have been a vast deal pleasanter to have had her more
disinterested in her attachment; but his vanity was not of a strength
to fight long against reason.  He submitted to believe that Tom's illness
had influenced her, only reserving for himself this consoling thought,
that considering the many counteractions of opposing habits,
she had certainly been _more_ attached to him than could have
been expected, and for his sake been more near doing right. 
Fanny thought exactly the same; and they were also quite agreed
in their opinion of the lasting effect, the indelible impression,
which such a disappointment must make on his mind.  Time would
undoubtedly abate somewhat of his sufferings, but still it was
a sort of thing which he never could get entirely the better of;
and as to his ever meeting with any other woman who could--it was too
impossible to be named but with indignation.  Fanny's friendship was
all that he had to cling to.



CHAPTER XLVIII

Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery.  I quit such odious subjects
as soon as I can, impatient to restore everybody, not greatly in
fault themselves, to tolerable comfort, and to have done with all the rest.

My Fanny, indeed, at this very time, I have the satisfaction of knowing,
must have been happy in spite of everything.  She must have been
a happy creature in spite of all that she felt, or thought she felt,
for the distress of those around her.  She had sources of delight
that must force their way.  She was returned to Mansfield Park,
she was useful, she was beloved; she was safe from Mr. Crawford;
and when Sir Thomas came back she had every proof that could be given
in his then melancholy state of spirits, of his perfect approbation
and increased regard; and happy as all this must make her, she would
still have been happy without any of it, for Edmund was no longer
the dupe of Miss Crawford.

It is true that Edmund was very far from happy himself.  He was
suffering from disappointment and regret, grieving over what was,
and wishing for what could never be.  She knew it was so, and was sorry;
but it was with a sorrow so founded on satisfaction, so tending
to ease, and so much in harmony with every dearest sensation,
that there are few who might not have been glad to exchange their
greatest gaiety for it.

Sir Thomas, poor Sir Thomas, a parent, and conscious of errors in his own
conduct as a parent, was the longest to suffer.  He felt that he ought
not to have allowed the marriage; that his daughter's sentiments had been
sufficiently known to him to render him culpable in authorising it;
that in so doing he had sacrificed the right to the expedient,
and been governed by motives of selfishness and worldly wisdom. 
These were reflections that required some time to soften;
but time will do almost everything; and though little comfort
arose on Mrs. Rushworth's side for the misery she had occasioned,
comfort was to be found greater than he had supposed in his
other children.  Julia's match became a less desperate business
than he had considered it at first.  She was humble, and wishing
to be forgiven; and Mr. Yates, desirous of being really received
into the family, was disposed to look up to him and be guided. 
He was not very solid; but there was a hope of his becoming
less trifling, of his being at least tolerably domestic and quiet;
and at any rate, there was comfort in finding his estate rather more,
and his debts much less, than he had feared, and in being consulted
and treated as the friend best worth attending to.  There was comfort
also in Tom, who gradually regained his health, without regaining
the thoughtlessness and selfishness of his previous habits. 
He was the better for ever for his illness.  He had suffered, and he
had learned to think:  two advantages that he had never known before;
and the self-reproach arising from the deplorable event in Wimpole Street,
to which he felt himself accessory by all the dangerous intimacy
of his unjustifiable theatre, made an impression on his mind which,
at the age of six-and-twenty, with no want of sense or good companions,
was durable in its happy effects.  He became what he ought to be: 
useful to his father, steady and quiet, and not living merely
for himself.

Here was comfort indeed! and quite as soon as Sir Thomas could
place dependence on such sources of good, Edmund was contributing
to his father's ease by improvement in the only point in which
he had given him pain before--improvement in his spirits. 
After wandering about and sitting under trees with Fanny all
the summer evenings, he had so well talked his mind into submission
as to be very tolerably cheerful again.

These were the circumstances and the hopes which gradually brought
their alleviation to Sir Thomas, deadening his sense of what was lost,
and in part reconciling him to himself; though the anguish arising
from the conviction of his own errors in the education of his
daughters was never to be entirely done away.

Too late he became aware how unfavourable to the character of any
young people must be the totally opposite treatment which Maria
and Julia had been always experiencing at home, where the excessive
indulgence and flattery of their aunt had been continually
contrasted with his own severity.  He saw how ill he had judged,
in expecting to counteract what was wrong in Mrs. Norris by its
reverse in himself; clearly saw that he had but increased the evil
by teaching them to repress their spirits in his presence so as
to make their real disposition unknown to him, and sending them
for all their indulgences to a person who had been able to attach
them only by the blindness of her affection, and the excess of her praise.

Here had been grievous mismanagement; but, bad as it was, he gradually
grew to feel that it had not been the most direful mistake in his plan
of education.  Something must have been wanting _within_, or time would
have worn away much of its ill effect.  He feared that principle,
active principle, had been wanting; that they had never been properly
taught to govern their inclinations and tempers by that sense of duty
which can alone suffice.  They had been instructed theoretically in
their religion, but never required to bring it into daily practice. 
To be distinguished for elegance and accomplishments, the authorised
object of their youth, could have had no useful influence that way,
no moral effect on the mind.  He had meant them to be good,
but his cares had been directed to the understanding and manners,
not the disposition; and of the necessity of self-denial and humility,
he feared they had never heard from any lips that could profit them.

Bitterly did he deplore a deficiency which now he could scarcely
comprehend to have been possible.  Wretchedly did he feel,
that with all the cost and care of an anxious and expensive education,
he had brought up his daughters without their understanding their
first duties, or his being acquainted with their character and temper.

The high spirit and strong passions of Mrs. Rushworth,
especially, were made known to him only in their sad result. 
She was not to be prevailed on to leave Mr. Crawford.  She hoped
to marry him, and they continued together till she was obliged
to be convinced that such hope was vain, and till the disappointment
and wretchedness arising from the conviction rendered her temper
so bad, and her feelings for him so like hatred, as to make them
for a while each other's punishment, and then induce a voluntary separation.

She had lived with him to be reproached as the ruin
of all his happiness in Fanny, and carried away no better
consolation in leaving him than that she _had_ divided them. 
What can exceed the misery of such a mind in such a situation?

Mr. Rushworth had no difficulty in procuring a divorce; and so ended
a marriage contracted under such circumstances as to make any better end
the effect of good luck not to be reckoned on.  She had despised him,
and loved another; and he had been very much aware that it was so. 
The indignities of stupidity, and the disappointments of selfish passion,
can excite little pity.  His punishment followed his conduct,
as did a deeper punishment the deeper guilt of his wife. 
_He_ was released from the engagement to be mortified and unhappy,
till some other pretty girl could attract him into matrimony again,
and he might set forward on a second, and, it is to be hoped,
more prosperous trial of the state:  if duped, to be duped at least
with good humour and good luck; while she must withdraw with infinitely
stronger feelings to a retirement and reproach which could allow
no second spring of hope or character.

Where she could be placed became a subject of most melancholy
and momentous consultation.  Mrs. Norris, whose attachment seemed
to augment with the demerits of her niece, would have had her
received at home and countenanced by them all.  Sir Thomas would
not hear of it; and Mrs. Norris's anger against Fanny was so much
the greater, from considering _her_ residence there as the motive. 
She persisted in placing his scruples to _her_ account, though Sir
Thomas very solemnly assured her that, had there been no young woman
in question, had there been no young person of either sex belonging
to him, to be endangered by the society or hurt by the character
of Mrs. Rushworth, he would never have offered so great an insult
to the neighbourhood as to expect it to notice her.  As a daughter,
he hoped a penitent one, she should be protected by him, and secured
in every comfort, and supported by every encouragement to do right,
which their relative situations admitted; but farther than _that_
he could not go.  Maria had destroyed her own character, and he
would not, by a vain attempt to restore what never could be restored,
by affording his sanction to vice, or in seeking to lessen its disgrace,
be anywise accessory to introducing such misery in another man's
family as he had known himself.

It ended in Mrs. Norris's resolving to quit Mansfield and devote
herself to her unfortunate Maria, and in an establishment being
formed for them in another country, remote and private, where,
shut up together with little society, on one side no affection,
on the other no judgment, it may be reasonably supposed that their
tempers became their mutual punishment.

Mrs. Norris's removal from Mansfield was the great supplementary
comfort of Sir Thomas's life.  His opinion of her had been sinking
from the day of his return from Antigua:  in every transaction
together from that period, in their daily intercourse, in business,
or in chat, she had been regularly losing ground in his esteem,
and convincing him that either time had done her much disservice,
or that he had considerably over-rated her sense, and wonderfully
borne with her manners before.  He had felt her as an hourly evil,
which was so much the worse, as there seemed no chance of its ceasing
but with life; she seemed a part of himself that must be borne for ever. 
To be relieved from her, therefore, was so great a felicity that,
had she not left bitter remembrances behind her, there might have been
danger of his learning almost to approve the evil which produced such
a good.

She was regretted by no one at Mansfield.  She had never been able to
attach even those she loved best; and since Mrs. Rushworth's elopement,
her temper had been in a state of such irritation as to make her
everywhere tormenting.  Not even Fanny had tears for aunt Norris,
not even when she was gone for ever.

That Julia escaped better than Maria was owing, in some measure,
to a favourable difference of disposition and circumstance, but in
a greater to her having been less the darling of that very aunt,
less flattered and less spoilt.  Her beauty and acquirements had held
but a second place.  She had been always used to think herself a little
inferior to Maria.  Her temper was naturally the easiest of the two;
her feelings, though quick, were more controllable, and education
had not given her so very hurtful a degree of self-consequence.

She had submitted the best to the disappointment in Henry Crawford. 
After the first bitterness of the conviction of being slighted
was over, she had been tolerably soon in a fair way of not thinking
of him again; and when the acquaintance was renewed in town,
and Mr. Rushworth's house became Crawford's object, she had had
the merit of withdrawing herself from it, and of chusing that time
to pay a visit to her other friends, in order to secure herself
from being again too much attracted.  This had been her motive
in going to her cousin's. Mr. Yates's convenience had had nothing
to do with it.  She had been allowing his attentions some time,
but with very little idea of ever accepting him; and had not her
sister's conduct burst forth as it did, and her increased dread
of her father and of home, on that event, imagining its certain
consequence to herself would be greater severity and restraint,
made her hastily resolve on avoiding such immediate horrors at
all risks, it is probable that Mr. Yates would never have succeeded. 
She had not eloped with any worse feelings than those of selfish alarm. 
It had appeared to her the only thing to be done.  Maria's guilt had
induced Julia's folly.

Henry Crawford, ruined by early independence and bad domestic example,
indulged in the freaks of a cold-blooded vanity a little too long. 
Once it had, by an opening undesigned and unmerited, led him into
the way of happiness.  Could he have been satisfied with the conquest
of one amiable woman's affections, could he have found sufficient
exultation in overcoming the reluctance, in working himself into
the esteem and tenderness of Fanny Price, there would have been
every probability of success and felicity for him.  His affection
had already done something.  Her influence over him had already
given him some influence over her.  Would he have deserved more,
there can be no doubt that more would have been obtained, especially
when that marriage had taken place, which would have given him
the assistance of her conscience in subduing her first inclination,
and brought them very often together.  Would he have persevered,
and uprightly, Fanny must have been his reward, and a reward very
voluntarily bestowed, within a reasonable period from Edmund's
marrying Mary.

Had he done as he intended, and as he knew he ought, by going down
to Everingham after his return from Portsmouth, he might have been
deciding his own happy destiny.  But he was pressed to stay for
Mrs. Fraser's party; his staying was made of flattering consequence,
and he was to meet Mrs. Rushworth there.  Curiosity and vanity
were both engaged, and the temptation of immediate pleasure was
too strong for a mind unused to make any sacrifice to right: 
he resolved to defer his Norfolk journey, resolved that writing
should answer the purpose of it, or that its purpose was unimportant,
and staid.  He saw Mrs. Rushworth, was received by her with a
coldness which ought to have been repulsive, and have established
apparent indifference between them for ever; but he was mortified,
he could not bear to be thrown off by the woman whose smiles had
been so wholly at his command:  he must exert himself to subdue
so proud a display of resentment; it was anger on Fanny's account;
he must get the better of it, and make Mrs. Rushworth Maria Bertram
again in her treatment of himself.

In this spirit he began the attack, and by animated perseverance had
soon re-established the sort of familiar intercourse, of gallantry,
of flirtation, which bounded his views; but in triumphing over
the discretion which, though beginning in anger, might have saved
them both, he had put himself in the power of feelings on her side
more strong than he had supposed.  She loved him; there was no
withdrawing attentions avowedly dear to her.  He was entangled
by his own vanity, with as little excuse of love as possible,
and without the smallest inconstancy of mind towards her cousin. 
To keep Fanny and the Bertrams from a knowledge of what was passing
became his first object.  Secrecy could not have been more desirable
for Mrs. Rushworth's credit than he felt it for his own.  When he
returned from Richmond, he would have been glad to see Mrs. Rushworth
no more.  All that followed was the result of her imprudence;
and he went off with her at last, because he could not help it,
regretting Fanny even at the moment, but regretting her infinitely
more when all the bustle of the intrigue was over, and a very few
months had taught him, by the force of contrast, to place a yet
higher value on the sweetness of her temper, the purity of her mind,
and the excellence of her principles.

That punishment, the public punishment of disgrace, should in
a just measure attend _his_ share of the offence is, we know,
not one of the barriers which society gives to virtue.  In this
world the penalty is less equal than could be wished; but without
presuming to look forward to a juster appointment hereafter, we may
fairly consider a man of sense, like Henry Crawford, to be providing
for himself no small portion of vexation and regret:  vexation that
must rise sometimes to self-reproach, and regret to wretchedness,
in having so requited hospitality, so injured family peace,
so forfeited his best, most estimable, and endeared acquaintance,
and so lost the woman whom he had rationally as well as passionately loved.

After what had passed to wound and alienate the two families,
the continuance of the Bertrams and Grants in such close neighbourhood
would have been most distressing; but the absence of the latter,
for some months purposely lengthened, ended very fortunately in
the necessity, or at least the practicability, of a permanent removal. 
Dr. Grant, through an interest on which he had almost ceased to
form hopes, succeeded to a stall in Westminster, which, as affording
an occasion for leaving Mansfield, an excuse for residence in London,
and an increase of income to answer the expenses of the change,
was highly acceptable to those who went and those who staid.

Mrs. Grant, with a temper to love and be loved, must have gone
with some regret from the scenes and people she had been used to;
but the same happiness of disposition must in any place,
and any society, secure her a great deal to enjoy, and she had again
a home to offer Mary; and Mary had had enough of her own friends,
enough of vanity, ambition, love, and disappointment in the course
of the last half-year, to be in need of the true kindness of her
sister's heart, and the rational tranquillity of her ways. 
They lived together; and when Dr. Grant had brought on apoplexy
and death, by three great institutionary dinners in one week,
they still lived together; for Mary, though perfectly resolved
against ever attaching herself to a younger brother again, was long
in finding among the dashing representatives, or idle heir-apparents,
who were at the command of her beauty, and her 20,000, any one
who could satisfy the better taste she had acquired at Mansfield,
whose character and manners could authorise a hope of the domestic
happiness she had there learned to estimate, or put Edmund Bertram
sufficiently out of her head.

Edmund had greatly the advantage of her in this respect. 
He had not to wait and wish with vacant affections for an object
worthy to succeed her in them.  Scarcely had he done regretting
Mary Crawford, and observing to Fanny how impossible it was that he
should ever meet with such another woman, before it began to strike
him whether a very different kind of woman might not do just as well,
or a great deal better:  whether Fanny herself were not growing
as dear, as important to him in all her smiles and all her ways,
as Mary Crawford had ever been; and whether it might not be a possible,
an hopeful undertaking to persuade her that her warm and sisterly
regard for him would be foundation enough for wedded love.

I purposely abstain from dates on this occasion, that every
one may be at liberty to fix their own, aware that the cure of
unconquerable passions, and the transfer of unchanging attachments,
must vary much as to time in different people.  I only entreat
everybody to believe that exactly at the time when it was quite
natural that it should be so, and not a week earlier, Edmund did
cease to care about Miss Crawford, and became as anxious to marry
Fanny as Fanny herself could desire.

With such a regard for her, indeed, as his had long been, a regard
founded on the most endearing claims of innocence and helplessness,
and completed by every recommendation of growing worth, what could
be more natural than the change?  Loving, guiding, protecting her,
as he had been doing ever since her being ten years old,
her mind in so great a degree formed by his care, and her comfort
depending on his kindness, an object to him of such close and
peculiar interest, dearer by all his own importance with her than
any one else at Mansfield, what was there now to add, but that he
should learn to prefer soft light eyes to sparkling dark ones. 
And being always with her, and always talking confidentially,
and his feelings exactly in that favourable state which a recent
disappointment gives, those soft light eyes could not be very long
in obtaining the pre-eminence.

Having once set out, and felt that he had done so on this road
to happiness, there was nothing on the side of prudence to stop him
or make his progress slow; no doubts of her deserving, no fears of
opposition of taste, no need of drawing new hopes of happiness from
dissimilarity of temper.  Her mind, disposition, opinions, and habits
wanted no half-concealment, no self-deception on the present,
no reliance on future improvement.  Even in the midst of his
late infatuation, he had acknowledged Fanny's mental superiority. 
What must be his sense of it now, therefore?  She was of course
only too good for him; but as nobody minds having what is too good
for them, he was very steadily earnest in the pursuit of the blessing,
and it was not possible that encouragement from her should be
long wanting.  Timid, anxious, doubting as she was, it was still
impossible that such tenderness as hers should not, at times,
hold out the strongest hope of success, though it remained for a later
period to tell him the whole delightful and astonishing truth. 
His happiness in knowing himself to have been so long the beloved
of such a heart, must have been great enough to warrant any strength
of language in which he could clothe it to her or to himself;
it must have been a delightful happiness.  But there was happiness
elsewhere which no description can reach.  Let no one presume to give
the feelings of a young woman on receiving the assurance of that
affection of which she has scarcely allowed herself to entertain a hope.

Their own inclinations ascertained, there were no difficulties behind,
no drawback of poverty or parent.  It was a match which Sir Thomas's
wishes had even forestalled.  Sick of ambitious and mercenary connexions,
prizing more and more the sterling good of principle and temper,
and chiefly anxious to bind by the strongest securities all that
remained to him of domestic felicity, he had pondered with genuine
satisfaction on the more than possibility of the two young friends
finding their natural consolation in each other for all that had
occurred of disappointment to either; and the joyful consent
which met Edmund's application, the high sense of having realised
a great acquisition in the promise of Fanny for a daughter,
formed just such a contrast with his early opinion on the subject
when the poor little girl's coming had been first agitated, as time
is for ever producing between the plans and decisions of mortals,
for their own instruction, and their neighbours' entertainment.

Fanny was indeed the daughter that he wanted.  His charitable kindness
had been rearing a prime comfort for himself.  His liberality
had a rich repayment, and the general goodness of his intentions
by her deserved it.  He might have made her childhood happier;
but it had been an error of judgment only which had given him
the appearance of harshness, and deprived him of her early love;
and now, on really knowing each other, their mutual attachment
became very strong.  After settling her at Thornton Lacey with
every kind attention to her comfort, the object of almost every
day was to see her there, or to get her away from it.

Selfishly dear as she had long been to Lady Bertram, she could not
be parted with willingly by _her_.  No happiness of son or niece
could make her wish the marriage.  But it was possible to part
with her, because Susan remained to supply her place.  Susan became
the stationary niece, delighted to be so; and equally well adapted
for it by a readiness of mind, and an inclination for usefulness,
as Fanny had been by sweetness of temper, and strong feelings
of gratitude.  Susan could never be spared.  First as a comfort
to Fanny, then as an auxiliary, and last as her substitute, she was
established at Mansfield, with every appearance of equal permanency. 
Her more fearless disposition and happier nerves made everything
easy to her there.  With quickness in understanding the tempers
of those she had to deal with, and no natural timidity to restrain
any consequent wishes, she was soon welcome and useful to all;
and after Fanny's removal succeeded so naturally to her influence
over the hourly comfort of her aunt, as gradually to become, perhaps,
the most beloved of the two.  In _her_ usefulness, in Fanny's
excellence, in William's continued good conduct and rising fame,
and in the general well-doing and success of the other members
of the family, all assisting to advance each other, and doing
credit to his countenance and aid, Sir Thomas saw repeated, and for
ever repeated, reason to rejoice in what he had done for them all,
and acknowledge the advantages of early hardship and discipline,
and the consciousness of being born to struggle and endure.

With so much true merit and true love, and no want of fortune
and friends, the happiness of the married cousins must appear as secure
as earthly happiness can be.  Equally formed for domestic life,
and attached to country pleasures, their home was the home of affection
and comfort; and to complete the picture of good, the acquisition of
Mansfield living, by the death of Dr. Grant, occurred just after they
had been married long enough to begin to want an increase of income,
and feel their distance from the paternal abode an inconvenience.

On that event they removed to Mansfield; and the Parsonage there,
which, under each of its two former owners, Fanny had never been able
to approach but with some painful sensation of restraint or alarm,
soon grew as dear to her heart, and as thoroughly perfect in her eyes,
as everything else within the view and patronage of Mansfield Park
had long been.

<THE END>


End of the Project Gutenberg text of Mansfield Park