"MANSFIELD PARK\n\n(1814)\n\n\nBy Jane Austen\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nAbout thirty years ago Miss Maria Ward, of Huntingdon, with only seven\nthousand pounds, had the good luck to captivate Sir Thomas Bertram, of\nMansfield Park, in the county of Northampton, and to be thereby raised\nto the rank of a baronet's lady, with all the comforts and consequences\nof an handsome house and large income. All Huntingdon exclaimed on the\ngreatness of the match, and her uncle, the lawyer, himself, allowed her\nto be at least three thousand pounds short of any equitable claim to it.\nShe had two sisters to be benefited by her elevation; and such of their\nacquaintance as thought Miss Ward and Miss Frances quite as handsome as\nMiss Maria, did not scruple to predict their marrying with almost equal\nadvantage. But there certainly are not so many men of large fortune in\nthe world as there are pretty women to deserve them. Miss Ward, at the\nend of half a dozen years, found herself obliged to be attached to\nthe Rev. Mr. Norris, a friend of her brother-in-law, with scarcely any\nprivate fortune, and Miss Frances fared yet worse. Miss Ward's match,\nindeed, when it came to the point, was not contemptible: Sir Thomas\nbeing happily able to give his friend an income in the living of\nMansfield; and Mr. and Mrs. Norris began their career of conjugal\nfelicity with very little less than a thousand a year. But Miss Frances\nmarried, in the common phrase, to disoblige her family, and by fixing on\na lieutenant of marines, without education, fortune, or connexions, did\nit very thoroughly. She could hardly have made a more untoward choice.\nSir Thomas Bertram had interest, which, from principle as well as\npride--from a general wish of doing right, and a desire of seeing all\nthat were connected with him in situations of respectability, he would\nhave been glad to exert for the advantage of Lady Bertram's sister; but\nher husband's profession was such as no interest could reach; and before\nhe had time to devise any other method of assisting them, an absolute\nbreach between the sisters had taken place. It was the natural result of\nthe conduct of each party, and such as a very imprudent marriage almost\nalways produces. To save herself from useless remonstrance, Mrs. Price\nnever wrote to her family on the subject till actually married. Lady\nBertram, who was a woman of very tranquil feelings, and a temper\nremarkably easy and indolent, would have contented herself with merely\ngiving up her sister, and thinking no more of the matter; but Mrs.\nNorris had a spirit of activity, which could not be satisfied till she\nhad written a long and angry letter to Fanny, to point out the folly of\nher conduct, and threaten her with all its possible ill consequences.\nMrs. Price, in her turn, was injured and angry; and an answer, which\ncomprehended each sister in its bitterness, and bestowed such very\ndisrespectful reflections on the pride of Sir Thomas as Mrs. Norris\ncould not possibly keep to herself, put an end to all intercourse\nbetween them for a considerable period.\n\nTheir homes were so distant, and the circles in which they moved so\ndistinct, as almost to preclude the means of ever hearing of each\nother's existence during the eleven following years, or, at least, to\nmake it very wonderful to Sir Thomas that Mrs. Norris should ever have\nit in her power to tell them, as she now and then did, in an angry\nvoice, that Fanny had got another child. By the end of eleven years,\nhowever, Mrs. Price could no longer afford to cherish pride or\nresentment, or to lose one connexion that might possibly assist her.\nA large and still increasing family, an husband disabled for active\nservice, but not the less equal to company and good liquor, and a very\nsmall income to supply their wants, made her eager to regain the friends\nshe had so carelessly sacrificed; and she addressed Lady Bertram in\na letter which spoke so much contrition and despondence, such a\nsuperfluity of children, and such a want of almost everything else, as\ncould not but dispose them all to a reconciliation. She was preparing\nfor her ninth lying-in; and after bewailing the circumstance, and\nimploring their countenance as sponsors to the expected child, she\ncould not conceal how important she felt they might be to the future\nmaintenance of the eight already in being. Her eldest was a boy of ten\nyears old, a fine spirited fellow, who longed to be out in the world;\nbut what could she do? Was there any chance of his being hereafter\nuseful to Sir Thomas in the concerns of his West Indian property?\nNo situation would be beneath him; or what did Sir Thomas think of\nWoolwich? or how could a boy be sent out to the East?\n\nThe letter was not unproductive. It re-established peace and kindness.\nSir Thomas sent friendly advice and professions, Lady Bertram dispatched\nmoney and baby-linen, and Mrs. Norris wrote the letters.\n\nSuch were its immediate effects, and within a twelvemonth a more\nimportant advantage to Mrs. Price resulted from it. Mrs. Norris was\noften observing to the others that she could not get her poor sister and\nher family out of her head, and that, much as they had all done for her,\nshe seemed to be wanting to do more; and at length she could not but\nown it to be her wish that poor Mrs. Price should be relieved from the\ncharge and expense of one child entirely out of her great number. \"What\nif they were among them to undertake the care of her eldest daughter,\na girl now nine years old, of an age to require more attention than her\npoor mother could possibly give? The trouble and expense of it to them\nwould be nothing, compared with the benevolence of the action.\" Lady\nBertram agreed with her instantly. \"I think we cannot do better,\" said\nshe; \"let us send for the child.\"\n\nSir Thomas could not give so instantaneous and unqualified a consent. He\ndebated and hesitated;--it was a serious charge;--a girl so brought up\nmust be adequately provided for, or there would be cruelty instead\nof kindness in taking her from her family. He thought of his own four\nchildren, of his two sons, of cousins in love, etc.;--but no sooner\nhad he deliberately begun to state his objections, than Mrs. Norris\ninterrupted him with a reply to them all, whether stated or not.\n\n\"My dear Sir Thomas, I perfectly comprehend you, and do justice to the\ngenerosity and delicacy of your notions, which indeed are quite of a\npiece with your general conduct; and I entirely agree with you in\nthe main as to the propriety of doing everything one could by way of\nproviding for a child one had in a manner taken into one's own hands;\nand I am sure I should be the last person in the world to withhold my\nmite upon such an occasion. Having no children of my own, who should I\nlook to in any little matter I may ever have to bestow, but the children\nof my sisters?--and I am sure Mr. Norris is too just--but you know I am\na woman of few words and professions. Do not let us be frightened from\na good deed by a trifle. Give a girl an education, and introduce\nher properly into the world, and ten to one but she has the means of\nsettling well, without farther expense to anybody. A niece of ours, Sir\nThomas, I may say, or at least of _yours_, would not grow up in this\nneighbourhood without many advantages. I don't say she would be so\nhandsome as her cousins. I dare say she would not; but she would be\nintroduced into the society of this country under such very favourable\ncircumstances as, in all human probability, would get her a creditable\nestablishment. You are thinking of your sons--but do not you know that,\nof all things upon earth, _that_ is the least likely to happen, brought\nup as they would be, always together like brothers and sisters? It is\nmorally impossible. I never knew an instance of it. It is, in fact, the\nonly sure way of providing against the connexion. Suppose her a pretty\ngirl, and seen by Tom or Edmund for the first time seven years hence,\nand I dare say there would be mischief. The very idea of her having been\nsuffered to grow up at a distance from us all in poverty and neglect,\nwould be enough to make either of the dear, sweet-tempered boys in love\nwith her. But breed her up with them from this time, and suppose her\neven to have the beauty of an angel, and she will never be more to\neither than a sister.\"\n\n\"There is a great deal of truth in what you say,\" replied Sir Thomas,\n\"and far be it from me to throw any fanciful impediment in the way of a\nplan which would be so consistent with the relative situations of each.\nI only meant to observe that it ought not to be lightly engaged in,\nand that to make it really serviceable to Mrs. Price, and creditable to\nourselves, we must secure to the child, or consider ourselves engaged to\nsecure to her hereafter, as circumstances may arise, the provision of\na gentlewoman, if no such establishment should offer as you are so\nsanguine in expecting.\"\n\n\"I thoroughly understand you,\" cried Mrs. Norris, \"you are everything\nthat is generous and considerate, and I am sure we shall never disagree\non this point. Whatever I can do, as you well know, I am always ready\nenough to do for the good of those I love; and, though I could never\nfeel for this little girl the hundredth part of the regard I bear your\nown dear children, nor consider her, in any respect, so much my own,\nI should hate myself if I were capable of neglecting her. Is not she a\nsister's child? and could I bear to see her want while I had a bit of\nbread to give her? My dear Sir Thomas, with all my faults I have a warm\nheart; and, poor as I am, would rather deny myself the necessaries of\nlife than do an ungenerous thing. So, if you are not against it, I will\nwrite to my poor sister tomorrow, and make the proposal; and, as soon\nas matters are settled, _I_ will engage to get the child to Mansfield;\n_you_ shall have no trouble about it. My own trouble, you know, I never\nregard. I will send Nanny to London on purpose, and she may have a bed\nat her cousin the saddler's, and the child be appointed to meet her\nthere. They may easily get her from Portsmouth to town by the coach,\nunder the care of any creditable person that may chance to be going. I\ndare say there is always some reputable tradesman's wife or other going\nup.\"\n\nExcept to the attack on Nanny's cousin, Sir Thomas no longer made any\nobjection, and a more respectable, though less economical rendezvous\nbeing accordingly substituted, everything was considered as settled,\nand the pleasures of so benevolent a scheme were already enjoyed. The\ndivision of gratifying sensations ought not, in strict justice, to\nhave been equal; for Sir Thomas was fully resolved to be the real and\nconsistent patron of the selected child, and Mrs. Norris had not the\nleast intention of being at any expense whatever in her maintenance.\nAs far as walking, talking, and contriving reached, she was thoroughly\nbenevolent, and nobody knew better how to dictate liberality to others;\nbut her love of money was equal to her love of directing, and she knew\nquite as well how to save her own as to spend that of her friends.\nHaving married on a narrower income than she had been used to look\nforward to, she had, from the first, fancied a very strict line of\neconomy necessary; and what was begun as a matter of prudence, soon grew\ninto a matter of choice, as an object of that needful solicitude which\nthere were no children to supply. Had there been a family to provide\nfor, Mrs. Norris might never have saved her money; but having no care\nof that kind, there was nothing to impede her frugality, or lessen the\ncomfort of making a yearly addition to an income which they had never\nlived up to. Under this infatuating principle, counteracted by no real\naffection for her sister, it was impossible for her to aim at more than\nthe credit of projecting and arranging so expensive a charity; though\nperhaps she might so little know herself as to walk home to the\nParsonage, after this conversation, in the happy belief of being the\nmost liberal-minded sister and aunt in the world.\n\nWhen the subject was brought forward again, her views were more fully\nexplained; and, in reply to Lady Bertram's calm inquiry of \"Where shall\nthe child come to first, sister, to you or to us?\" Sir Thomas heard with\nsome surprise that it would be totally out of Mrs. Norris's power to\ntake any share in the personal charge of her. He had been considering\nher as a particularly welcome addition at the Parsonage, as a desirable\ncompanion to an aunt who had no children of her own; but he found\nhimself wholly mistaken. Mrs. Norris was sorry to say that the little\ngirl's staying with them, at least as things then were, was quite out of\nthe question. Poor Mr. Norris's indifferent state of health made it an\nimpossibility: he could no more bear the noise of a child than he could\nfly; if, indeed, he should ever get well of his gouty complaints, it\nwould be a different matter: she should then be glad to take her turn,\nand think nothing of the inconvenience; but just now, poor Mr. Norris\ntook up every moment of her time, and the very mention of such a thing\nshe was sure would distract him.\n\n\"Then she had better come to us,\" said Lady Bertram, with the utmost\ncomposure. After a short pause Sir Thomas added with dignity, \"Yes, let\nher home be in this house. We will endeavour to do our duty by her, and\nshe will, at least, have the advantage of companions of her own age, and\nof a regular instructress.\"\n\n\"Very true,\" cried Mrs. Norris, \"which are both very important\nconsiderations; and it will be just the same to Miss Lee whether she has\nthree girls to teach, or only two--there can be no difference. I only\nwish I could be more useful; but you see I do all in my power. I am not\none of those that spare their own trouble; and Nanny shall fetch her,\nhowever it may put me to inconvenience to have my chief counsellor away\nfor three days. I suppose, sister, you will put the child in the little\nwhite attic, near the old nurseries. It will be much the best place\nfor her, so near Miss Lee, and not far from the girls, and close by the\nhousemaids, who could either of them help to dress her, you know, and\ntake care of her clothes, for I suppose you would not think it fair to\nexpect Ellis to wait on her as well as the others. Indeed, I do not see\nthat you could possibly place her anywhere else.\"\n\nLady Bertram made no opposition.\n\n\"I hope she will prove a well-disposed girl,\" continued Mrs. Norris,\n\"and be sensible of her uncommon good fortune in having such friends.\"\n\n\"Should her disposition be really bad,\" said Sir Thomas, \"we must not,\nfor our own children's sake, continue her in the family; but there is\nno reason to expect so great an evil. We shall probably see much to wish\naltered in her, and must prepare ourselves for gross ignorance, some\nmeanness of opinions, and very distressing vulgarity of manner; but\nthese are not incurable faults; nor, I trust, can they be dangerous for\nher associates. Had my daughters been _younger_ than herself, I should\nhave considered the introduction of such a companion as a matter of very\nserious moment; but, as it is, I hope there can be nothing to fear for\n_them_, and everything to hope for _her_, from the association.\"\n\n\"That is exactly what I think,\" cried Mrs. Norris, \"and what I was\nsaying to my husband this morning. It will be an education for the\nchild, said I, only being with her cousins; if Miss Lee taught her\nnothing, she would learn to be good and clever from _them_.\"\n\n\"I hope she will not tease my poor pug,\" said Lady Bertram; \"I have but\njust got Julia to leave it alone.\"\n\n\"There will be some difficulty in our way, Mrs. Norris,\" observed Sir\nThomas, \"as to the distinction proper to be made between the girls\nas they grow up: how to preserve in the minds of my _daughters_ the\nconsciousness of what they are, without making them think too lowly of\ntheir cousin; and how, without depressing her spirits too far, to make\nher remember that she is not a _Miss Bertram_. I should wish to see them\nvery good friends, and would, on no account, authorise in my girls the\nsmallest degree of arrogance towards their relation; but still they\ncannot be equals. Their rank, fortune, rights, and expectations will\nalways be different. It is a point of great delicacy, and you must\nassist us in our endeavours to choose exactly the right line of\nconduct.\"\n\nMrs. Norris was quite at his service; and though she perfectly agreed\nwith him as to its being a most difficult thing, encouraged him to hope\nthat between them it would be easily managed.\n\nIt will be readily believed that Mrs. Norris did not write to her sister\nin vain. Mrs. Price seemed rather surprised that a girl should be\nfixed on, when she had so many fine boys, but accepted the offer most\nthankfully, assuring them of her daughter's being a very well-disposed,\ngood-humoured girl, and trusting they would never have cause to throw\nher off. She spoke of her farther as somewhat delicate and puny, but was\nsanguine in the hope of her being materially better for change of air.\nPoor woman! she probably thought change of air might agree with many of\nher children.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nThe little girl performed her long journey in safety; and at Northampton\nwas met by Mrs. Norris, who thus regaled in the credit of being foremost\nto welcome her, and in the importance of leading her in to the others,\nand recommending her to their kindness.\n\nFanny Price was at this time just ten years old, and though there might\nnot be much in her first appearance to captivate, there was, at least,\nnothing to disgust her relations. She was small of her age, with no glow\nof complexion, nor any other striking beauty; exceedingly timid and shy,\nand shrinking from notice; but her air, though awkward, was not vulgar,\nher voice was sweet, and when she spoke her countenance was pretty. Sir\nThomas and Lady Bertram received her very kindly; and Sir Thomas,\nseeing how much she needed encouragement, tried to be all that was\nconciliating: but he had to work against a most untoward gravity of\ndeportment; and Lady Bertram, without taking half so much trouble, or\nspeaking one word where he spoke ten, by the mere aid of a good-humoured\nsmile, became immediately the less awful character of the two.\n\nThe young people were all at home, and sustained their share in the\nintroduction very well, with much good humour, and no embarrassment, at\nleast on the part of the sons, who, at seventeen and sixteen, and tall\nof their age, had all the grandeur of men in the eyes of their little\ncousin. The two girls were more at a loss from being younger and in\ngreater awe of their father, who addressed them on the occasion with\nrather an injudicious particularity. But they were too much used to\ncompany and praise to have anything like natural shyness; and their\nconfidence increasing from their cousin's total want of it, they were\nsoon able to take a full survey of her face and her frock in easy\nindifference.\n\nThey were a remarkably fine family, the sons very well-looking, the\ndaughters decidedly handsome, and all of them well-grown and forward of\ntheir age, which produced as striking a difference between the cousins\nin person, as education had given to their address; and no one would\nhave supposed the girls so nearly of an age as they really were. There\nwere in fact but two years between the youngest and Fanny. Julia\nBertram was only twelve, and Maria but a year older. The little visitor\nmeanwhile was as unhappy as possible. Afraid of everybody, ashamed of\nherself, and longing for the home she had left, she knew not how to look\nup, and could scarcely speak to be heard, or without crying. Mrs. Norris\nhad been talking to her the whole way from Northampton of her wonderful\ngood fortune, and the extraordinary degree of gratitude and good\nbehaviour which it ought to produce, and her consciousness of misery was\ntherefore increased by the idea of its being a wicked thing for her\nnot to be happy. The fatigue, too, of so long a journey, became soon no\ntrifling evil. In vain were the well-meant condescensions of Sir Thomas,\nand all the officious prognostications of Mrs. Norris that she would be\na good girl; in vain did Lady Bertram smile and make her sit on the sofa\nwith herself and pug, and vain was even the sight of a gooseberry tart\ntowards giving her comfort; she could scarcely swallow two mouthfuls\nbefore tears interrupted her, and sleep seeming to be her likeliest\nfriend, she was taken to finish her sorrows in bed.\n\n\"This is not a very promising beginning,\" said Mrs. Norris, when Fanny\nhad left the room. \"After all that I said to her as we came along, I\nthought she would have behaved better; I told her how much might depend\nupon her acquitting herself well at first. I wish there may not be a\nlittle sulkiness of temper--her poor mother had a good deal; but we must\nmake allowances for such a child--and I do not know that her being sorry\nto leave her home is really against her, for, with all its faults,\nit _was_ her home, and she cannot as yet understand how much she has\nchanged for the better; but then there is moderation in all things.\"\n\nIt required a longer time, however, than Mrs. Norris was inclined to\nallow, to reconcile Fanny to the novelty of Mansfield Park, and the\nseparation from everybody she had been used to. Her feelings were very\nacute, and too little understood to be properly attended to. Nobody\nmeant to be unkind, but nobody put themselves out of their way to secure\nher comfort.\n\nThe holiday allowed to the Miss Bertrams the next day, on purpose to\nafford leisure for getting acquainted with, and entertaining their young\ncousin, produced little union. They could not but hold her cheap on\nfinding that she had but two sashes, and had never learned French; and\nwhen they perceived her to be little struck with the duet they were so\ngood as to play, they could do no more than make her a generous present\nof some of their least valued toys, and leave her to herself, while\nthey adjourned to whatever might be the favourite holiday sport of the\nmoment, making artificial flowers or wasting gold paper.\n\nFanny, whether near or from her cousins, whether in the schoolroom, the\ndrawing-room, or the shrubbery, was equally forlorn, finding something\nto fear in every person and place. She was disheartened by Lady\nBertram's silence, awed by Sir Thomas's grave looks, and quite overcome\nby Mrs. Norris's admonitions. Her elder cousins mortified her by\nreflections on her size, and abashed her by noticing her shyness: Miss\nLee wondered at her ignorance, and the maid-servants sneered at her\nclothes; and when to these sorrows was added the idea of the brothers\nand sisters among whom she had always been important as playfellow,\ninstructress, and nurse, the despondence that sunk her little heart was\nsevere.\n\nThe grandeur of the house astonished, but could not console her. The\nrooms were too large for her to move in with ease: whatever she touched\nshe expected to injure, and she crept about in constant terror of\nsomething or other; often retreating towards her own chamber to cry; and\nthe little girl who was spoken of in the drawing-room when she left it\nat night as seeming so desirably sensible of her peculiar good fortune,\nended every day's sorrows by sobbing herself to sleep. A week had\npassed in this way, and no suspicion of it conveyed by her quiet\npassive manner, when she was found one morning by her cousin Edmund, the\nyoungest of the sons, sitting crying on the attic stairs.\n\n\"My dear little cousin,\" said he, with all the gentleness of an\nexcellent nature, \"what can be the matter?\" And sitting down by her,\nhe was at great pains to overcome her shame in being so surprised, and\npersuade her to speak openly. Was she ill? or was anybody angry with\nher? or had she quarrelled with Maria and Julia? or was she puzzled\nabout anything in her lesson that he could explain? Did she, in short,\nwant anything he could possibly get her, or do for her? For a long while\nno answer could be obtained beyond a \"no, no--not at all--no, thank\nyou\"; but he still persevered; and no sooner had he begun to revert\nto her own home, than her increased sobs explained to him where the\ngrievance lay. He tried to console her.\n\n\"You are sorry to leave Mama, my dear little Fanny,\" said he, \"which\nshows you to be a very good girl; but you must remember that you are\nwith relations and friends, who all love you, and wish to make you\nhappy. Let us walk out in the park, and you shall tell me all about your\nbrothers and sisters.\"\n\nOn pursuing the subject, he found that, dear as all these brothers and\nsisters generally were, there was one among them who ran more in her\nthoughts than the rest. It was William whom she talked of most, and\nwanted most to see. William, the eldest, a year older than herself, her\nconstant companion and friend; her advocate with her mother (of whom\nhe was the darling) in every distress. \"William did not like she should\ncome away; he had told her he should miss her very much indeed.\" \"But\nWilliam will write to you, I dare say.\" \"Yes, he had promised he would,\nbut he had told _her_ to write first.\" \"And when shall you do it?\" She\nhung her head and answered hesitatingly, \"she did not know; she had not\nany paper.\"\n\n\"If that be all your difficulty, I will furnish you with paper and every\nother material, and you may write your letter whenever you choose. Would\nit make you happy to write to William?\"\n\n\"Yes, very.\"\n\n\"Then let it be done now. Come with me into the breakfast-room, we shall\nfind everything there, and be sure of having the room to ourselves.\"\n\n\"But, cousin, will it go to the post?\"\n\n\"Yes, depend upon me it shall: it shall go with the other letters; and,\nas your uncle will frank it, it will cost William nothing.\"\n\n\"My uncle!\" repeated Fanny, with a frightened look.\n\n\"Yes, when you have written the letter, I will take it to my father to\nfrank.\"\n\nFanny thought it a bold measure, but offered no further resistance; and\nthey went together into the breakfast-room, where Edmund prepared her\npaper, and ruled her lines with all the goodwill that her brother\ncould himself have felt, and probably with somewhat more exactness. He\ncontinued with her the whole time of her writing, to assist her with his\npenknife or his orthography, as either were wanted; and added to these\nattentions, which she felt very much, a kindness to her brother which\ndelighted her beyond all the rest. He wrote with his own hand his\nlove to his cousin William, and sent him half a guinea under the seal.\nFanny's feelings on the occasion were such as she believed herself\nincapable of expressing; but her countenance and a few artless words\nfully conveyed all their gratitude and delight, and her cousin began\nto find her an interesting object. He talked to her more, and, from all\nthat she said, was convinced of her having an affectionate heart, and\na strong desire of doing right; and he could perceive her to be farther\nentitled to attention by great sensibility of her situation, and great\ntimidity. He had never knowingly given her pain, but he now felt that\nshe required more positive kindness; and with that view endeavoured,\nin the first place, to lessen her fears of them all, and gave her\nespecially a great deal of good advice as to playing with Maria and\nJulia, and being as merry as possible.\n\nFrom this day Fanny grew more comfortable. She felt that she had a\nfriend, and the kindness of her cousin Edmund gave her better spirits\nwith everybody else. The place became less strange, and the people less\nformidable; and if there were some amongst them whom she could not cease\nto fear, she began at least to know their ways, and to catch the best\nmanner of conforming to them. The little rusticities and awkwardnesses\nwhich had at first made grievous inroads on the tranquillity of all,\nand not least of herself, necessarily wore away, and she was no longer\nmaterially afraid to appear before her uncle, nor did her aunt Norris's\nvoice make her start very much. To her cousins she became occasionally\nan acceptable companion. Though unworthy, from inferiority of age and\nstrength, to be their constant associate, their pleasures and schemes\nwere sometimes of a nature to make a third very useful, especially when\nthat third was of an obliging, yielding temper; and they could not but\nown, when their aunt inquired into her faults, or their brother Edmund\nurged her claims to their kindness, that \"Fanny was good-natured\nenough.\"\n\nEdmund was uniformly kind himself; and she had nothing worse to endure\non the part of Tom than that sort of merriment which a young man of\nseventeen will always think fair with a child of ten. He was just\nentering into life, full of spirits, and with all the liberal\ndispositions of an eldest son, who feels born only for expense and\nenjoyment. His kindness to his little cousin was consistent with his\nsituation and rights: he made her some very pretty presents, and laughed\nat her.\n\nAs her appearance and spirits improved, Sir Thomas and Mrs. Norris\nthought with greater satisfaction of their benevolent plan; and it\nwas pretty soon decided between them that, though far from clever, she\nshowed a tractable disposition, and seemed likely to give them little\ntrouble. A mean opinion of her abilities was not confined to _them_.\nFanny could read, work, and write, but she had been taught nothing more;\nand as her cousins found her ignorant of many things with which they had\nbeen long familiar, they thought her prodigiously stupid, and for the\nfirst two or three weeks were continually bringing some fresh report of\nit into the drawing-room. \"Dear mama, only think, my cousin cannot\nput the map of Europe together--or my cousin cannot tell the principal\nrivers in Russia--or, she never heard of Asia Minor--or she does\nnot know the difference between water-colours and crayons!--How\nstrange!--Did you ever hear anything so stupid?\"\n\n\"My dear,\" their considerate aunt would reply, \"it is very bad, but\nyou must not expect everybody to be as forward and quick at learning as\nyourself.\"\n\n\"But, aunt, she is really so very ignorant!--Do you know, we asked her\nlast night which way she would go to get to Ireland; and she said, she\nshould cross to the Isle of Wight. She thinks of nothing but the Isle of\nWight, and she calls it _the_ _Island_, as if there were no other island\nin the world. I am sure I should have been ashamed of myself, if I had\nnot known better long before I was so old as she is. I cannot remember\nthe time when I did not know a great deal that she has not the least\nnotion of yet. How long ago it is, aunt, since we used to repeat the\nchronological order of the kings of England, with the dates of their\naccession, and most of the principal events of their reigns!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" added the other; \"and of the Roman emperors as low as Severus;\nbesides a great deal of the heathen mythology, and all the metals,\nsemi-metals, planets, and distinguished philosophers.\"\n\n\"Very true indeed, my dears, but you are blessed with wonderful\nmemories, and your poor cousin has probably none at all. There is a\nvast deal of difference in memories, as well as in everything else,\nand therefore you must make allowance for your cousin, and pity her\ndeficiency. And remember that, if you are ever so forward and clever\nyourselves, you should always be modest; for, much as you know already,\nthere is a great deal more for you to learn.\"\n\n\"Yes, I know there is, till I am seventeen. But I must tell you another\nthing of Fanny, so odd and so stupid. Do you know, she says she does not\nwant to learn either music or drawing.\"\n\n\"To be sure, my dear, that is very stupid indeed, and shows a great\nwant of genius and emulation. But, all things considered, I do not know\nwhether it is not as well that it should be so, for, though you know\n(owing to me) your papa and mama are so good as to bring her up with\nyou, it is not at all necessary that she should be as accomplished as\nyou are;--on the contrary, it is much more desirable that there should\nbe a difference.\"\n\nSuch were the counsels by which Mrs. Norris assisted to form her nieces'\nminds; and it is not very wonderful that, with all their promising\ntalents and early information, they should be entirely deficient in the\nless common acquirements of self-knowledge, generosity and humility. In\neverything but disposition they were admirably taught. Sir Thomas did\nnot know what was wanting, because, though a truly anxious father, he\nwas not outwardly affectionate, and the reserve of his manner repressed\nall the flow of their spirits before him.\n\nTo the education of her daughters Lady Bertram paid not the smallest\nattention. She had not time for such cares. She was a woman who spent\nher days in sitting, nicely dressed, on a sofa, doing some long piece of\nneedlework, of little use and no beauty, thinking more of her pug than\nher children, but very indulgent to the latter when it did not put\nherself to inconvenience, guided in everything important by Sir Thomas,\nand in smaller concerns by her sister. Had she possessed greater leisure\nfor the service of her girls, she would probably have supposed it\nunnecessary, for they were under the care of a governess, with proper\nmasters, and could want nothing more. As for Fanny's being stupid at\nlearning, \"she could only say it was very unlucky, but some people\n_were_ stupid, and Fanny must take more pains: she did not know what\nelse was to be done; and, except her being so dull, she must add she saw\nno harm in the poor little thing, and always found her very handy and\nquick in carrying messages, and fetching what she wanted.\"\n\nFanny, with all her faults of ignorance and timidity, was fixed at\nMansfield Park, and learning to transfer in its favour much of her\nattachment to her former home, grew up there not unhappily among her\ncousins. There was no positive ill-nature in Maria or Julia; and though\nFanny was often mortified by their treatment of her, she thought too\nlowly of her own claims to feel injured by it.\n\nFrom about the time of her entering the family, Lady Bertram, in\nconsequence of a little ill-health, and a great deal of indolence, gave\nup the house in town, which she had been used to occupy every spring,\nand remained wholly in the country, leaving Sir Thomas to attend his\nduty in Parliament, with whatever increase or diminution of comfort\nmight arise from her absence. In the country, therefore, the Miss\nBertrams continued to exercise their memories, practise their duets,\nand grow tall and womanly: and their father saw them becoming in person,\nmanner, and accomplishments, everything that could satisfy his anxiety.\nHis eldest son was careless and extravagant, and had already given him\nmuch uneasiness; but his other children promised him nothing but good.\nHis daughters, he felt, while they retained the name of Bertram, must\nbe giving it new grace, and in quitting it, he trusted, would extend\nits respectable alliances; and the character of Edmund, his strong good\nsense and uprightness of mind, bid most fairly for utility, honour, and\nhappiness to himself and all his connexions. He was to be a clergyman.\n\nAmid the cares and the complacency which his own children suggested,\nSir Thomas did not forget to do what he could for the children of Mrs.\nPrice: he assisted her liberally in the education and disposal of her\nsons as they became old enough for a determinate pursuit; and Fanny,\nthough almost totally separated from her family, was sensible of the\ntruest satisfaction in hearing of any kindness towards them, or of\nanything at all promising in their situation or conduct. Once, and once\nonly, in the course of many years, had she the happiness of being with\nWilliam. Of the rest she saw nothing: nobody seemed to think of her ever\ngoing amongst them again, even for a visit, nobody at home seemed to\nwant her; but William determining, soon after her removal, to be a\nsailor, was invited to spend a week with his sister in Northamptonshire\nbefore he went to sea. Their eager affection in meeting, their exquisite\ndelight in being together, their hours of happy mirth, and moments of\nserious conference, may be imagined; as well as the sanguine views and\nspirits of the boy even to the last, and the misery of the girl when he\nleft her. Luckily the visit happened in the Christmas holidays, when she\ncould directly look for comfort to her cousin Edmund; and he told her\nsuch charming things of what William was to do, and be hereafter, in\nconsequence of his profession, as made her gradually admit that the\nseparation might have some use. Edmund's friendship never failed her:\nhis leaving Eton for Oxford made no change in his kind dispositions, and\nonly afforded more frequent opportunities of proving them. Without any\ndisplay of doing more than the rest, or any fear of doing too much,\nhe was always true to her interests, and considerate of her feelings,\ntrying to make her good qualities understood, and to conquer the\ndiffidence which prevented their being more apparent; giving her advice,\nconsolation, and encouragement.\n\nKept back as she was by everybody else, his single support could not\nbring her forward; but his attentions were otherwise of the highest\nimportance in assisting the improvement of her mind, and extending its\npleasures. He knew her to be clever, to have a quick apprehension\nas well as good sense, and a fondness for reading, which, properly\ndirected, must be an education in itself. Miss Lee taught her French,\nand heard her read the daily portion of history; but he recommended\nthe books which charmed her leisure hours, he encouraged her taste, and\ncorrected her judgment: he made reading useful by talking to her of what\nshe read, and heightened its attraction by judicious praise. In return\nfor such services she loved him better than anybody in the world except\nWilliam: her heart was divided between the two.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nThe first event of any importance in the family was the death of Mr.\nNorris, which happened when Fanny was about fifteen, and necessarily\nintroduced alterations and novelties. Mrs. Norris, on quitting the\nParsonage, removed first to the Park, and afterwards to a small house\nof Sir Thomas's in the village, and consoled herself for the loss of her\nhusband by considering that she could do very well without him; and for\nher reduction of income by the evident necessity of stricter economy.\n\nThe living was hereafter for Edmund; and, had his uncle died a few years\nsooner, it would have been duly given to some friend to hold till he\nwere old enough for orders. But Tom's extravagance had, previous to\nthat event, been so great as to render a different disposal of the next\npresentation necessary, and the younger brother must help to pay for the\npleasures of the elder. There was another family living actually held\nfor Edmund; but though this circumstance had made the arrangement\nsomewhat easier to Sir Thomas's conscience, he could not but feel it to\nbe an act of injustice, and he earnestly tried to impress his eldest son\nwith the same conviction, in the hope of its producing a better effect\nthan anything he had yet been able to say or do.\n\n\"I blush for you, Tom,\" said he, in his most dignified manner; \"I blush\nfor the expedient which I am driven on, and I trust I may pity your\nfeelings as a brother on the occasion. You have robbed Edmund for ten,\ntwenty, thirty years, perhaps for life, of more than half the income\nwhich ought to be his. It may hereafter be in my power, or in yours\n(I hope it will), to procure him better preferment; but it must not\nbe forgotten that no benefit of that sort would have been beyond his\nnatural claims on us, and that nothing can, in fact, be an equivalent\nfor the certain advantage which he is now obliged to forego through the\nurgency of your debts.\"\n\nTom listened with some shame and some sorrow; but escaping as quickly as\npossible, could soon with cheerful selfishness reflect, firstly, that he\nhad not been half so much in debt as some of his friends; secondly, that\nhis father had made a most tiresome piece of work of it; and,\nthirdly, that the future incumbent, whoever he might be, would, in all\nprobability, die very soon.\n\nOn Mr. Norris's death the presentation became the right of a Dr. Grant,\nwho came consequently to reside at Mansfield; and on proving to be a\nhearty man of forty-five, seemed likely to disappoint Mr. Bertram's\ncalculations. But \"no, he was a short-necked, apoplectic sort of fellow,\nand, plied well with good things, would soon pop off.\"\n\nHe had a wife about fifteen years his junior, but no children; and\nthey entered the neighbourhood with the usual fair report of being very\nrespectable, agreeable people.\n\nThe time was now come when Sir Thomas expected his sister-in-law to\nclaim her share in their niece, the change in Mrs. Norris's situation,\nand the improvement in Fanny's age, seeming not merely to do away any\nformer objection to their living together, but even to give it the most\ndecided eligibility; and as his own circumstances were rendered less\nfair than heretofore, by some recent losses on his West India estate, in\naddition to his eldest son's extravagance, it became not undesirable\nto himself to be relieved from the expense of her support, and the\nobligation of her future provision. In the fullness of his belief that\nsuch a thing must be, he mentioned its probability to his wife; and the\nfirst time of the subject's occurring to her again happening to be when\nFanny was present, she calmly observed to her, \"So, Fanny, you are going\nto leave us, and live with my sister. How shall you like it?\"\n\nFanny was too much surprised to do more than repeat her aunt's words,\n\"Going to leave you?\"\n\n\"Yes, my dear; why should you be astonished? You have been five years\nwith us, and my sister always meant to take you when Mr. Norris died.\nBut you must come up and tack on my patterns all the same.\"\n\nThe news was as disagreeable to Fanny as it had been unexpected. She had\nnever received kindness from her aunt Norris, and could not love her.\n\n\"I shall be very sorry to go away,\" said she, with a faltering voice.\n\n\"Yes, I dare say you will; _that's_ natural enough. I suppose you have\nhad as little to vex you since you came into this house as any creature\nin the world.\"\n\n\"I hope I am not ungrateful, aunt,\" said Fanny modestly.\n\n\"No, my dear; I hope not. I have always found you a very good girl.\"\n\n\"And am I never to live here again?\"\n\n\"Never, my dear; but you are sure of a comfortable home. It can make\nvery little difference to you, whether you are in one house or the\nother.\"\n\nFanny left the room with a very sorrowful heart; she could not feel the\ndifference to be so small, she could not think of living with her aunt\nwith anything like satisfaction. As soon as she met with Edmund she told\nhim her distress.\n\n\"Cousin,\" said she, \"something is going to happen which I do not like\nat all; and though you have often persuaded me into being reconciled to\nthings that I disliked at first, you will not be able to do it now. I am\ngoing to live entirely with my aunt Norris.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\"\n\n\"Yes; my aunt Bertram has just told me so. It is quite settled. I am to\nleave Mansfield Park, and go to the White House, I suppose, as soon as\nshe is removed there.\"\n\n\"Well, Fanny, and if the plan were not unpleasant to you, I should call\nit an excellent one.\"\n\n\"Oh, cousin!\"\n\n\"It has everything else in its favour. My aunt is acting like a sensible\nwoman in wishing for you. She is choosing a friend and companion exactly\nwhere she ought, and I am glad her love of money does not interfere.\nYou will be what you ought to be to her. I hope it does not distress you\nvery much, Fanny?\"\n\n\"Indeed it does: I cannot like it. I love this house and everything in\nit: I shall love nothing there. You know how uncomfortable I feel with\nher.\"\n\n\"I can say nothing for her manner to you as a child; but it was the\nsame with us all, or nearly so. She never knew how to be pleasant to\nchildren. But you are now of an age to be treated better; I think she is\nbehaving better already; and when you are her only companion, you _must_\nbe important to her.\"\n\n\"I can never be important to any one.\"\n\n\"What is to prevent you?\"\n\n\"Everything. My situation, my foolishness and awkwardness.\"\n\n\"As to your foolishness and awkwardness, my dear Fanny, believe me, you\nnever have a shadow of either, but in using the words so improperly.\nThere is no reason in the world why you should not be important where\nyou are known. You have good sense, and a sweet temper, and I am sure\nyou have a grateful heart, that could never receive kindness without\nwishing to return it. I do not know any better qualifications for a\nfriend and companion.\"\n\n\"You are too kind,\" said Fanny, colouring at such praise; \"how shall I\never thank you as I ought, for thinking so well of me. Oh! cousin, if I\nam to go away, I shall remember your goodness to the last moment of my\nlife.\"\n\n\"Why, indeed, Fanny, I should hope to be remembered at such a distance\nas the White House. You speak as if you were going two hundred miles\noff instead of only across the park; but you will belong to us almost\nas much as ever. The two families will be meeting every day in the\nyear. The only difference will be that, living with your aunt, you will\nnecessarily be brought forward as you ought to be. _Here_ there are\ntoo many whom you can hide behind; but with _her_ you will be forced to\nspeak for yourself.\"\n\n\"Oh! I do not say so.\"\n\n\"I must say it, and say it with pleasure. Mrs. Norris is much better\nfitted than my mother for having the charge of you now. She is of a\ntemper to do a great deal for anybody she really interests herself\nabout, and she will force you to do justice to your natural powers.\"\n\nFanny sighed, and said, \"I cannot see things as you do; but I ought to\nbelieve you to be right rather than myself, and I am very much obliged\nto you for trying to reconcile me to what must be. If I could suppose\nmy aunt really to care for me, it would be delightful to feel myself of\nconsequence to anybody. _Here_, I know, I am of none, and yet I love the\nplace so well.\"\n\n\"The place, Fanny, is what you will not quit, though you quit the house.\nYou will have as free a command of the park and gardens as ever. Even\n_your_ constant little heart need not take fright at such a nominal\nchange. You will have the same walks to frequent, the same library to\nchoose from, the same people to look at, the same horse to ride.\"\n\n\"Very true. Yes, dear old grey pony! Ah! cousin, when I remember how\nmuch I used to dread riding, what terrors it gave me to hear it talked\nof as likely to do me good (oh! how I have trembled at my uncle's\nopening his lips if horses were talked of), and then think of the kind\npains you took to reason and persuade me out of my fears, and convince\nme that I should like it after a little while, and feel how right you\nproved to be, I am inclined to hope you may always prophesy as well.\"\n\n\"And I am quite convinced that your being with Mrs. Norris will be as\ngood for your mind as riding has been for your health, and as much for\nyour ultimate happiness too.\"\n\nSo ended their discourse, which, for any very appropriate service it\ncould render Fanny, might as well have been spared, for Mrs. Norris had\nnot the smallest intention of taking her. It had never occurred to her,\non the present occasion, but as a thing to be carefully avoided. To\nprevent its being expected, she had fixed on the smallest habitation\nwhich could rank as genteel among the buildings of Mansfield parish,\nthe White House being only just large enough to receive herself and her\nservants, and allow a spare room for a friend, of which she made a\nvery particular point. The spare rooms at the Parsonage had never been\nwanted, but the absolute necessity of a spare room for a friend was now\nnever forgotten. Not all her precautions, however, could save her from\nbeing suspected of something better; or, perhaps, her very display of\nthe importance of a spare room might have misled Sir Thomas to suppose\nit really intended for Fanny. Lady Bertram soon brought the matter to a\ncertainty by carelessly observing to Mrs. Norris--\n\n\"I think, sister, we need not keep Miss Lee any longer, when Fanny goes\nto live with you.\"\n\nMrs. Norris almost started. \"Live with me, dear Lady Bertram! what do\nyou mean?\"\n\n\"Is she not to live with you? I thought you had settled it with Sir\nThomas.\"\n\n\"Me! never. I never spoke a syllable about it to Sir Thomas, nor he to\nme. Fanny live with me! the last thing in the world for me to think\nof, or for anybody to wish that really knows us both. Good heaven! what\ncould I do with Fanny? Me! a poor, helpless, forlorn widow, unfit for\nanything, my spirits quite broke down; what could I do with a girl at\nher time of life? A girl of fifteen! the very age of all others to need\nmost attention and care, and put the cheerfullest spirits to the test!\nSure Sir Thomas could not seriously expect such a thing! Sir Thomas is\ntoo much my friend. Nobody that wishes me well, I am sure, would propose\nit. How came Sir Thomas to speak to you about it?\"\n\n\"Indeed, I do not know. I suppose he thought it best.\"\n\n\"But what did he say? He could not say he _wished_ me to take Fanny. I\nam sure in his heart he could not wish me to do it.\"\n\n\"No; he only said he thought it very likely; and I thought so too. We\nboth thought it would be a comfort to you. But if you do not like it,\nthere is no more to be said. She is no encumbrance here.\"\n\n\"Dear sister, if you consider my unhappy state, how can she be any\ncomfort to me? Here am I, a poor desolate widow, deprived of the best of\nhusbands, my health gone in attending and nursing him, my spirits still\nworse, all my peace in this world destroyed, with hardly enough to\nsupport me in the rank of a gentlewoman, and enable me to live so as not\nto disgrace the memory of the dear departed--what possible comfort could\nI have in taking such a charge upon me as Fanny? If I could wish it for\nmy own sake, I would not do so unjust a thing by the poor girl. She\nis in good hands, and sure of doing well. I must struggle through my\nsorrows and difficulties as I can.\"\n\n\"Then you will not mind living by yourself quite alone?\"\n\n\"Lady Bertram, I do not complain. I know I cannot live as I have done,\nbut I must retrench where I can, and learn to be a better manager. I\n_have_ _been_ a liberal housekeeper enough, but I shall not be ashamed\nto practise economy now. My situation is as much altered as my income.\nA great many things were due from poor Mr. Norris, as clergyman of the\nparish, that cannot be expected from me. It is unknown how much was\nconsumed in our kitchen by odd comers and goers. At the White House,\nmatters must be better looked after. I _must_ live within my income, or\nI shall be miserable; and I own it would give me great satisfaction to\nbe able to do rather more, to lay by a little at the end of the year.\"\n\n\"I dare say you will. You always do, don't you?\"\n\n\"My object, Lady Bertram, is to be of use to those that come after me.\nIt is for your children's good that I wish to be richer. I have nobody\nelse to care for, but I should be very glad to think I could leave a\nlittle trifle among them worth their having.\"\n\n\"You are very good, but do not trouble yourself about them. They are\nsure of being well provided for. Sir Thomas will take care of that.\"\n\n\"Why, you know, Sir Thomas's means will be rather straitened if the\nAntigua estate is to make such poor returns.\"\n\n\"Oh! _that_ will soon be settled. Sir Thomas has been writing about it,\nI know.\"\n\n\"Well, Lady Bertram,\" said Mrs. Norris, moving to go, \"I can only say\nthat my sole desire is to be of use to your family: and so, if Sir\nThomas should ever speak again about my taking Fanny, you will be able\nto say that my health and spirits put it quite out of the question;\nbesides that, I really should not have a bed to give her, for I must\nkeep a spare room for a friend.\"\n\nLady Bertram repeated enough of this conversation to her husband to\nconvince him how much he had mistaken his sister-in-law's views; and\nshe was from that moment perfectly safe from all expectation, or the\nslightest allusion to it from him. He could not but wonder at her\nrefusing to do anything for a niece whom she had been so forward to\nadopt; but, as she took early care to make him, as well as Lady Bertram,\nunderstand that whatever she possessed was designed for their family,\nhe soon grew reconciled to a distinction which, at the same time that it\nwas advantageous and complimentary to them, would enable him better to\nprovide for Fanny himself.\n\nFanny soon learnt how unnecessary had been her fears of a removal;\nand her spontaneous, untaught felicity on the discovery, conveyed some\nconsolation to Edmund for his disappointment in what he had expected to\nbe so essentially serviceable to her. Mrs. Norris took possession of the\nWhite House, the Grants arrived at the Parsonage, and these events over,\neverything at Mansfield went on for some time as usual.\n\nThe Grants showing a disposition to be friendly and sociable, gave great\nsatisfaction in the main among their new acquaintance. They had their\nfaults, and Mrs. Norris soon found them out. The Doctor was very fond of\neating, and would have a good dinner every day; and Mrs. Grant, instead\nof contriving to gratify him at little expense, gave her cook as high\nwages as they did at Mansfield Park, and was scarcely ever seen in her\noffices. Mrs. Norris could not speak with any temper of such grievances,\nnor of the quantity of butter and eggs that were regularly consumed\nin the house. \"Nobody loved plenty and hospitality more than herself;\nnobody more hated pitiful doings; the Parsonage, she believed, had never\nbeen wanting in comforts of any sort, had never borne a bad character\nin _her_ _time_, but this was a way of going on that she could not\nunderstand. A fine lady in a country parsonage was quite out of place.\n_Her_ store-room, she thought, might have been good enough for Mrs.\nGrant to go into. Inquire where she would, she could not find out that\nMrs. Grant had ever had more than five thousand pounds.\"\n\nLady Bertram listened without much interest to this sort of invective.\nShe could not enter into the wrongs of an economist, but she felt all\nthe injuries of beauty in Mrs. Grant's being so well settled in life\nwithout being handsome, and expressed her astonishment on that point\nalmost as often, though not so diffusely, as Mrs. Norris discussed the\nother.\n\nThese opinions had been hardly canvassed a year before another event\narose of such importance in the family, as might fairly claim some place\nin the thoughts and conversation of the ladies. Sir Thomas found it\nexpedient to go to Antigua himself, for the better arrangement of his\naffairs, and he took his eldest son with him, in the hope of detaching\nhim from some bad connexions at home. They left England with the\nprobability of being nearly a twelvemonth absent.\n\nThe necessity of the measure in a pecuniary light, and the hope of its\nutility to his son, reconciled Sir Thomas to the effort of quitting the\nrest of his family, and of leaving his daughters to the direction of\nothers at their present most interesting time of life. He could not\nthink Lady Bertram quite equal to supply his place with them, or rather,\nto perform what should have been her own; but, in Mrs. Norris's watchful\nattention, and in Edmund's judgment, he had sufficient confidence to\nmake him go without fears for their conduct.\n\nLady Bertram did not at all like to have her husband leave her; but she\nwas not disturbed by any alarm for his safety, or solicitude for his\ncomfort, being one of those persons who think nothing can be dangerous,\nor difficult, or fatiguing to anybody but themselves.\n\nThe Miss Bertrams were much to be pitied on the occasion: not for their\nsorrow, but for their want of it. Their father was no object of love to\nthem; he had never seemed the friend of their pleasures, and his absence\nwas unhappily most welcome. They were relieved by it from all restraint;\nand without aiming at one gratification that would probably have been\nforbidden by Sir Thomas, they felt themselves immediately at their\nown disposal, and to have every indulgence within their reach. Fanny's\nrelief, and her consciousness of it, were quite equal to her cousins';\nbut a more tender nature suggested that her feelings were ungrateful,\nand she really grieved because she could not grieve. \"Sir Thomas, who\nhad done so much for her and her brothers, and who was gone perhaps\nnever to return! that she should see him go without a tear! it was a\nshameful insensibility.\" He had said to her, moreover, on the very last\nmorning, that he hoped she might see William again in the course of the\nensuing winter, and had charged her to write and invite him to Mansfield\nas soon as the squadron to which he belonged should be known to be\nin England. \"This was so thoughtful and kind!\" and would he only have\nsmiled upon her, and called her \"my dear Fanny,\" while he said it, every\nformer frown or cold address might have been forgotten. But he had ended\nhis speech in a way to sink her in sad mortification, by adding, \"If\nWilliam does come to Mansfield, I hope you may be able to convince him\nthat the many years which have passed since you parted have not been\nspent on your side entirely without improvement; though, I fear, he must\nfind his sister at sixteen in some respects too much like his sister at\nten.\" She cried bitterly over this reflection when her uncle was\ngone; and her cousins, on seeing her with red eyes, set her down as a\nhypocrite.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nTom Bertram had of late spent so little of his time at home that he\ncould be only nominally missed; and Lady Bertram was soon astonished\nto find how very well they did even without his father, how well Edmund\ncould supply his place in carving, talking to the steward, writing to\nthe attorney, settling with the servants, and equally saving her\nfrom all possible fatigue or exertion in every particular but that of\ndirecting her letters.\n\nThe earliest intelligence of the travellers' safe arrival at Antigua,\nafter a favourable voyage, was received; though not before Mrs. Norris\nhad been indulging in very dreadful fears, and trying to make Edmund\nparticipate them whenever she could get him alone; and as she depended\non being the first person made acquainted with any fatal catastrophe,\nshe had already arranged the manner of breaking it to all the others,\nwhen Sir Thomas's assurances of their both being alive and well made it\nnecessary to lay by her agitation and affectionate preparatory speeches\nfor a while.\n\nThe winter came and passed without their being called for; the accounts\ncontinued perfectly good; and Mrs. Norris, in promoting gaieties for her\nnieces, assisting their toilets, displaying their accomplishments,\nand looking about for their future husbands, had so much to do as, in\naddition to all her own household cares, some interference in those of\nher sister, and Mrs. Grant's wasteful doings to overlook, left her very\nlittle occasion to be occupied in fears for the absent.\n\nThe Miss Bertrams were now fully established among the belles of the\nneighbourhood; and as they joined to beauty and brilliant acquirements\na manner naturally easy, and carefully formed to general civility and\nobligingness, they possessed its favour as well as its admiration. Their\nvanity was in such good order that they seemed to be quite free from it,\nand gave themselves no airs; while the praises attending such behaviour,\nsecured and brought round by their aunt, served to strengthen them in\nbelieving they had no faults.\n\nLady Bertram did not go into public with her daughters. She was too\nindolent even to accept a mother's gratification in witnessing their\nsuccess and enjoyment at the expense of any personal trouble, and the\ncharge was made over to her sister, who desired nothing better than a\npost of such honourable representation, and very thoroughly relished\nthe means it afforded her of mixing in society without having horses to\nhire.\n\nFanny had no share in the festivities of the season; but she enjoyed\nbeing avowedly useful as her aunt's companion when they called away the\nrest of the family; and, as Miss Lee had left Mansfield, she naturally\nbecame everything to Lady Bertram during the night of a ball or a party.\nShe talked to her, listened to her, read to her; and the tranquillity\nof such evenings, her perfect security in such a _tete-a-tete_ from any\nsound of unkindness, was unspeakably welcome to a mind which had seldom\nknown a pause in its alarms or embarrassments. As to her cousins'\ngaieties, she loved to hear an account of them, especially of the\nballs, and whom Edmund had danced with; but thought too lowly of her\nown situation to imagine she should ever be admitted to the same, and\nlistened, therefore, without an idea of any nearer concern in them. Upon\nthe whole, it was a comfortable winter to her; for though it brought\nno William to England, the never-failing hope of his arrival was worth\nmuch.\n\nThe ensuing spring deprived her of her valued friend, the old grey pony;\nand for some time she was in danger of feeling the loss in her health as\nwell as in her affections; for in spite of the acknowledged importance\nof her riding on horse-back, no measures were taken for mounting her\nagain, \"because,\" as it was observed by her aunts, \"she might ride one\nof her cousin's horses at any time when they did not want them,\" and as\nthe Miss Bertrams regularly wanted their horses every fine day, and had\nno idea of carrying their obliging manners to the sacrifice of any real\npleasure, that time, of course, never came. They took their cheerful\nrides in the fine mornings of April and May; and Fanny either sat at\nhome the whole day with one aunt, or walked beyond her strength at\nthe instigation of the other: Lady Bertram holding exercise to be as\nunnecessary for everybody as it was unpleasant to herself; and Mrs.\nNorris, who was walking all day, thinking everybody ought to walk\nas much. Edmund was absent at this time, or the evil would have\nbeen earlier remedied. When he returned, to understand how Fanny was\nsituated, and perceived its ill effects, there seemed with him but one\nthing to be done; and that \"Fanny must have a horse\" was the resolute\ndeclaration with which he opposed whatever could be urged by the\nsupineness of his mother, or the economy of his aunt, to make it appear\nunimportant. Mrs. Norris could not help thinking that some steady old\nthing might be found among the numbers belonging to the Park that would\ndo vastly well; or that one might be borrowed of the steward; or that\nperhaps Dr. Grant might now and then lend them the pony he sent to the\npost. She could not but consider it as absolutely unnecessary, and even\nimproper, that Fanny should have a regular lady's horse of her own, in\nthe style of her cousins. She was sure Sir Thomas had never intended it:\nand she must say that, to be making such a purchase in his absence, and\nadding to the great expenses of his stable, at a time when a large part\nof his income was unsettled, seemed to her very unjustifiable. \"Fanny\nmust have a horse,\" was Edmund's only reply. Mrs. Norris could not see\nit in the same light. Lady Bertram did: she entirely agreed with her son\nas to the necessity of it, and as to its being considered necessary by\nhis father; she only pleaded against there being any hurry; she only\nwanted him to wait till Sir Thomas's return, and then Sir Thomas might\nsettle it all himself. He would be at home in September, and where would\nbe the harm of only waiting till September?\n\nThough Edmund was much more displeased with his aunt than with his\nmother, as evincing least regard for her niece, he could not help paying\nmore attention to what she said; and at length determined on a method of\nproceeding which would obviate the risk of his father's thinking he\nhad done too much, and at the same time procure for Fanny the immediate\nmeans of exercise, which he could not bear she should be without. He had\nthree horses of his own, but not one that would carry a woman. Two\nof them were hunters; the third, a useful road-horse: this third he\nresolved to exchange for one that his cousin might ride; he knew where\nsuch a one was to be met with; and having once made up his mind, the\nwhole business was soon completed. The new mare proved a treasure; with\na very little trouble she became exactly calculated for the purpose,\nand Fanny was then put in almost full possession of her. She had not\nsupposed before that anything could ever suit her like the old grey\npony; but her delight in Edmund's mare was far beyond any former\npleasure of the sort; and the addition it was ever receiving in the\nconsideration of that kindness from which her pleasure sprung, was\nbeyond all her words to express. She regarded her cousin as an example\nof everything good and great, as possessing worth which no one but\nherself could ever appreciate, and as entitled to such gratitude from\nher as no feelings could be strong enough to pay. Her sentiments towards\nhim were compounded of all that was respectful, grateful, confiding, and\ntender.\n\nAs the horse continued in name, as well as fact, the property of Edmund,\nMrs. Norris could tolerate its being for Fanny's use; and had Lady\nBertram ever thought about her own objection again, he might have\nbeen excused in her eyes for not waiting till Sir Thomas's return in\nSeptember, for when September came Sir Thomas was still abroad, and\nwithout any near prospect of finishing his business. Unfavourable\ncircumstances had suddenly arisen at a moment when he was beginning to\nturn all his thoughts towards England; and the very great uncertainty\nin which everything was then involved determined him on sending home his\nson, and waiting the final arrangement by himself. Tom arrived safely,\nbringing an excellent account of his father's health; but to very little\npurpose, as far as Mrs. Norris was concerned. Sir Thomas's sending away\nhis son seemed to her so like a parent's care, under the influence of a\nforeboding of evil to himself, that she could not help feeling dreadful\npresentiments; and as the long evenings of autumn came on, was so\nterribly haunted by these ideas, in the sad solitariness of her cottage,\nas to be obliged to take daily refuge in the dining-room of the Park.\nThe return of winter engagements, however, was not without its effect;\nand in the course of their progress, her mind became so pleasantly\noccupied in superintending the fortunes of her eldest niece, as\ntolerably to quiet her nerves. \"If poor Sir Thomas were fated never to\nreturn, it would be peculiarly consoling to see their dear Maria well\nmarried,\" she very often thought; always when they were in the company\nof men of fortune, and particularly on the introduction of a young man\nwho had recently succeeded to one of the largest estates and finest\nplaces in the country.\n\nMr. Rushworth was from the first struck with the beauty of Miss Bertram,\nand, being inclined to marry, soon fancied himself in love. He was\na heavy young man, with not more than common sense; but as there was\nnothing disagreeable in his figure or address, the young lady was well\npleased with her conquest. Being now in her twenty-first year, Maria\nBertram was beginning to think matrimony a duty; and as a marriage with\nMr. Rushworth would give her the enjoyment of a larger income than her\nfather's, as well as ensure her the house in town, which was now a prime\nobject, it became, by the same rule of moral obligation, her evident\nduty to marry Mr. Rushworth if she could. Mrs. Norris was most zealous\nin promoting the match, by every suggestion and contrivance likely to\nenhance its desirableness to either party; and, among other means, by\nseeking an intimacy with the gentleman's mother, who at present lived\nwith him, and to whom she even forced Lady Bertram to go through ten\nmiles of indifferent road to pay a morning visit. It was not long before\na good understanding took place between this lady and herself. Mrs.\nRushworth acknowledged herself very desirous that her son should marry,\nand declared that of all the young ladies she had ever seen, Miss\nBertram seemed, by her amiable qualities and accomplishments, the best\nadapted to make him happy. Mrs. Norris accepted the compliment,\nand admired the nice discernment of character which could so well\ndistinguish merit. Maria was indeed the pride and delight of them\nall--perfectly faultless--an angel; and, of course, so surrounded by\nadmirers, must be difficult in her choice: but yet, as far as Mrs.\nNorris could allow herself to decide on so short an acquaintance, Mr.\nRushworth appeared precisely the young man to deserve and attach her.\n\nAfter dancing with each other at a proper number of balls, the young\npeople justified these opinions, and an engagement, with a due reference\nto the absent Sir Thomas, was entered into, much to the satisfaction\nof their respective families, and of the general lookers-on of the\nneighbourhood, who had, for many weeks past, felt the expediency of Mr.\nRushworth's marrying Miss Bertram.\n\nIt was some months before Sir Thomas's consent could be received; but,\nin the meanwhile, as no one felt a doubt of his most cordial pleasure\nin the connexion, the intercourse of the two families was carried\non without restraint, and no other attempt made at secrecy than Mrs.\nNorris's talking of it everywhere as a matter not to be talked of at\npresent.\n\nEdmund was the only one of the family who could see a fault in the\nbusiness; but no representation of his aunt's could induce him to find\nMr. Rushworth a desirable companion. He could allow his sister to be\nthe best judge of her own happiness, but he was not pleased that her\nhappiness should centre in a large income; nor could he refrain from\noften saying to himself, in Mr. Rushworth's company--\"If this man had\nnot twelve thousand a year, he would be a very stupid fellow.\"\n\nSir Thomas, however, was truly happy in the prospect of an alliance\nso unquestionably advantageous, and of which he heard nothing but the\nperfectly good and agreeable. It was a connexion exactly of the right\nsort--in the same county, and the same interest--and his most hearty\nconcurrence was conveyed as soon as possible. He only conditioned that\nthe marriage should not take place before his return, which he was again\nlooking eagerly forward to. He wrote in April, and had strong hopes\nof settling everything to his entire satisfaction, and leaving Antigua\nbefore the end of the summer.\n\nSuch was the state of affairs in the month of July; and Fanny had just\nreached her eighteenth year, when the society of the village received\nan addition in the brother and sister of Mrs. Grant, a Mr. and Miss\nCrawford, the children of her mother by a second marriage. They were\nyoung people of fortune. The son had a good estate in Norfolk, the\ndaughter twenty thousand pounds. As children, their sister had been\nalways very fond of them; but, as her own marriage had been soon\nfollowed by the death of their common parent, which left them to the\ncare of a brother of their father, of whom Mrs. Grant knew nothing, she\nhad scarcely seen them since. In their uncle's house they had found a\nkind home. Admiral and Mrs. Crawford, though agreeing in nothing else,\nwere united in affection for these children, or, at least, were no\nfarther adverse in their feelings than that each had their favourite, to\nwhom they showed the greatest fondness of the two. The Admiral delighted\nin the boy, Mrs. Crawford doted on the girl; and it was the lady's death\nwhich now obliged her _protegee_, after some months' further trial at\nher uncle's house, to find another home. Admiral Crawford was a man of\nvicious conduct, who chose, instead of retaining his niece, to bring his\nmistress under his own roof; and to this Mrs. Grant was indebted for her\nsister's proposal of coming to her, a measure quite as welcome on one\nside as it could be expedient on the other; for Mrs. Grant, having by\nthis time run through the usual resources of ladies residing in the\ncountry without a family of children--having more than filled her\nfavourite sitting-room with pretty furniture, and made a choice\ncollection of plants and poultry--was very much in want of some variety\nat home. The arrival, therefore, of a sister whom she had always loved,\nand now hoped to retain with her as long as she remained single, was\nhighly agreeable; and her chief anxiety was lest Mansfield should not\nsatisfy the habits of a young woman who had been mostly used to London.\n\nMiss Crawford was not entirely free from similar apprehensions, though\nthey arose principally from doubts of her sister's style of living and\ntone of society; and it was not till after she had tried in vain to\npersuade her brother to settle with her at his own country house,\nthat she could resolve to hazard herself among her other relations. To\nanything like a permanence of abode, or limitation of society, Henry\nCrawford had, unluckily, a great dislike: he could not accommodate his\nsister in an article of such importance; but he escorted her, with the\nutmost kindness, into Northamptonshire, and as readily engaged to fetch\nher away again, at half an hour's notice, whenever she were weary of the\nplace.\n\nThe meeting was very satisfactory on each side. Miss Crawford found a\nsister without preciseness or rusticity, a sister's husband who looked\nthe gentleman, and a house commodious and well fitted up; and Mrs. Grant\nreceived in those whom she hoped to love better than ever a young man\nand woman of very prepossessing appearance. Mary Crawford was remarkably\npretty; Henry, though not handsome, had air and countenance; the manners\nof both were lively and pleasant, and Mrs. Grant immediately gave them\ncredit for everything else. She was delighted with each, but Mary was\nher dearest object; and having never been able to glory in beauty of her\nown, she thoroughly enjoyed the power of being proud of her sister's.\nShe had not waited her arrival to look out for a suitable match for her:\nshe had fixed on Tom Bertram; the eldest son of a baronet was not too\ngood for a girl of twenty thousand pounds, with all the elegance\nand accomplishments which Mrs. Grant foresaw in her; and being a\nwarm-hearted, unreserved woman, Mary had not been three hours in the\nhouse before she told her what she had planned.\n\nMiss Crawford was glad to find a family of such consequence so very near\nthem, and not at all displeased either at her sister's early care, or\nthe choice it had fallen on. Matrimony was her object, provided she\ncould marry well: and having seen Mr. Bertram in town, she knew that\nobjection could no more be made to his person than to his situation in\nlife. While she treated it as a joke, therefore, she did not forget to\nthink of it seriously. The scheme was soon repeated to Henry.\n\n\"And now,\" added Mrs. Grant, \"I have thought of something to make it\ncomplete. I should dearly love to settle you both in this country; and\ntherefore, Henry, you shall marry the youngest Miss Bertram, a nice,\nhandsome, good-humoured, accomplished girl, who will make you very\nhappy.\"\n\nHenry bowed and thanked her.\n\n\"My dear sister,\" said Mary, \"if you can persuade him into anything\nof the sort, it will be a fresh matter of delight to me to find myself\nallied to anybody so clever, and I shall only regret that you have\nnot half a dozen daughters to dispose of. If you can persuade Henry\nto marry, you must have the address of a Frenchwoman. All that English\nabilities can do has been tried already. I have three very particular\nfriends who have been all dying for him in their turn; and the pains\nwhich they, their mothers (very clever women), as well as my dear aunt\nand myself, have taken to reason, coax, or trick him into marrying, is\ninconceivable! He is the most horrible flirt that can be imagined. If\nyour Miss Bertrams do not like to have their hearts broke, let them\navoid Henry.\"\n\n\"My dear brother, I will not believe this of you.\"\n\n\"No, I am sure you are too good. You will be kinder than Mary. You\nwill allow for the doubts of youth and inexperience. I am of a cautious\ntemper, and unwilling to risk my happiness in a hurry. Nobody can\nthink more highly of the matrimonial state than myself. I consider the\nblessing of a wife as most justly described in those discreet lines of\nthe poet--'Heaven's _last_ best gift.'\"\n\n\"There, Mrs. Grant, you see how he dwells on one word, and only look\nat his smile. I assure you he is very detestable; the Admiral's lessons\nhave quite spoiled him.\"\n\n\"I pay very little regard,\" said Mrs. Grant, \"to what any young person\nsays on the subject of marriage. If they profess a disinclination for\nit, I only set it down that they have not yet seen the right person.\"\n\nDr. Grant laughingly congratulated Miss Crawford on feeling no\ndisinclination to the state herself.\n\n\"Oh yes! I am not at all ashamed of it. I would have everybody marry if\nthey can do it properly: I do not like to have people throw themselves\naway; but everybody should marry as soon as they can do it to\nadvantage.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nThe young people were pleased with each other from the first. On each\nside there was much to attract, and their acquaintance soon promised as\nearly an intimacy as good manners would warrant. Miss Crawford's beauty\ndid her no disservice with the Miss Bertrams. They were too handsome\nthemselves to dislike any woman for being so too, and were almost as\nmuch charmed as their brothers with her lively dark eye, clear brown\ncomplexion, and general prettiness. Had she been tall, full formed, and\nfair, it might have been more of a trial: but as it was, there could be\nno comparison; and she was most allowably a sweet, pretty girl, while\nthey were the finest young women in the country.\n\nHer brother was not handsome: no, when they first saw him he was\nabsolutely plain, black and plain; but still he was the gentleman, with\na pleasing address. The second meeting proved him not so very plain:\nhe was plain, to be sure, but then he had so much countenance, and his\nteeth were so good, and he was so well made, that one soon forgot he was\nplain; and after a third interview, after dining in company with him at\nthe Parsonage, he was no longer allowed to be called so by anybody. He\nwas, in fact, the most agreeable young man the sisters had ever known,\nand they were equally delighted with him. Miss Bertram's engagement made\nhim in equity the property of Julia, of which Julia was fully aware; and\nbefore he had been at Mansfield a week, she was quite ready to be fallen\nin love with.\n\nMaria's notions on the subject were more confused and indistinct. She\ndid not want to see or understand. \"There could be no harm in her liking\nan agreeable man--everybody knew her situation--Mr. Crawford must take\ncare of himself.\" Mr. Crawford did not mean to be in any danger! the\nMiss Bertrams were worth pleasing, and were ready to be pleased; and he\nbegan with no object but of making them like him. He did not want them\nto die of love; but with sense and temper which ought to have made him\njudge and feel better, he allowed himself great latitude on such points.\n\n\"I like your Miss Bertrams exceedingly, sister,\" said he, as he returned\nfrom attending them to their carriage after the said dinner visit; \"they\nare very elegant, agreeable girls.\"\n\n\"So they are indeed, and I am delighted to hear you say it. But you like\nJulia best.\"\n\n\"Oh yes! I like Julia best.\"\n\n\"But do you really? for Miss Bertram is in general thought the\nhandsomest.\"\n\n\"So I should suppose. She has the advantage in every feature, and I\nprefer her countenance; but I like Julia best; Miss Bertram is certainly\nthe handsomest, and I have found her the most agreeable, but I shall\nalways like Julia best, because you order me.\"\n\n\"I shall not talk to you, Henry, but I know you _will_ like her best at\nlast.\"\n\n\"Do not I tell you that I like her best _at_ _first_?\"\n\n\"And besides, Miss Bertram is engaged. Remember that, my dear brother.\nHer choice is made.\"\n\n\"Yes, and I like her the better for it. An engaged woman is always more\nagreeable than a disengaged. She is satisfied with herself. Her cares\nare over, and she feels that she may exert all her powers of pleasing\nwithout suspicion. All is safe with a lady engaged: no harm can be\ndone.\"\n\n\"Why, as to that, Mr. Rushworth is a very good sort of young man, and it\nis a great match for her.\"\n\n\"But Miss Bertram does not care three straws for him; _that_ is your\nopinion of your intimate friend. _I_ do not subscribe to it. I am sure\nMiss Bertram is very much attached to Mr. Rushworth. I could see it in\nher eyes, when he was mentioned. I think too well of Miss Bertram to\nsuppose she would ever give her hand without her heart.\"\n\n\"Mary, how shall we manage him?\"\n\n\"We must leave him to himself, I believe. Talking does no good. He will\nbe taken in at last.\"\n\n\"But I would not have him _taken_ _in_; I would not have him duped; I\nwould have it all fair and honourable.\"\n\n\"Oh dear! let him stand his chance and be taken in. It will do just as\nwell. Everybody is taken in at some period or other.\"\n\n\"Not always in marriage, dear Mary.\"\n\n\"In marriage especially. With all due respect to such of the present\ncompany as chance to be married, my dear Mrs. Grant, there is not one in\na hundred of either sex who is not taken in when they marry. Look where\nI will, I see that it _is_ so; and I feel that it _must_ be so, when I\nconsider that it is, of all transactions, the one in which people expect\nmost from others, and are least honest themselves.\"\n\n\"Ah! You have been in a bad school for matrimony, in Hill Street.\"\n\n\"My poor aunt had certainly little cause to love the state; but,\nhowever, speaking from my own observation, it is a manoeuvring business.\nI know so many who have married in the full expectation and confidence\nof some one particular advantage in the connexion, or accomplishment, or\ngood quality in the person, who have found themselves entirely deceived,\nand been obliged to put up with exactly the reverse. What is this but a\ntake in?\"\n\n\"My dear child, there must be a little imagination here. I beg your\npardon, but I cannot quite believe you. Depend upon it, you see but\nhalf. You see the evil, but you do not see the consolation. There will\nbe little rubs and disappointments everywhere, and we are all apt to\nexpect too much; but then, if one scheme of happiness fails, human\nnature turns to another; if the first calculation is wrong, we make\na second better: we find comfort somewhere--and those evil-minded\nobservers, dearest Mary, who make much of a little, are more taken in\nand deceived than the parties themselves.\"\n\n\"Well done, sister! I honour your _esprit_ _du_ _corps_. When I am a\nwife, I mean to be just as staunch myself; and I wish my friends in\ngeneral would be so too. It would save me many a heartache.\"\n\n\"You are as bad as your brother, Mary; but we will cure you both.\nMansfield shall cure you both, and without any taking in. Stay with us,\nand we will cure you.\"\n\nThe Crawfords, without wanting to be cured, were very willing to stay.\nMary was satisfied with the Parsonage as a present home, and Henry\nequally ready to lengthen his visit. He had come, intending to spend\nonly a few days with them; but Mansfield promised well, and there was\nnothing to call him elsewhere. It delighted Mrs. Grant to keep them both\nwith her, and Dr. Grant was exceedingly well contented to have it so: a\ntalking pretty young woman like Miss Crawford is always pleasant society\nto an indolent, stay-at-home man; and Mr. Crawford's being his guest was\nan excuse for drinking claret every day.\n\nThe Miss Bertrams' admiration of Mr. Crawford was more rapturous than\nanything which Miss Crawford's habits made her likely to feel. She\nacknowledged, however, that the Mr. Bertrams were very fine young men,\nthat two such young men were not often seen together even in London, and\nthat their manners, particularly those of the eldest, were very good.\n_He_ had been much in London, and had more liveliness and gallantry than\nEdmund, and must, therefore, be preferred; and, indeed, his being the\neldest was another strong claim. She had felt an early presentiment that\nshe _should_ like the eldest best. She knew it was her way.\n\nTom Bertram must have been thought pleasant, indeed, at any rate; he was\nthe sort of young man to be generally liked, his agreeableness was of\nthe kind to be oftener found agreeable than some endowments of a higher\nstamp, for he had easy manners, excellent spirits, a large acquaintance,\nand a great deal to say; and the reversion of Mansfield Park, and a\nbaronetcy, did no harm to all this. Miss Crawford soon felt that he and\nhis situation might do. She looked about her with due consideration, and\nfound almost everything in his favour: a park, a real park, five miles\nround, a spacious modern-built house, so well placed and well screened\nas to deserve to be in any collection of engravings of gentlemen's\nseats in the kingdom, and wanting only to be completely new\nfurnished--pleasant sisters, a quiet mother, and an agreeable man\nhimself--with the advantage of being tied up from much gaming at present\nby a promise to his father, and of being Sir Thomas hereafter. It\nmight do very well; she believed she should accept him; and she began\naccordingly to interest herself a little about the horse which he had to\nrun at the B---- races.\n\nThese races were to call him away not long after their acquaintance\nbegan; and as it appeared that the family did not, from his usual goings\non, expect him back again for many weeks, it would bring his passion to\nan early proof. Much was said on his side to induce her to attend the\nraces, and schemes were made for a large party to them, with all the\neagerness of inclination, but it would only do to be talked of.\n\nAnd Fanny, what was _she_ doing and thinking all this while? and what\nwas _her_ opinion of the newcomers? Few young ladies of eighteen could\nbe less called on to speak their opinion than Fanny. In a quiet way,\nvery little attended to, she paid her tribute of admiration to Miss\nCrawford's beauty; but as she still continued to think Mr. Crawford\nvery plain, in spite of her two cousins having repeatedly proved the\ncontrary, she never mentioned _him_. The notice, which she excited\nherself, was to this effect. \"I begin now to understand you all,\nexcept Miss Price,\" said Miss Crawford, as she was walking with the Mr.\nBertrams. \"Pray, is she out, or is she not? I am puzzled. She dined at\nthe Parsonage, with the rest of you, which seemed like being _out_; and\nyet she says so little, that I can hardly suppose she _is_.\"\n\nEdmund, to whom this was chiefly addressed, replied, \"I believe I know\nwhat you mean, but I will not undertake to answer the question. My\ncousin is grown up. She has the age and sense of a woman, but the outs\nand not outs are beyond me.\"\n\n\"And yet, in general, nothing can be more easily ascertained. The\ndistinction is so broad. Manners as well as appearance are, generally\nspeaking, so totally different. Till now, I could not have supposed it\npossible to be mistaken as to a girl's being out or not. A girl not out\nhas always the same sort of dress: a close bonnet, for instance; looks\nvery demure, and never says a word. You may smile, but it is so, I\nassure you; and except that it is sometimes carried a little too far,\nit is all very proper. Girls should be quiet and modest. The most\nobjectionable part is, that the alteration of manners on being\nintroduced into company is frequently too sudden. They sometimes pass in\nsuch very little time from reserve to quite the opposite--to confidence!\n_That_ is the faulty part of the present system. One does not like to\nsee a girl of eighteen or nineteen so immediately up to every thing--and\nperhaps when one has seen her hardly able to speak the year before. Mr.\nBertram, I dare say _you_ have sometimes met with such changes.\"\n\n\"I believe I have, but this is hardly fair; I see what you are at. You\nare quizzing me and Miss Anderson.\"\n\n\"No, indeed. Miss Anderson! I do not know who or what you mean. I am\nquite in the dark. But I _will_ quiz you with a great deal of pleasure,\nif you will tell me what about.\"\n\n\"Ah! you carry it off very well, but I cannot be quite so far imposed\non. You must have had Miss Anderson in your eye, in describing an\naltered young lady. You paint too accurately for mistake. It was exactly\nso. The Andersons of Baker Street. We were speaking of them the other\nday, you know. Edmund, you have heard me mention Charles Anderson.\nThe circumstance was precisely as this lady has represented it. When\nAnderson first introduced me to his family, about two years ago, his\nsister was not _out_, and I could not get her to speak to me. I sat\nthere an hour one morning waiting for Anderson, with only her and a\nlittle girl or two in the room, the governess being sick or run away,\nand the mother in and out every moment with letters of business, and I\ncould hardly get a word or a look from the young lady--nothing like a\ncivil answer--she screwed up her mouth, and turned from me with such an\nair! I did not see her again for a twelvemonth. She was then _out_. I\nmet her at Mrs. Holford's, and did not recollect her. She came up to me,\nclaimed me as an acquaintance, stared me out of countenance; and talked\nand laughed till I did not know which way to look. I felt that I must\nbe the jest of the room at the time, and Miss Crawford, it is plain, has\nheard the story.\"\n\n\"And a very pretty story it is, and with more truth in it, I dare say,\nthan does credit to Miss Anderson. It is too common a fault. Mothers\ncertainly have not yet got quite the right way of managing their\ndaughters. I do not know where the error lies. I do not pretend to set\npeople right, but I do see that they are often wrong.\"\n\n\"Those who are showing the world what female manners _should_ be,\" said\nMr. Bertram gallantly, \"are doing a great deal to set them right.\"\n\n\"The error is plain enough,\" said the less courteous Edmund; \"such girls\nare ill brought up. They are given wrong notions from the beginning.\nThey are always acting upon motives of vanity, and there is no more\nreal modesty in their behaviour _before_ they appear in public than\nafterwards.\"\n\n\"I do not know,\" replied Miss Crawford hesitatingly. \"Yes, I cannot\nagree with you there. It is certainly the modestest part of the\nbusiness. It is much worse to have girls not out give themselves the\nsame airs and take the same liberties as if they were, which I have seen\ndone. That is worse than anything--quite disgusting!\"\n\n\"Yes, _that_ is very inconvenient indeed,\" said Mr. Bertram. \"It leads\none astray; one does not know what to do. The close bonnet and demure\nair you describe so well (and nothing was ever juster), tell one what\nis expected; but I got into a dreadful scrape last year from the want of\nthem. I went down to Ramsgate for a week with a friend last September,\njust after my return from the West Indies. My friend Sneyd--you have\nheard me speak of Sneyd, Edmund--his father, and mother, and sisters,\nwere there, all new to me. When we reached Albion Place they were out;\nwe went after them, and found them on the pier: Mrs. and the two Miss\nSneyds, with others of their acquaintance. I made my bow in form; and\nas Mrs. Sneyd was surrounded by men, attached myself to one of her\ndaughters, walked by her side all the way home, and made myself as\nagreeable as I could; the young lady perfectly easy in her manners, and\nas ready to talk as to listen. I had not a suspicion that I could be\ndoing anything wrong. They looked just the same: both well-dressed, with\nveils and parasols like other girls; but I afterwards found that I had\nbeen giving all my attention to the youngest, who was not _out_, and\nhad most excessively offended the eldest. Miss Augusta ought not to have\nbeen noticed for the next six months; and Miss Sneyd, I believe, has\nnever forgiven me.\"\n\n\"That was bad indeed. Poor Miss Sneyd. Though I have no younger\nsister, I feel for her. To be neglected before one's time must be very\nvexatious; but it was entirely the mother's fault. Miss Augusta should\nhave been with her governess. Such half-and-half doings never prosper.\nBut now I must be satisfied about Miss Price. Does she go to balls? Does\nshe dine out every where, as well as at my sister's?\"\n\n\"No,\" replied Edmund; \"I do not think she has ever been to a ball. My\nmother seldom goes into company herself, and dines nowhere but with Mrs.\nGrant, and Fanny stays at home with _her_.\"\n\n\"Oh! then the point is clear. Miss Price is not out.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nMr. Bertram set off for--------, and Miss Crawford was prepared to\nfind a great chasm in their society, and to miss him decidedly in the\nmeetings which were now becoming almost daily between the families;\nand on their all dining together at the Park soon after his going, she\nretook her chosen place near the bottom of the table, fully expecting to\nfeel a most melancholy difference in the change of masters. It would\nbe a very flat business, she was sure. In comparison with his brother,\nEdmund would have nothing to say. The soup would be sent round in a most\nspiritless manner, wine drank without any smiles or agreeable trifling,\nand the venison cut up without supplying one pleasant anecdote of any\nformer haunch, or a single entertaining story, about \"my friend such a\none.\" She must try to find amusement in what was passing at the upper\nend of the table, and in observing Mr. Rushworth, who was now making his\nappearance at Mansfield for the first time since the Crawfords' arrival.\nHe had been visiting a friend in the neighbouring county, and that\nfriend having recently had his grounds laid out by an improver, Mr.\nRushworth was returned with his head full of the subject, and very eager\nto be improving his own place in the same way; and though not saying\nmuch to the purpose, could talk of nothing else. The subject had\nbeen already handled in the drawing-room; it was revived in the\ndining-parlour. Miss Bertram's attention and opinion was evidently his\nchief aim; and though her deportment showed rather conscious superiority\nthan any solicitude to oblige him, the mention of Sotherton Court,\nand the ideas attached to it, gave her a feeling of complacency, which\nprevented her from being very ungracious.\n\n\"I wish you could see Compton,\" said he; \"it is the most complete thing!\nI never saw a place so altered in my life. I told Smith I did not know\nwhere I was. The approach _now_, is one of the finest things in the\ncountry: you see the house in the most surprising manner. I declare,\nwhen I got back to Sotherton yesterday, it looked like a prison--quite a\ndismal old prison.\"\n\n\"Oh, for shame!\" cried Mrs. Norris. \"A prison indeed? Sotherton Court is\nthe noblest old place in the world.\"\n\n\"It wants improvement, ma'am, beyond anything. I never saw a place that\nwanted so much improvement in my life; and it is so forlorn that I do\nnot know what can be done with it.\"\n\n\"No wonder that Mr. Rushworth should think so at present,\" said Mrs.\nGrant to Mrs. Norris, with a smile; \"but depend upon it, Sotherton will\nhave _every_ improvement in time which his heart can desire.\"\n\n\"I must try to do something with it,\" said Mr. Rushworth, \"but I do not\nknow what. I hope I shall have some good friend to help me.\"\n\n\"Your best friend upon such an occasion,\" said Miss Bertram calmly,\n\"would be Mr. Repton, I imagine.\"\n\n\"That is what I was thinking of. As he has done so well by Smith, I\nthink I had better have him at once. His terms are five guineas a day.\"\n\n\"Well, and if they were _ten_,\" cried Mrs. Norris, \"I am sure _you_ need\nnot regard it. The expense need not be any impediment. If I were you,\nI should not think of the expense. I would have everything done in the\nbest style, and made as nice as possible. Such a place as Sotherton\nCourt deserves everything that taste and money can do. You have space to\nwork upon there, and grounds that will well reward you. For my own part,\nif I had anything within the fiftieth part of the size of Sotherton, I\nshould be always planting and improving, for naturally I am excessively\nfond of it. It would be too ridiculous for me to attempt anything where\nI am now, with my little half acre. It would be quite a burlesque. But\nif I had more room, I should take a prodigious delight in improving and\nplanting. We did a vast deal in that way at the Parsonage: we made it\nquite a different place from what it was when we first had it. You young\nones do not remember much about it, perhaps; but if dear Sir Thomas were\nhere, he could tell you what improvements we made: and a great deal more\nwould have been done, but for poor Mr. Norris's sad state of health.\nHe could hardly ever get out, poor man, to enjoy anything, and _that_\ndisheartened me from doing several things that Sir Thomas and I used to\ntalk of. If it had not been for _that_, we should have carried on the\ngarden wall, and made the plantation to shut out the churchyard, just\nas Dr. Grant has done. We were always doing something as it was. It was\nonly the spring twelvemonth before Mr. Norris's death that we put in the\napricot against the stable wall, which is now grown such a noble tree,\nand getting to such perfection, sir,\" addressing herself then to Dr.\nGrant.\n\n\"The tree thrives well, beyond a doubt, madam,\" replied Dr. Grant. \"The\nsoil is good; and I never pass it without regretting that the fruit\nshould be so little worth the trouble of gathering.\"\n\n\"Sir, it is a Moor Park, we bought it as a Moor Park, and it cost\nus--that is, it was a present from Sir Thomas, but I saw the bill--and I\nknow it cost seven shillings, and was charged as a Moor Park.\"\n\n\"You were imposed on, ma'am,\" replied Dr. Grant: \"these potatoes have as\nmuch the flavour of a Moor Park apricot as the fruit from that tree. It\nis an insipid fruit at the best; but a good apricot is eatable, which\nnone from my garden are.\"\n\n\"The truth is, ma'am,\" said Mrs. Grant, pretending to whisper across\nthe table to Mrs. Norris, \"that Dr. Grant hardly knows what the natural\ntaste of our apricot is: he is scarcely ever indulged with one, for it\nis so valuable a fruit; with a little assistance, and ours is such a\nremarkably large, fair sort, that what with early tarts and preserves,\nmy cook contrives to get them all.\"\n\nMrs. Norris, who had begun to redden, was appeased; and, for a little\nwhile, other subjects took place of the improvements of Sotherton. Dr.\nGrant and Mrs. Norris were seldom good friends; their acquaintance had\nbegun in dilapidations, and their habits were totally dissimilar.\n\nAfter a short interruption Mr. Rushworth began again. \"Smith's place\nis the admiration of all the country; and it was a mere nothing before\nRepton took it in hand. I think I shall have Repton.\"\n\n\"Mr. Rushworth,\" said Lady Bertram, \"if I were you, I would have a\nvery pretty shrubbery. One likes to get out into a shrubbery in fine\nweather.\"\n\nMr. Rushworth was eager to assure her ladyship of his acquiescence, and\ntried to make out something complimentary; but, between his submission\nto _her_ taste, and his having always intended the same himself, with\nthe superadded objects of professing attention to the comfort of ladies\nin general, and of insinuating that there was one only whom he was\nanxious to please, he grew puzzled, and Edmund was glad to put an end\nto his speech by a proposal of wine. Mr. Rushworth, however, though not\nusually a great talker, had still more to say on the subject next his\nheart. \"Smith has not much above a hundred acres altogether in his\ngrounds, which is little enough, and makes it more surprising that the\nplace can have been so improved. Now, at Sotherton we have a good seven\nhundred, without reckoning the water meadows; so that I think, if so\nmuch could be done at Compton, we need not despair. There have been two\nor three fine old trees cut down, that grew too near the house, and\nit opens the prospect amazingly, which makes me think that Repton, or\nanybody of that sort, would certainly have the avenue at Sotherton down:\nthe avenue that leads from the west front to the top of the hill,\nyou know,\" turning to Miss Bertram particularly as he spoke. But Miss\nBertram thought it most becoming to reply--\n\n\"The avenue! Oh! I do not recollect it. I really know very little of\nSotherton.\"\n\nFanny, who was sitting on the other side of Edmund, exactly opposite\nMiss Crawford, and who had been attentively listening, now looked at\nhim, and said in a low voice--\n\n\"Cut down an avenue! What a pity! Does it not make you think of Cowper?\n'Ye fallen avenues, once more I mourn your fate unmerited.'\"\n\nHe smiled as he answered, \"I am afraid the avenue stands a bad chance,\nFanny.\"\n\n\"I should like to see Sotherton before it is cut down, to see the place\nas it is now, in its old state; but I do not suppose I shall.\"\n\n\"Have you never been there? No, you never can; and, unluckily, it is out\nof distance for a ride. I wish we could contrive it.\"\n\n\"Oh! it does not signify. Whenever I do see it, you will tell me how it\nhas been altered.\"\n\n\"I collect,\" said Miss Crawford, \"that Sotherton is an old place, and a\nplace of some grandeur. In any particular style of building?\"\n\n\"The house was built in Elizabeth's time, and is a large, regular, brick\nbuilding; heavy, but respectable looking, and has many good rooms. It\nis ill placed. It stands in one of the lowest spots of the park; in that\nrespect, unfavourable for improvement. But the woods are fine, and\nthere is a stream, which, I dare say, might be made a good deal of. Mr.\nRushworth is quite right, I think, in meaning to give it a modern dress,\nand I have no doubt that it will be all done extremely well.\"\n\nMiss Crawford listened with submission, and said to herself, \"He is a\nwell-bred man; he makes the best of it.\"\n\n\"I do not wish to influence Mr. Rushworth,\" he continued; \"but, had I\na place to new fashion, I should not put myself into the hands of an\nimprover. I would rather have an inferior degree of beauty, of my own\nchoice, and acquired progressively. I would rather abide by my own\nblunders than by his.\"\n\n\"_You_ would know what you were about, of course; but that would not\nsuit _me_. I have no eye or ingenuity for such matters, but as they are\nbefore me; and had I a place of my own in the country, I should be most\nthankful to any Mr. Repton who would undertake it, and give me as much\nbeauty as he could for my money; and I should never look at it till it\nwas complete.\"\n\n\"It would be delightful to _me_ to see the progress of it all,\" said\nFanny.\n\n\"Ay, you have been brought up to it. It was no part of my education; and\nthe only dose I ever had, being administered by not the first favourite\nin the world, has made me consider improvements _in_ _hand_ as the\ngreatest of nuisances. Three years ago the Admiral, my honoured uncle,\nbought a cottage at Twickenham for us all to spend our summers in;\nand my aunt and I went down to it quite in raptures; but it being\nexcessively pretty, it was soon found necessary to be improved, and for\nthree months we were all dirt and confusion, without a gravel walk to\nstep on, or a bench fit for use. I would have everything as complete\nas possible in the country, shrubberies and flower-gardens, and rustic\nseats innumerable: but it must all be done without my care. Henry is\ndifferent; he loves to be doing.\"\n\nEdmund was sorry to hear Miss Crawford, whom he was much disposed to\nadmire, speak so freely of her uncle. It did not suit his sense of\npropriety, and he was silenced, till induced by further smiles and\nliveliness to put the matter by for the present.\n\n\"Mr. Bertram,\" said she, \"I have tidings of my harp at last. I am\nassured that it is safe at Northampton; and there it has probably been\nthese ten days, in spite of the solemn assurances we have so often\nreceived to the contrary.\" Edmund expressed his pleasure and surprise.\n\"The truth is, that our inquiries were too direct; we sent a servant,\nwe went ourselves: this will not do seventy miles from London; but this\nmorning we heard of it in the right way. It was seen by some farmer, and\nhe told the miller, and the miller told the butcher, and the butcher's\nson-in-law left word at the shop.\"\n\n\"I am very glad that you have heard of it, by whatever means, and hope\nthere will be no further delay.\"\n\n\"I am to have it to-morrow; but how do you think it is to be conveyed?\nNot by a wagon or cart: oh no! nothing of that kind could be hired in\nthe village. I might as well have asked for porters and a handbarrow.\"\n\n\"You would find it difficult, I dare say, just now, in the middle of a\nvery late hay harvest, to hire a horse and cart?\"\n\n\"I was astonished to find what a piece of work was made of it! To want\na horse and cart in the country seemed impossible, so I told my maid to\nspeak for one directly; and as I cannot look out of my dressing-closet\nwithout seeing one farmyard, nor walk in the shrubbery without passing\nanother, I thought it would be only ask and have, and was rather grieved\nthat I could not give the advantage to all. Guess my surprise, when\nI found that I had been asking the most unreasonable, most impossible\nthing in the world; had offended all the farmers, all the labourers,\nall the hay in the parish! As for Dr. Grant's bailiff, I believe I had\nbetter keep out of _his_ way; and my brother-in-law himself, who is all\nkindness in general, looked rather black upon me when he found what I\nhad been at.\"\n\n\"You could not be expected to have thought on the subject before; but\nwhen you _do_ think of it, you must see the importance of getting in\nthe grass. The hire of a cart at any time might not be so easy as you\nsuppose: our farmers are not in the habit of letting them out; but, in\nharvest, it must be quite out of their power to spare a horse.\"\n\n\"I shall understand all your ways in time; but, coming down with the\ntrue London maxim, that everything is to be got with money, I was a\nlittle embarrassed at first by the sturdy independence of your country\ncustoms. However, I am to have my harp fetched to-morrow. Henry, who is\ngood-nature itself, has offered to fetch it in his barouche. Will it not\nbe honourably conveyed?\"\n\nEdmund spoke of the harp as his favourite instrument, and hoped to be\nsoon allowed to hear her. Fanny had never heard the harp at all, and\nwished for it very much.\n\n\"I shall be most happy to play to you both,\" said Miss Crawford; \"at\nleast as long as you can like to listen: probably much longer, for\nI dearly love music myself, and where the natural taste is equal the\nplayer must always be best off, for she is gratified in more ways than\none. Now, Mr. Bertram, if you write to your brother, I entreat you to\ntell him that my harp is come: he heard so much of my misery about it.\nAnd you may say, if you please, that I shall prepare my most plaintive\nairs against his return, in compassion to his feelings, as I know his\nhorse will lose.\"\n\n\"If I write, I will say whatever you wish me; but I do not, at present,\nforesee any occasion for writing.\"\n\n\"No, I dare say, nor if he were to be gone a twelvemonth, would you ever\nwrite to him, nor he to you, if it could be helped. The occasion would\nnever be foreseen. What strange creatures brothers are! You would not\nwrite to each other but upon the most urgent necessity in the world; and\nwhen obliged to take up the pen to say that such a horse is ill, or such\na relation dead, it is done in the fewest possible words. You have but\none style among you. I know it perfectly. Henry, who is in every other\nrespect exactly what a brother should be, who loves me, consults me,\nconfides in me, and will talk to me by the hour together, has never\nyet turned the page in a letter; and very often it is nothing more\nthan--'Dear Mary, I am just arrived. Bath seems full, and everything\nas usual. Yours sincerely.' That is the true manly style; that is a\ncomplete brother's letter.\"\n\n\"When they are at a distance from all their family,\" said Fanny,\ncolouring for William's sake, \"they can write long letters.\"\n\n\"Miss Price has a brother at sea,\" said Edmund, \"whose excellence as a\ncorrespondent makes her think you too severe upon us.\"\n\n\"At sea, has she? In the king's service, of course?\"\n\nFanny would rather have had Edmund tell the story, but his determined\nsilence obliged her to relate her brother's situation: her voice was\nanimated in speaking of his profession, and the foreign stations he had\nbeen on; but she could not mention the number of years that he had been\nabsent without tears in her eyes. Miss Crawford civilly wished him an\nearly promotion.\n\n\"Do you know anything of my cousin's captain?\" said Edmund; \"Captain\nMarshall? You have a large acquaintance in the navy, I conclude?\"\n\n\"Among admirals, large enough; but,\" with an air of grandeur, \"we know\nvery little of the inferior ranks. Post-captains may be very good sort\nof men, but they do not belong to _us_. Of various admirals I could tell\nyou a great deal: of them and their flags, and the gradation of their\npay, and their bickerings and jealousies. But, in general, I can assure\nyou that they are all passed over, and all very ill used. Certainly, my\nhome at my uncle's brought me acquainted with a circle of admirals. Of\n_Rears_ and _Vices_ I saw enough. Now do not be suspecting me of a pun,\nI entreat.\"\n\nEdmund again felt grave, and only replied, \"It is a noble profession.\"\n\n\"Yes, the profession is well enough under two circumstances: if it make\nthe fortune, and there be discretion in spending it; but, in short, it\nis not a favourite profession of mine. It has never worn an amiable form\nto _me_.\"\n\nEdmund reverted to the harp, and was again very happy in the prospect of\nhearing her play.\n\nThe subject of improving grounds, meanwhile, was still under\nconsideration among the others; and Mrs. Grant could not help addressing\nher brother, though it was calling his attention from Miss Julia\nBertram.\n\n\"My dear Henry, have _you_ nothing to say? You have been an improver\nyourself, and from what I hear of Everingham, it may vie with any place\nin England. Its natural beauties, I am sure, are great. Everingham,\nas it _used_ to be, was perfect in my estimation: such a happy fall of\nground, and such timber! What would I not give to see it again?\"\n\n\"Nothing could be so gratifying to me as to hear your opinion of it,\"\nwas his answer; \"but I fear there would be some disappointment: you\nwould not find it equal to your present ideas. In extent, it is a mere\nnothing; you would be surprised at its insignificance; and, as for\nimprovement, there was very little for me to do--too little: I should\nlike to have been busy much longer.\"\n\n\"You are fond of the sort of thing?\" said Julia.\n\n\"Excessively; but what with the natural advantages of the ground, which\npointed out, even to a very young eye, what little remained to be done,\nand my own consequent resolutions, I had not been of age three\nmonths before Everingham was all that it is now. My plan was laid\nat Westminster, a little altered, perhaps, at Cambridge, and at\none-and-twenty executed. I am inclined to envy Mr. Rushworth for having\nso much happiness yet before him. I have been a devourer of my own.\"\n\n\"Those who see quickly, will resolve quickly, and act quickly,\"\nsaid Julia. \"_You_ can never want employment. Instead of envying Mr.\nRushworth, you should assist him with your opinion.\"\n\nMrs. Grant, hearing the latter part of this speech, enforced it warmly,\npersuaded that no judgment could be equal to her brother's; and as\nMiss Bertram caught at the idea likewise, and gave it her full support,\ndeclaring that, in her opinion, it was infinitely better to consult\nwith friends and disinterested advisers, than immediately to throw the\nbusiness into the hands of a professional man, Mr. Rushworth was very\nready to request the favour of Mr. Crawford's assistance; and Mr.\nCrawford, after properly depreciating his own abilities, was quite at\nhis service in any way that could be useful. Mr. Rushworth then began to\npropose Mr. Crawford's doing him the honour of coming over to Sotherton,\nand taking a bed there; when Mrs. Norris, as if reading in her two\nnieces' minds their little approbation of a plan which was to take Mr.\nCrawford away, interposed with an amendment.\n\n\"There can be no doubt of Mr. Crawford's willingness; but why should not\nmore of us go? Why should not we make a little party? Here are many that\nwould be interested in your improvements, my dear Mr. Rushworth, and\nthat would like to hear Mr. Crawford's opinion on the spot, and that\nmight be of some small use to you with _their_ opinions; and, for my\nown part, I have been long wishing to wait upon your good mother again;\nnothing but having no horses of my own could have made me so remiss; but\nnow I could go and sit a few hours with Mrs. Rushworth, while the rest\nof you walked about and settled things, and then we could all return\nto a late dinner here, or dine at Sotherton, just as might be most\nagreeable to your mother, and have a pleasant drive home by moonlight.\nI dare say Mr. Crawford would take my two nieces and me in his barouche,\nand Edmund can go on horseback, you know, sister, and Fanny will stay at\nhome with you.\"\n\nLady Bertram made no objection; and every one concerned in the going\nwas forward in expressing their ready concurrence, excepting Edmund, who\nheard it all and said nothing.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\"Well, Fanny, and how do you like Miss Crawford _now_?\" said Edmund the\nnext day, after thinking some time on the subject himself. \"How did you\nlike her yesterday?\"\n\n\"Very well--very much. I like to hear her talk. She entertains me; and\nshe is so extremely pretty, that I have great pleasure in looking at\nher.\"\n\n\"It is her countenance that is so attractive. She has a wonderful play\nof feature! But was there nothing in her conversation that struck you,\nFanny, as not quite right?\"\n\n\"Oh yes! she ought not to have spoken of her uncle as she did. I was\nquite astonished. An uncle with whom she has been living so many years,\nand who, whatever his faults may be, is so very fond of her brother,\ntreating him, they say, quite like a son. I could not have believed it!\"\n\n\"I thought you would be struck. It was very wrong; very indecorous.\"\n\n\"And very ungrateful, I think.\"\n\n\"Ungrateful is a strong word. I do not know that her uncle has any claim\nto her _gratitude_; his wife certainly had; and it is the warmth of her\nrespect for her aunt's memory which misleads her here. She is awkwardly\ncircumstanced. With such warm feelings and lively spirits it must be\ndifficult to do justice to her affection for Mrs. Crawford, without\nthrowing a shade on the Admiral. I do not pretend to know which was most\nto blame in their disagreements, though the Admiral's present conduct\nmight incline one to the side of his wife; but it is natural and amiable\nthat Miss Crawford should acquit her aunt entirely. I do not censure her\n_opinions_; but there certainly _is_ impropriety in making them public.\"\n\n\"Do not you think,\" said Fanny, after a little consideration, \"that this\nimpropriety is a reflection itself upon Mrs. Crawford, as her niece has\nbeen entirely brought up by her? She cannot have given her right notions\nof what was due to the Admiral.\"\n\n\"That is a fair remark. Yes, we must suppose the faults of the niece\nto have been those of the aunt; and it makes one more sensible of the\ndisadvantages she has been under. But I think her present home must\ndo her good. Mrs. Grant's manners are just what they ought to be. She\nspeaks of her brother with a very pleasing affection.\"\n\n\"Yes, except as to his writing her such short letters. She made me\nalmost laugh; but I cannot rate so very highly the love or good-nature\nof a brother who will not give himself the trouble of writing anything\nworth reading to his sisters, when they are separated. I am sure William\nwould never have used _me_ so, under any circumstances. And what right\nhad she to suppose that _you_ would not write long letters when you were\nabsent?\"\n\n\"The right of a lively mind, Fanny, seizing whatever may contribute\nto its own amusement or that of others; perfectly allowable, when\nuntinctured by ill-humour or roughness; and there is not a shadow of\neither in the countenance or manner of Miss Crawford: nothing sharp, or\nloud, or coarse. She is perfectly feminine, except in the instances we\nhave been speaking of. There she cannot be justified. I am glad you saw\nit all as I did.\"\n\nHaving formed her mind and gained her affections, he had a good chance\nof her thinking like him; though at this period, and on this subject,\nthere began now to be some danger of dissimilarity, for he was in a line\nof admiration of Miss Crawford, which might lead him where Fanny\ncould not follow. Miss Crawford's attractions did not lessen. The harp\narrived, and rather added to her beauty, wit, and good-humour; for she\nplayed with the greatest obligingness, with an expression and taste\nwhich were peculiarly becoming, and there was something clever to be\nsaid at the close of every air. Edmund was at the Parsonage every day,\nto be indulged with his favourite instrument: one morning secured an\ninvitation for the next; for the lady could not be unwilling to have a\nlistener, and every thing was soon in a fair train.\n\nA young woman, pretty, lively, with a harp as elegant as herself, and\nboth placed near a window, cut down to the ground, and opening on a\nlittle lawn, surrounded by shrubs in the rich foliage of summer, was\nenough to catch any man's heart. The season, the scene, the air, were\nall favourable to tenderness and sentiment. Mrs. Grant and her tambour\nframe were not without their use: it was all in harmony; and as\neverything will turn to account when love is once set going, even the\nsandwich tray, and Dr. Grant doing the honours of it, were worth looking\nat. Without studying the business, however, or knowing what he was\nabout, Edmund was beginning, at the end of a week of such intercourse,\nto be a good deal in love; and to the credit of the lady it may be added\nthat, without his being a man of the world or an elder brother, without\nany of the arts of flattery or the gaieties of small talk, he began to\nbe agreeable to her. She felt it to be so, though she had not foreseen,\nand could hardly understand it; for he was not pleasant by any common\nrule: he talked no nonsense; he paid no compliments; his opinions\nwere unbending, his attentions tranquil and simple. There was a charm,\nperhaps, in his sincerity, his steadiness, his integrity, which Miss\nCrawford might be equal to feel, though not equal to discuss with\nherself. She did not think very much about it, however: he pleased her\nfor the present; she liked to have him near her; it was enough.\n\nFanny could not wonder that Edmund was at the Parsonage every morning;\nshe would gladly have been there too, might she have gone in uninvited\nand unnoticed, to hear the harp; neither could she wonder that, when the\nevening stroll was over, and the two families parted again, he should\nthink it right to attend Mrs. Grant and her sister to their home, while\nMr. Crawford was devoted to the ladies of the Park; but she thought it\na very bad exchange; and if Edmund were not there to mix the wine and\nwater for her, would rather go without it than not. She was a little\nsurprised that he could spend so many hours with Miss Crawford, and\nnot see more of the sort of fault which he had already observed, and of\nwhich _she_ was almost always reminded by a something of the same nature\nwhenever she was in her company; but so it was. Edmund was fond of\nspeaking to her of Miss Crawford, but he seemed to think it enough that\nthe Admiral had since been spared; and she scrupled to point out her own\nremarks to him, lest it should appear like ill-nature. The first actual\npain which Miss Crawford occasioned her was the consequence of an\ninclination to learn to ride, which the former caught, soon after her\nbeing settled at Mansfield, from the example of the young ladies at the\nPark, and which, when Edmund's acquaintance with her increased, led to\nhis encouraging the wish, and the offer of his own quiet mare for the\npurpose of her first attempts, as the best fitted for a beginner that\neither stable could furnish. No pain, no injury, however, was designed\nby him to his cousin in this offer: _she_ was not to lose a day's\nexercise by it. The mare was only to be taken down to the Parsonage half\nan hour before her ride were to begin; and Fanny, on its being first\nproposed, so far from feeling slighted, was almost over-powered with\ngratitude that he should be asking her leave for it.\n\nMiss Crawford made her first essay with great credit to herself, and no\ninconvenience to Fanny. Edmund, who had taken down the mare and presided\nat the whole, returned with it in excellent time, before either Fanny or\nthe steady old coachman, who always attended her when she rode without\nher cousins, were ready to set forward. The second day's trial was not\nso guiltless. Miss Crawford's enjoyment of riding was such that she did\nnot know how to leave off. Active and fearless, and though rather small,\nstrongly made, she seemed formed for a horsewoman; and to the pure\ngenuine pleasure of the exercise, something was probably added in\nEdmund's attendance and instructions, and something more in the\nconviction of very much surpassing her sex in general by her early\nprogress, to make her unwilling to dismount. Fanny was ready and\nwaiting, and Mrs. Norris was beginning to scold her for not being gone,\nand still no horse was announced, no Edmund appeared. To avoid her aunt,\nand look for him, she went out.\n\nThe houses, though scarcely half a mile apart, were not within sight of\neach other; but, by walking fifty yards from the hall door, she could\nlook down the park, and command a view of the Parsonage and all its\ndemesnes, gently rising beyond the village road; and in Dr. Grant's\nmeadow she immediately saw the group--Edmund and Miss Crawford both on\nhorse-back, riding side by side, Dr. and Mrs. Grant, and Mr. Crawford,\nwith two or three grooms, standing about and looking on. A happy party\nit appeared to her, all interested in one object: cheerful beyond a\ndoubt, for the sound of merriment ascended even to her. It was a sound\nwhich did not make _her_ cheerful; she wondered that Edmund should\nforget her, and felt a pang. She could not turn her eyes from the\nmeadow; she could not help watching all that passed. At first Miss\nCrawford and her companion made the circuit of the field, which was not\nsmall, at a foot's pace; then, at _her_ apparent suggestion, they rose\ninto a canter; and to Fanny's timid nature it was most astonishing to\nsee how well she sat. After a few minutes they stopped entirely. Edmund\nwas close to her; he was speaking to her; he was evidently directing her\nmanagement of the bridle; he had hold of her hand; she saw it, or the\nimagination supplied what the eye could not reach. She must not wonder\nat all this; what could be more natural than that Edmund should be\nmaking himself useful, and proving his good-nature by any one? She could\nnot but think, indeed, that Mr. Crawford might as well have saved him\nthe trouble; that it would have been particularly proper and becoming\nin a brother to have done it himself; but Mr. Crawford, with all his\nboasted good-nature, and all his coachmanship, probably knew nothing\nof the matter, and had no active kindness in comparison of Edmund. She\nbegan to think it rather hard upon the mare to have such double duty; if\nshe were forgotten, the poor mare should be remembered.\n\nHer feelings for one and the other were soon a little tranquillised\nby seeing the party in the meadow disperse, and Miss Crawford still on\nhorseback, but attended by Edmund on foot, pass through a gate into the\nlane, and so into the park, and make towards the spot where she stood.\nShe began then to be afraid of appearing rude and impatient; and walked\nto meet them with a great anxiety to avoid the suspicion.\n\n\"My dear Miss Price,\" said Miss Crawford, as soon as she was at all\nwithin hearing, \"I am come to make my own apologies for keeping you\nwaiting; but I have nothing in the world to say for myself--I knew it\nwas very late, and that I was behaving extremely ill; and therefore, if\nyou please, you must forgive me. Selfishness must always be forgiven,\nyou know, because there is no hope of a cure.\"\n\nFanny's answer was extremely civil, and Edmund added his conviction that\nshe could be in no hurry. \"For there is more than time enough for my\ncousin to ride twice as far as she ever goes,\" said he, \"and you have\nbeen promoting her comfort by preventing her from setting off half an\nhour sooner: clouds are now coming up, and she will not suffer from the\nheat as she would have done then. I wish _you_ may not be fatigued by so\nmuch exercise. I wish you had saved yourself this walk home.\"\n\n\"No part of it fatigues me but getting off this horse, I assure you,\"\nsaid she, as she sprang down with his help; \"I am very strong. Nothing\never fatigues me but doing what I do not like. Miss Price, I give way to\nyou with a very bad grace; but I sincerely hope you will have a pleasant\nride, and that I may have nothing but good to hear of this dear,\ndelightful, beautiful animal.\"\n\nThe old coachman, who had been waiting about with his own horse, now\njoining them, Fanny was lifted on hers, and they set off across another\npart of the park; her feelings of discomfort not lightened by seeing, as\nshe looked back, that the others were walking down the hill together to\nthe village; nor did her attendant do her much good by his comments on\nMiss Crawford's great cleverness as a horse-woman, which he had been\nwatching with an interest almost equal to her own.\n\n\"It is a pleasure to see a lady with such a good heart for riding!\"\nsaid he. \"I never see one sit a horse better. She did not seem to have\na thought of fear. Very different from you, miss, when you first began,\nsix years ago come next Easter. Lord bless you! how you did tremble when\nSir Thomas first had you put on!\"\n\nIn the drawing-room Miss Crawford was also celebrated. Her merit in\nbeing gifted by Nature with strength and courage was fully appreciated\nby the Miss Bertrams; her delight in riding was like their own; her\nearly excellence in it was like their own, and they had great pleasure\nin praising it.\n\n\"I was sure she would ride well,\" said Julia; \"she has the make for it.\nHer figure is as neat as her brother's.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" added Maria, \"and her spirits are as good, and she has the same\nenergy of character. I cannot but think that good horsemanship has a\ngreat deal to do with the mind.\"\n\nWhen they parted at night Edmund asked Fanny whether she meant to ride\nthe next day.\n\n\"No, I do not know--not if you want the mare,\" was her answer.\n\n\"I do not want her at all for myself,\" said he; \"but whenever you are\nnext inclined to stay at home, I think Miss Crawford would be glad to\nhave her a longer time--for a whole morning, in short. She has a great\ndesire to get as far as Mansfield Common: Mrs. Grant has been telling\nher of its fine views, and I have no doubt of her being perfectly equal\nto it. But any morning will do for this. She would be extremely sorry to\ninterfere with you. It would be very wrong if she did. _She_ rides only\nfor pleasure; _you_ for health.\"\n\n\"I shall not ride to-morrow, certainly,\" said Fanny; \"I have been out\nvery often lately, and would rather stay at home. You know I am strong\nenough now to walk very well.\"\n\nEdmund looked pleased, which must be Fanny's comfort, and the ride to\nMansfield Common took place the next morning: the party included all the\nyoung people but herself, and was much enjoyed at the time, and doubly\nenjoyed again in the evening discussion. A successful scheme of this\nsort generally brings on another; and the having been to Mansfield\nCommon disposed them all for going somewhere else the day after. There\nwere many other views to be shewn; and though the weather was hot, there\nwere shady lanes wherever they wanted to go. A young party is always\nprovided with a shady lane. Four fine mornings successively were spent\nin this manner, in shewing the Crawfords the country, and doing the\nhonours of its finest spots. Everything answered; it was all gaiety and\ngood-humour, the heat only supplying inconvenience enough to be talked\nof with pleasure--till the fourth day, when the happiness of one of\nthe party was exceedingly clouded. Miss Bertram was the one. Edmund and\nJulia were invited to dine at the Parsonage, and _she_ was excluded.\nIt was meant and done by Mrs. Grant, with perfect good-humour, on Mr.\nRushworth's account, who was partly expected at the Park that day;\nbut it was felt as a very grievous injury, and her good manners were\nseverely taxed to conceal her vexation and anger till she reached home.\nAs Mr. Rushworth did _not_ come, the injury was increased, and she had\nnot even the relief of shewing her power over him; she could only be\nsullen to her mother, aunt, and cousin, and throw as great a gloom as\npossible over their dinner and dessert.\n\nBetween ten and eleven Edmund and Julia walked into the drawing-room,\nfresh with the evening air, glowing and cheerful, the very reverse\nof what they found in the three ladies sitting there, for Maria would\nscarcely raise her eyes from her book, and Lady Bertram was half-asleep;\nand even Mrs. Norris, discomposed by her niece's ill-humour, and having\nasked one or two questions about the dinner, which were not immediately\nattended to, seemed almost determined to say no more. For a few minutes\nthe brother and sister were too eager in their praise of the night and\ntheir remarks on the stars, to think beyond themselves; but when the\nfirst pause came, Edmund, looking around, said, \"But where is Fanny? Is\nshe gone to bed?\"\n\n\"No, not that I know of,\" replied Mrs. Norris; \"she was here a moment\nago.\"\n\nHer own gentle voice speaking from the other end of the room, which was\na very long one, told them that she was on the sofa. Mrs. Norris began\nscolding.\n\n\"That is a very foolish trick, Fanny, to be idling away all the evening\nupon a sofa. Why cannot you come and sit here, and employ yourself as\n_we_ do? If you have no work of your own, I can supply you from the\npoor basket. There is all the new calico, that was bought last week,\nnot touched yet. I am sure I almost broke my back by cutting it out. You\nshould learn to think of other people; and, take my word for it, it is a\nshocking trick for a young person to be always lolling upon a sofa.\"\n\nBefore half this was said, Fanny was returned to her seat at the table,\nand had taken up her work again; and Julia, who was in high good-humour,\nfrom the pleasures of the day, did her the justice of exclaiming, \"I\nmust say, ma'am, that Fanny is as little upon the sofa as anybody in the\nhouse.\"\n\n\"Fanny,\" said Edmund, after looking at her attentively, \"I am sure you\nhave the headache.\"\n\nShe could not deny it, but said it was not very bad.\n\n\"I can hardly believe you,\" he replied; \"I know your looks too well. How\nlong have you had it?\"\n\n\"Since a little before dinner. It is nothing but the heat.\"\n\n\"Did you go out in the heat?\"\n\n\"Go out! to be sure she did,\" said Mrs. Norris: \"would you have her stay\nwithin such a fine day as this? Were not we _all_ out? Even your mother\nwas out to-day for above an hour.\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed, Edmund,\" added her ladyship, who had been thoroughly\nawakened by Mrs. Norris's sharp reprimand to Fanny; \"I was out above an\nhour. I sat three-quarters of an hour in the flower-garden, while Fanny\ncut the roses; and very pleasant it was, I assure you, but very hot. It\nwas shady enough in the alcove, but I declare I quite dreaded the coming\nhome again.\"\n\n\"Fanny has been cutting roses, has she?\"\n\n\"Yes, and I am afraid they will be the last this year. Poor thing! _She_\nfound it hot enough; but they were so full-blown that one could not\nwait.\"\n\n\"There was no help for it, certainly,\" rejoined Mrs. Norris, in a rather\nsoftened voice; \"but I question whether her headache might not be caught\n_then_, sister. There is nothing so likely to give it as standing and\nstooping in a hot sun; but I dare say it will be well to-morrow. Suppose\nyou let her have your aromatic vinegar; I always forget to have mine\nfilled.\"\n\n\"She has got it,\" said Lady Bertram; \"she has had it ever since she came\nback from your house the second time.\"\n\n\"What!\" cried Edmund; \"has she been walking as well as cutting roses;\nwalking across the hot park to your house, and doing it twice, ma'am? No\nwonder her head aches.\"\n\nMrs. Norris was talking to Julia, and did not hear.\n\n\"I was afraid it would be too much for her,\" said Lady Bertram; \"but\nwhen the roses were gathered, your aunt wished to have them, and then\nyou know they must be taken home.\"\n\n\"But were there roses enough to oblige her to go twice?\"\n\n\"No; but they were to be put into the spare room to dry; and, unluckily,\nFanny forgot to lock the door of the room and bring away the key, so she\nwas obliged to go again.\"\n\nEdmund got up and walked about the room, saying, \"And could nobody be\nemployed on such an errand but Fanny? Upon my word, ma'am, it has been a\nvery ill-managed business.\"\n\n\"I am sure I do not know how it was to have been done better,\" cried\nMrs. Norris, unable to be longer deaf; \"unless I had gone myself,\nindeed; but I cannot be in two places at once; and I was talking to Mr.\nGreen at that very time about your mother's dairymaid, by _her_ desire,\nand had promised John Groom to write to Mrs. Jefferies about his son,\nand the poor fellow was waiting for me half an hour. I think nobody\ncan justly accuse me of sparing myself upon any occasion, but really I\ncannot do everything at once. And as for Fanny's just stepping down\nto my house for me--it is not much above a quarter of a mile--I cannot\nthink I was unreasonable to ask it. How often do I pace it three times a\nday, early and late, ay, and in all weathers too, and say nothing about\nit?\"\n\n\"I wish Fanny had half your strength, ma'am.\"\n\n\"If Fanny would be more regular in her exercise, she would not be\nknocked up so soon. She has not been out on horseback now this long\nwhile, and I am persuaded that, when she does not ride, she ought to\nwalk. If she had been riding before, I should not have asked it of her.\nBut I thought it would rather do her good after being stooping among the\nroses; for there is nothing so refreshing as a walk after a fatigue\nof that kind; and though the sun was strong, it was not so very hot.\nBetween ourselves, Edmund,\" nodding significantly at his mother, \"it was\ncutting the roses, and dawdling about in the flower-garden, that did the\nmischief.\"\n\n\"I am afraid it was, indeed,\" said the more candid Lady Bertram, who had\noverheard her; \"I am very much afraid she caught the headache there,\nfor the heat was enough to kill anybody. It was as much as I could bear\nmyself. Sitting and calling to Pug, and trying to keep him from the\nflower-beds, was almost too much for me.\"\n\nEdmund said no more to either lady; but going quietly to another table,\non which the supper-tray yet remained, brought a glass of Madeira to\nFanny, and obliged her to drink the greater part. She wished to be able\nto decline it; but the tears, which a variety of feelings created, made\nit easier to swallow than to speak.\n\nVexed as Edmund was with his mother and aunt, he was still more angry\nwith himself. His own forgetfulness of her was worse than anything which\nthey had done. Nothing of this would have happened had she been properly\nconsidered; but she had been left four days together without any choice\nof companions or exercise, and without any excuse for avoiding whatever\nher unreasonable aunts might require. He was ashamed to think that\nfor four days together she had not had the power of riding, and very\nseriously resolved, however unwilling he must be to check a pleasure of\nMiss Crawford's, that it should never happen again.\n\nFanny went to bed with her heart as full as on the first evening of her\narrival at the Park. The state of her spirits had probably had its\nshare in her indisposition; for she had been feeling neglected, and been\nstruggling against discontent and envy for some days past. As she leant\non the sofa, to which she had retreated that she might not be seen, the\npain of her mind had been much beyond that in her head; and the sudden\nchange which Edmund's kindness had then occasioned, made her hardly know\nhow to support herself.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nFanny's rides recommenced the very next day; and as it was a pleasant\nfresh-feeling morning, less hot than the weather had lately been, Edmund\ntrusted that her losses, both of health and pleasure, would be soon made\ngood. While she was gone Mr. Rushworth arrived, escorting his mother,\nwho came to be civil and to shew her civility especially, in urging the\nexecution of the plan for visiting Sotherton, which had been started a\nfortnight before, and which, in consequence of her subsequent absence\nfrom home, had since lain dormant. Mrs. Norris and her nieces were all\nwell pleased with its revival, and an early day was named and agreed\nto, provided Mr. Crawford should be disengaged: the young ladies did\nnot forget that stipulation, and though Mrs. Norris would willingly have\nanswered for his being so, they would neither authorise the liberty nor\nrun the risk; and at last, on a hint from Miss Bertram, Mr. Rushworth\ndiscovered that the properest thing to be done was for him to walk down\nto the Parsonage directly, and call on Mr. Crawford, and inquire whether\nWednesday would suit him or not.\n\nBefore his return Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford came in. Having been out\nsome time, and taken a different route to the house, they had not met\nhim. Comfortable hopes, however, were given that he would find Mr.\nCrawford at home. The Sotherton scheme was mentioned of course. It was\nhardly possible, indeed, that anything else should be talked of,\nfor Mrs. Norris was in high spirits about it; and Mrs. Rushworth, a\nwell-meaning, civil, prosing, pompous woman, who thought nothing of\nconsequence, but as it related to her own and her son's concerns,\nhad not yet given over pressing Lady Bertram to be of the party. Lady\nBertram constantly declined it; but her placid manner of refusal made\nMrs. Rushworth still think she wished to come, till Mrs. Norris's more\nnumerous words and louder tone convinced her of the truth.\n\n\"The fatigue would be too much for my sister, a great deal too much, I\nassure you, my dear Mrs. Rushworth. Ten miles there, and ten back, you\nknow. You must excuse my sister on this occasion, and accept of our\ntwo dear girls and myself without her. Sotherton is the only place that\ncould give her a _wish_ to go so far, but it cannot be, indeed. She will\nhave a companion in Fanny Price, you know, so it will all do very well;\nand as for Edmund, as he is not here to speak for himself, I will answer\nfor his being most happy to join the party. He can go on horseback, you\nknow.\"\n\nMrs. Rushworth being obliged to yield to Lady Bertram's staying at home,\ncould only be sorry. \"The loss of her ladyship's company would be a\ngreat drawback, and she should have been extremely happy to have seen\nthe young lady too, Miss Price, who had never been at Sotherton yet, and\nit was a pity she should not see the place.\"\n\n\"You are very kind, you are all kindness, my dear madam,\" cried Mrs.\nNorris; \"but as to Fanny, she will have opportunities in plenty of\nseeing Sotherton. She has time enough before her; and her going now is\nquite out of the question. Lady Bertram could not possibly spare her.\"\n\n\"Oh no! I cannot do without Fanny.\"\n\nMrs. Rushworth proceeded next, under the conviction that everybody must\nbe wanting to see Sotherton, to include Miss Crawford in the invitation;\nand though Mrs. Grant, who had not been at the trouble of visiting Mrs.\nRushworth, on her coming into the neighbourhood, civilly declined it on\nher own account, she was glad to secure any pleasure for her sister;\nand Mary, properly pressed and persuaded, was not long in accepting\nher share of the civility. Mr. Rushworth came back from the Parsonage\nsuccessful; and Edmund made his appearance just in time to learn\nwhat had been settled for Wednesday, to attend Mrs. Rushworth to her\ncarriage, and walk half-way down the park with the two other ladies.\n\nOn his return to the breakfast-room, he found Mrs. Norris trying to\nmake up her mind as to whether Miss Crawford's being of the party were\ndesirable or not, or whether her brother's barouche would not be full\nwithout her. The Miss Bertrams laughed at the idea, assuring her that\nthe barouche would hold four perfectly well, independent of the box, on\nwhich _one_ might go with him.\n\n\"But why is it necessary,\" said Edmund, \"that Crawford's carriage, or\nhis _only_, should be employed? Why is no use to be made of my mother's\nchaise? I could not, when the scheme was first mentioned the other\nday, understand why a visit from the family were not to be made in the\ncarriage of the family.\"\n\n\"What!\" cried Julia: \"go boxed up three in a postchaise in this weather,\nwhen we may have seats in a barouche! No, my dear Edmund, that will not\nquite do.\"\n\n\"Besides,\" said Maria, \"I know that Mr. Crawford depends upon taking us.\nAfter what passed at first, he would claim it as a promise.\"\n\n\"And, my dear Edmund,\" added Mrs. Norris, \"taking out _two_ carriages\nwhen _one_ will do, would be trouble for nothing; and, between\nourselves, coachman is not very fond of the roads between this and\nSotherton: he always complains bitterly of the narrow lanes scratching\nhis carriage, and you know one should not like to have dear Sir Thomas,\nwhen he comes home, find all the varnish scratched off.\"\n\n\"That would not be a very handsome reason for using Mr. Crawford's,\"\nsaid Maria; \"but the truth is, that Wilcox is a stupid old fellow, and\ndoes not know how to drive. I will answer for it that we shall find no\ninconvenience from narrow roads on Wednesday.\"\n\n\"There is no hardship, I suppose, nothing unpleasant,\" said Edmund, \"in\ngoing on the barouche box.\"\n\n\"Unpleasant!\" cried Maria: \"oh dear! I believe it would be generally\nthought the favourite seat. There can be no comparison as to one's view\nof the country. Probably Miss Crawford will choose the barouche-box\nherself.\"\n\n\"There can be no objection, then, to Fanny's going with you; there can\nbe no doubt of your having room for her.\"\n\n\"Fanny!\" repeated Mrs. Norris; \"my dear Edmund, there is no idea of her\ngoing with us. She stays with her aunt. I told Mrs. Rushworth so. She is\nnot expected.\"\n\n\"You can have no reason, I imagine, madam,\" said he, addressing his\nmother, \"for wishing Fanny _not_ to be of the party, but as it relates\nto yourself, to your own comfort. If you could do without her, you would\nnot wish to keep her at home?\"\n\n\"To be sure not, but I _cannot_ do without her.\"\n\n\"You can, if I stay at home with you, as I mean to do.\"\n\nThere was a general cry out at this. \"Yes,\" he continued, \"there is no\nnecessity for my going, and I mean to stay at home. Fanny has a great\ndesire to see Sotherton. I know she wishes it very much. She has not\noften a gratification of the kind, and I am sure, ma'am, you would be\nglad to give her the pleasure now?\"\n\n\"Oh yes! very glad, if your aunt sees no objection.\"\n\nMrs. Norris was very ready with the only objection which could\nremain--their having positively assured Mrs. Rushworth that Fanny could\nnot go, and the very strange appearance there would consequently be in\ntaking her, which seemed to her a difficulty quite impossible to be got\nover. It must have the strangest appearance! It would be something so\nvery unceremonious, so bordering on disrespect for Mrs. Rushworth, whose\nown manners were such a pattern of good-breeding and attention, that she\nreally did not feel equal to it. Mrs. Norris had no affection for Fanny,\nand no wish of procuring her pleasure at any time; but her opposition to\nEdmund _now_, arose more from partiality for her own scheme, because it\n_was_ her own, than from anything else. She felt that she had arranged\neverything extremely well, and that any alteration must be for the\nworse. When Edmund, therefore, told her in reply, as he did when she\nwould give him the hearing, that she need not distress herself on Mrs.\nRushworth's account, because he had taken the opportunity, as he walked\nwith her through the hall, of mentioning Miss Price as one who would\nprobably be of the party, and had directly received a very sufficient\ninvitation for his cousin, Mrs. Norris was too much vexed to submit with\na very good grace, and would only say, \"Very well, very well, just as\nyou chuse, settle it your own way, I am sure I do not care about it.\"\n\n\"It seems very odd,\" said Maria, \"that you should be staying at home\ninstead of Fanny.\"\n\n\"I am sure she ought to be very much obliged to you,\" added Julia,\nhastily leaving the room as she spoke, from a consciousness that she\nought to offer to stay at home herself.\n\n\"Fanny will feel quite as grateful as the occasion requires,\" was\nEdmund's only reply, and the subject dropt.\n\nFanny's gratitude, when she heard the plan, was, in fact, much greater\nthan her pleasure. She felt Edmund's kindness with all, and more than\nall, the sensibility which he, unsuspicious of her fond attachment,\ncould be aware of; but that he should forego any enjoyment on her\naccount gave her pain, and her own satisfaction in seeing Sotherton\nwould be nothing without him.\n\nThe next meeting of the two Mansfield families produced another\nalteration in the plan, and one that was admitted with general\napprobation. Mrs. Grant offered herself as companion for the day to Lady\nBertram in lieu of her son, and Dr. Grant was to join them at dinner.\nLady Bertram was very well pleased to have it so, and the young ladies\nwere in spirits again. Even Edmund was very thankful for an arrangement\nwhich restored him to his share of the party; and Mrs. Norris thought it\nan excellent plan, and had it at her tongue's end, and was on the point\nof proposing it, when Mrs. Grant spoke.\n\nWednesday was fine, and soon after breakfast the barouche arrived, Mr.\nCrawford driving his sisters; and as everybody was ready, there was\nnothing to be done but for Mrs. Grant to alight and the others to take\ntheir places. The place of all places, the envied seat, the post of\nhonour, was unappropriated. To whose happy lot was it to fall? While\neach of the Miss Bertrams were meditating how best, and with the most\nappearance of obliging the others, to secure it, the matter was settled\nby Mrs. Grant's saying, as she stepped from the carriage, \"As there are\nfive of you, it will be better that one should sit with Henry; and as\nyou were saying lately that you wished you could drive, Julia, I think\nthis will be a good opportunity for you to take a lesson.\"\n\nHappy Julia! Unhappy Maria! The former was on the barouche-box in a\nmoment, the latter took her seat within, in gloom and mortification; and\nthe carriage drove off amid the good wishes of the two remaining ladies,\nand the barking of Pug in his mistress's arms.\n\nTheir road was through a pleasant country; and Fanny, whose rides had\nnever been extensive, was soon beyond her knowledge, and was very happy\nin observing all that was new, and admiring all that was pretty. She was\nnot often invited to join in the conversation of the others, nor did\nshe desire it. Her own thoughts and reflections were habitually her\nbest companions; and, in observing the appearance of the country, the\nbearings of the roads, the difference of soil, the state of the harvest,\nthe cottages, the cattle, the children, she found entertainment that\ncould only have been heightened by having Edmund to speak to of what she\nfelt. That was the only point of resemblance between her and the lady\nwho sat by her: in everything but a value for Edmund, Miss Crawford was\nvery unlike her. She had none of Fanny's delicacy of taste, of mind, of\nfeeling; she saw Nature, inanimate Nature, with little observation;\nher attention was all for men and women, her talents for the light\nand lively. In looking back after Edmund, however, when there was any\nstretch of road behind them, or when he gained on them in ascending a\nconsiderable hill, they were united, and a \"there he is\" broke at the\nsame moment from them both, more than once.\n\nFor the first seven miles Miss Bertram had very little real comfort:\nher prospect always ended in Mr. Crawford and her sister sitting side by\nside, full of conversation and merriment; and to see only his expressive\nprofile as he turned with a smile to Julia, or to catch the laugh of\nthe other, was a perpetual source of irritation, which her own sense\nof propriety could but just smooth over. When Julia looked back, it was\nwith a countenance of delight, and whenever she spoke to them, it was in\nthe highest spirits: \"her view of the country was charming, she wished\nthey could all see it,\" etc.; but her only offer of exchange was\naddressed to Miss Crawford, as they gained the summit of a long hill,\nand was not more inviting than this: \"Here is a fine burst of country. I\nwish you had my seat, but I dare say you will not take it, let me press\nyou ever so much;\" and Miss Crawford could hardly answer before they\nwere moving again at a good pace.\n\nWhen they came within the influence of Sotherton associations, it was\nbetter for Miss Bertram, who might be said to have two strings to her\nbow. She had Rushworth feelings, and Crawford feelings, and in\nthe vicinity of Sotherton the former had considerable effect. Mr.\nRushworth's consequence was hers. She could not tell Miss Crawford that\n\"those woods belonged to Sotherton,\" she could not carelessly observe\nthat \"she believed that it was now all Mr. Rushworth's property on each\nside of the road,\" without elation of heart; and it was a pleasure\nto increase with their approach to the capital freehold mansion,\nand ancient manorial residence of the family, with all its rights of\ncourt-leet and court-baron.\n\n\"Now we shall have no more rough road, Miss Crawford; our difficulties\nare over. The rest of the way is such as it ought to be. Mr. Rushworth\nhas made it since he succeeded to the estate. Here begins the village.\nThose cottages are really a disgrace. The church spire is reckoned\nremarkably handsome. I am glad the church is not so close to the great\nhouse as often happens in old places. The annoyance of the bells must be\nterrible. There is the parsonage: a tidy-looking house, and I understand\nthe clergyman and his wife are very decent people. Those are almshouses,\nbuilt by some of the family. To the right is the steward's house; he\nis a very respectable man. Now we are coming to the lodge-gates; but we\nhave nearly a mile through the park still. It is not ugly, you see, at\nthis end; there is some fine timber, but the situation of the house is\ndreadful. We go down hill to it for half a mile, and it is a pity, for\nit would not be an ill-looking place if it had a better approach.\"\n\nMiss Crawford was not slow to admire; she pretty well guessed Miss\nBertram's feelings, and made it a point of honour to promote her\nenjoyment to the utmost. Mrs. Norris was all delight and volubility; and\neven Fanny had something to say in admiration, and might be heard with\ncomplacency. Her eye was eagerly taking in everything within her reach;\nand after being at some pains to get a view of the house, and observing\nthat \"it was a sort of building which she could not look at but with\nrespect,\" she added, \"Now, where is the avenue? The house fronts the\neast, I perceive. The avenue, therefore, must be at the back of it. Mr.\nRushworth talked of the west front.\"\n\n\"Yes, it is exactly behind the house; begins at a little distance, and\nascends for half a mile to the extremity of the grounds. You may see\nsomething of it here--something of the more distant trees. It is oak\nentirely.\"\n\nMiss Bertram could now speak with decided information of what she had\nknown nothing about when Mr. Rushworth had asked her opinion; and her\nspirits were in as happy a flutter as vanity and pride could furnish,\nwhen they drove up to the spacious stone steps before the principal\nentrance.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nMr. Rushworth was at the door to receive his fair lady; and the whole\nparty were welcomed by him with due attention. In the drawing-room they\nwere met with equal cordiality by the mother, and Miss Bertram had all\nthe distinction with each that she could wish. After the business of\narriving was over, it was first necessary to eat, and the doors were\nthrown open to admit them through one or two intermediate rooms into the\nappointed dining-parlour, where a collation was prepared with abundance\nand elegance. Much was said, and much was ate, and all went well. The\nparticular object of the day was then considered. How would Mr. Crawford\nlike, in what manner would he chuse, to take a survey of the grounds?\nMr. Rushworth mentioned his curricle. Mr. Crawford suggested the greater\ndesirableness of some carriage which might convey more than two. \"To be\ndepriving themselves of the advantage of other eyes and other judgments,\nmight be an evil even beyond the loss of present pleasure.\"\n\nMrs. Rushworth proposed that the chaise should be taken also; but this\nwas scarcely received as an amendment: the young ladies neither smiled\nnor spoke. Her next proposition, of shewing the house to such of them\nas had not been there before, was more acceptable, for Miss Bertram\nwas pleased to have its size displayed, and all were glad to be doing\nsomething.\n\nThe whole party rose accordingly, and under Mrs. Rushworth's guidance\nwere shewn through a number of rooms, all lofty, and many large, and\namply furnished in the taste of fifty years back, with shining floors,\nsolid mahogany, rich damask, marble, gilding, and carving, each handsome\nin its way. Of pictures there were abundance, and some few good, but\nthe larger part were family portraits, no longer anything to anybody\nbut Mrs. Rushworth, who had been at great pains to learn all that the\nhousekeeper could teach, and was now almost equally well qualified to\nshew the house. On the present occasion she addressed herself chiefly to\nMiss Crawford and Fanny, but there was no comparison in the willingness\nof their attention; for Miss Crawford, who had seen scores of great\nhouses, and cared for none of them, had only the appearance of civilly\nlistening, while Fanny, to whom everything was almost as interesting\nas it was new, attended with unaffected earnestness to all that Mrs.\nRushworth could relate of the family in former times, its rise and\ngrandeur, regal visits and loyal efforts, delighted to connect anything\nwith history already known, or warm her imagination with scenes of the\npast.\n\nThe situation of the house excluded the possibility of much prospect\nfrom any of the rooms; and while Fanny and some of the others were\nattending Mrs. Rushworth, Henry Crawford was looking grave and shaking\nhis head at the windows. Every room on the west front looked across\na lawn to the beginning of the avenue immediately beyond tall iron\npalisades and gates.\n\nHaving visited many more rooms than could be supposed to be of any\nother use than to contribute to the window-tax, and find employment for\nhousemaids, \"Now,\" said Mrs. Rushworth, \"we are coming to the chapel,\nwhich properly we ought to enter from above, and look down upon; but\nas we are quite among friends, I will take you in this way, if you will\nexcuse me.\"\n\nThey entered. Fanny's imagination had prepared her for something\ngrander than a mere spacious, oblong room, fitted up for the purpose of\ndevotion: with nothing more striking or more solemn than the profusion\nof mahogany, and the crimson velvet cushions appearing over the ledge of\nthe family gallery above. \"I am disappointed,\" said she, in a low voice,\nto Edmund. \"This is not my idea of a chapel. There is nothing awful\nhere, nothing melancholy, nothing grand. Here are no aisles, no arches,\nno inscriptions, no banners. No banners, cousin, to be 'blown by the\nnight wind of heaven.' No signs that a 'Scottish monarch sleeps below.'\"\n\n\"You forget, Fanny, how lately all this has been built, and for how\nconfined a purpose, compared with the old chapels of castles and\nmonasteries. It was only for the private use of the family. They have\nbeen buried, I suppose, in the parish church. _There_ you must look for\nthe banners and the achievements.\"\n\n\"It was foolish of me not to think of all that; but I am disappointed.\"\n\nMrs. Rushworth began her relation. \"This chapel was fitted up as you see\nit, in James the Second's time. Before that period, as I understand,\nthe pews were only wainscot; and there is some reason to think that\nthe linings and cushions of the pulpit and family seat were only purple\ncloth; but this is not quite certain. It is a handsome chapel, and was\nformerly in constant use both morning and evening. Prayers were always\nread in it by the domestic chaplain, within the memory of many; but the\nlate Mr. Rushworth left it off.\"\n\n\"Every generation has its improvements,\" said Miss Crawford, with a\nsmile, to Edmund.\n\nMrs. Rushworth was gone to repeat her lesson to Mr. Crawford; and\nEdmund, Fanny, and Miss Crawford remained in a cluster together.\n\n\"It is a pity,\" cried Fanny, \"that the custom should have been\ndiscontinued. It was a valuable part of former times. There is something\nin a chapel and chaplain so much in character with a great house,\nwith one's ideas of what such a household should be! A whole family\nassembling regularly for the purpose of prayer is fine!\"\n\n\"Very fine indeed,\" said Miss Crawford, laughing. \"It must do the heads\nof the family a great deal of good to force all the poor housemaids and\nfootmen to leave business and pleasure, and say their prayers here twice\na day, while they are inventing excuses themselves for staying away.\"\n\n\"_That_ is hardly Fanny's idea of a family assembling,\" said Edmund. \"If\nthe master and mistress do _not_ attend themselves, there must be more\nharm than good in the custom.\"\n\n\"At any rate, it is safer to leave people to their own devices on such\nsubjects. Everybody likes to go their own way--to chuse their own time\nand manner of devotion. The obligation of attendance, the formality, the\nrestraint, the length of time--altogether it is a formidable thing, and\nwhat nobody likes; and if the good people who used to kneel and gape in\nthat gallery could have foreseen that the time would ever come when men\nand women might lie another ten minutes in bed, when they woke with a\nheadache, without danger of reprobation, because chapel was missed,\nthey would have jumped with joy and envy. Cannot you imagine with what\nunwilling feelings the former belles of the house of Rushworth did\nmany a time repair to this chapel? The young Mrs. Eleanors and Mrs.\nBridgets--starched up into seeming piety, but with heads full of\nsomething very different--especially if the poor chaplain were not worth\nlooking at--and, in those days, I fancy parsons were very inferior even\nto what they are now.\"\n\nFor a few moments she was unanswered. Fanny coloured and looked\nat Edmund, but felt too angry for speech; and he needed a little\nrecollection before he could say, \"Your lively mind can hardly be\nserious even on serious subjects. You have given us an amusing sketch,\nand human nature cannot say it was not so. We must all feel _at_ _times_\nthe difficulty of fixing our thoughts as we could wish; but if you are\nsupposing it a frequent thing, that is to say, a weakness grown into a\nhabit from neglect, what could be expected from the _private_ devotions\nof such persons? Do you think the minds which are suffered, which\nare indulged in wanderings in a chapel, would be more collected in a\ncloset?\"\n\n\"Yes, very likely. They would have two chances at least in their favour.\nThere would be less to distract the attention from without, and it would\nnot be tried so long.\"\n\n\"The mind which does not struggle against itself under _one_\ncircumstance, would find objects to distract it in the _other_, I\nbelieve; and the influence of the place and of example may often rouse\nbetter feelings than are begun with. The greater length of the service,\nhowever, I admit to be sometimes too hard a stretch upon the mind. One\nwishes it were not so; but I have not yet left Oxford long enough to\nforget what chapel prayers are.\"\n\nWhile this was passing, the rest of the party being scattered about the\nchapel, Julia called Mr. Crawford's attention to her sister, by saying,\n\"Do look at Mr. Rushworth and Maria, standing side by side, exactly as\nif the ceremony were going to be performed. Have not they completely the\nair of it?\"\n\nMr. Crawford smiled his acquiescence, and stepping forward to Maria,\nsaid, in a voice which she only could hear, \"I do not like to see Miss\nBertram so near the altar.\"\n\nStarting, the lady instinctively moved a step or two, but recovering\nherself in a moment, affected to laugh, and asked him, in a tone not\nmuch louder, \"If he would give her away?\"\n\n\"I am afraid I should do it very awkwardly,\" was his reply, with a look\nof meaning.\n\nJulia, joining them at the moment, carried on the joke.\n\n\"Upon my word, it is really a pity that it should not take place\ndirectly, if we had but a proper licence, for here we are altogether,\nand nothing in the world could be more snug and pleasant.\" And she\ntalked and laughed about it with so little caution as to catch the\ncomprehension of Mr. Rushworth and his mother, and expose her sister to\nthe whispered gallantries of her lover, while Mrs. Rushworth spoke\nwith proper smiles and dignity of its being a most happy event to her\nwhenever it took place.\n\n\"If Edmund were but in orders!\" cried Julia, and running to where he\nstood with Miss Crawford and Fanny: \"My dear Edmund, if you were but in\norders now, you might perform the ceremony directly. How unlucky that\nyou are not ordained; Mr. Rushworth and Maria are quite ready.\"\n\nMiss Crawford's countenance, as Julia spoke, might have amused a\ndisinterested observer. She looked almost aghast under the new idea she\nwas receiving. Fanny pitied her. \"How distressed she will be at what she\nsaid just now,\" passed across her mind.\n\n\"Ordained!\" said Miss Crawford; \"what, are you to be a clergyman?\"\n\n\"Yes; I shall take orders soon after my father's return--probably at\nChristmas.\"\n\nMiss Crawford, rallying her spirits, and recovering her complexion,\nreplied only, \"If I had known this before, I would have spoken of the\ncloth with more respect,\" and turned the subject.\n\nThe chapel was soon afterwards left to the silence and stillness\nwhich reigned in it, with few interruptions, throughout the year. Miss\nBertram, displeased with her sister, led the way, and all seemed to feel\nthat they had been there long enough.\n\nThe lower part of the house had been now entirely shewn, and Mrs.\nRushworth, never weary in the cause, would have proceeded towards the\nprincipal staircase, and taken them through all the rooms above, if her\nson had not interposed with a doubt of there being time enough. \"For\nif,\" said he, with the sort of self-evident proposition which many a\nclearer head does not always avoid, \"we are _too_ long going over the\nhouse, we shall not have time for what is to be done out of doors. It is\npast two, and we are to dine at five.\"\n\nMrs. Rushworth submitted; and the question of surveying the grounds,\nwith the who and the how, was likely to be more fully agitated, and Mrs.\nNorris was beginning to arrange by what junction of carriages and horses\nmost could be done, when the young people, meeting with an outward door,\ntemptingly open on a flight of steps which led immediately to turf and\nshrubs, and all the sweets of pleasure-grounds, as by one impulse, one\nwish for air and liberty, all walked out.\n\n\"Suppose we turn down here for the present,\" said Mrs. Rushworth,\ncivilly taking the hint and following them. \"Here are the greatest\nnumber of our plants, and here are the curious pheasants.\"\n\n\"Query,\" said Mr. Crawford, looking round him, \"whether we may not find\nsomething to employ us here before we go farther? I see walls of great\npromise. Mr. Rushworth, shall we summon a council on this lawn?\"\n\n\"James,\" said Mrs. Rushworth to her son, \"I believe the wilderness\nwill be new to all the party. The Miss Bertrams have never seen the\nwilderness yet.\"\n\nNo objection was made, but for some time there seemed no inclination to\nmove in any plan, or to any distance. All were attracted at first by the\nplants or the pheasants, and all dispersed about in happy independence.\nMr. Crawford was the first to move forward to examine the capabilities\nof that end of the house. The lawn, bounded on each side by a high wall,\ncontained beyond the first planted area a bowling-green, and beyond\nthe bowling-green a long terrace walk, backed by iron palisades, and\ncommanding a view over them into the tops of the trees of the wilderness\nimmediately adjoining. It was a good spot for fault-finding. Mr.\nCrawford was soon followed by Miss Bertram and Mr. Rushworth; and when,\nafter a little time, the others began to form into parties, these three\nwere found in busy consultation on the terrace by Edmund, Miss Crawford,\nand Fanny, who seemed as naturally to unite, and who, after a short\nparticipation of their regrets and difficulties, left them and walked\non. The remaining three, Mrs. Rushworth, Mrs. Norris, and Julia, were\nstill far behind; for Julia, whose happy star no longer prevailed,\nwas obliged to keep by the side of Mrs. Rushworth, and restrain her\nimpatient feet to that lady's slow pace, while her aunt, having fallen\nin with the housekeeper, who was come out to feed the pheasants, was\nlingering behind in gossip with her. Poor Julia, the only one out of\nthe nine not tolerably satisfied with their lot, was now in a state of\ncomplete penance, and as different from the Julia of the barouche-box as\ncould well be imagined. The politeness which she had been brought up to\npractise as a duty made it impossible for her to escape; while the\nwant of that higher species of self-command, that just consideration of\nothers, that knowledge of her own heart, that principle of right, which\nhad not formed any essential part of her education, made her miserable\nunder it.\n\n\"This is insufferably hot,\" said Miss Crawford, when they had taken one\nturn on the terrace, and were drawing a second time to the door in the\nmiddle which opened to the wilderness. \"Shall any of us object to being\ncomfortable? Here is a nice little wood, if one can but get into it.\nWhat happiness if the door should not be locked! but of course it is;\nfor in these great places the gardeners are the only people who can go\nwhere they like.\"\n\nThe door, however, proved not to be locked, and they were all agreed in\nturning joyfully through it, and leaving the unmitigated glare of day\nbehind. A considerable flight of steps landed them in the wilderness,\nwhich was a planted wood of about two acres, and though chiefly of\nlarch and laurel, and beech cut down, and though laid out with too much\nregularity, was darkness and shade, and natural beauty, compared with\nthe bowling-green and the terrace. They all felt the refreshment of it,\nand for some time could only walk and admire. At length, after a short\npause, Miss Crawford began with, \"So you are to be a clergyman, Mr.\nBertram. This is rather a surprise to me.\"\n\n\"Why should it surprise you? You must suppose me designed for some\nprofession, and might perceive that I am neither a lawyer, nor a\nsoldier, nor a sailor.\"\n\n\"Very true; but, in short, it had not occurred to me. And you know there\nis generally an uncle or a grandfather to leave a fortune to the second\nson.\"\n\n\"A very praiseworthy practice,\" said Edmund, \"but not quite universal.\nI am one of the exceptions, and _being_ one, must do something for\nmyself.\"\n\n\"But why are you to be a clergyman? I thought _that_ was always the lot\nof the youngest, where there were many to chuse before him.\"\n\n\"Do you think the church itself never chosen, then?\"\n\n\"_Never_ is a black word. But yes, in the _never_ of conversation, which\nmeans _not_ _very_ _often_, I do think it. For what is to be done in the\nchurch? Men love to distinguish themselves, and in either of the other\nlines distinction may be gained, but not in the church. A clergyman is\nnothing.\"\n\n\"The _nothing_ of conversation has its gradations, I hope, as well as\nthe _never_. A clergyman cannot be high in state or fashion. He must\nnot head mobs, or set the ton in dress. But I cannot call that situation\nnothing which has the charge of all that is of the first importance\nto mankind, individually or collectively considered, temporally and\neternally, which has the guardianship of religion and morals, and\nconsequently of the manners which result from their influence. No one\nhere can call the _office_ nothing. If the man who holds it is so, it\nis by the neglect of his duty, by foregoing its just importance, and\nstepping out of his place to appear what he ought not to appear.\"\n\n\"_You_ assign greater consequence to the clergyman than one has been\nused to hear given, or than I can quite comprehend. One does not see\nmuch of this influence and importance in society, and how can it be\nacquired where they are so seldom seen themselves? How can two sermons a\nweek, even supposing them worth hearing, supposing the preacher to have\nthe sense to prefer Blair's to his own, do all that you speak of? govern\nthe conduct and fashion the manners of a large congregation for the rest\nof the week? One scarcely sees a clergyman out of his pulpit.\"\n\n\"_You_ are speaking of London, _I_ am speaking of the nation at large.\"\n\n\"The metropolis, I imagine, is a pretty fair sample of the rest.\"\n\n\"Not, I should hope, of the proportion of virtue to vice throughout the\nkingdom. We do not look in great cities for our best morality. It is not\nthere that respectable people of any denomination can do most good; and\nit certainly is not there that the influence of the clergy can be most\nfelt. A fine preacher is followed and admired; but it is not in fine\npreaching only that a good clergyman will be useful in his parish and\nhis neighbourhood, where the parish and neighbourhood are of a size\ncapable of knowing his private character, and observing his general\nconduct, which in London can rarely be the case. The clergy are lost\nthere in the crowds of their parishioners. They are known to the largest\npart only as preachers. And with regard to their influencing public\nmanners, Miss Crawford must not misunderstand me, or suppose I mean to\ncall them the arbiters of good-breeding, the regulators of refinement\nand courtesy, the masters of the ceremonies of life. The _manners_ I\nspeak of might rather be called _conduct_, perhaps, the result of good\nprinciples; the effect, in short, of those doctrines which it is their\nduty to teach and recommend; and it will, I believe, be everywhere\nfound, that as the clergy are, or are not what they ought to be, so are\nthe rest of the nation.\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" said Fanny, with gentle earnestness.\n\n\"There,\" cried Miss Crawford, \"you have quite convinced Miss Price\nalready.\"\n\n\"I wish I could convince Miss Crawford too.\"\n\n\"I do not think you ever will,\" said she, with an arch smile; \"I am just\nas much surprised now as I was at first that you should intend to take\norders. You really are fit for something better. Come, do change your\nmind. It is not too late. Go into the law.\"\n\n\"Go into the law! With as much ease as I was told to go into this\nwilderness.\"\n\n\"Now you are going to say something about law being the worst wilderness\nof the two, but I forestall you; remember, I have forestalled you.\"\n\n\"You need not hurry when the object is only to prevent my saying a\n_bon_ _mot_, for there is not the least wit in my nature. I am a very\nmatter-of-fact, plain-spoken being, and may blunder on the borders of a\nrepartee for half an hour together without striking it out.\"\n\nA general silence succeeded. Each was thoughtful. Fanny made the first\ninterruption by saying, \"I wonder that I should be tired with only\nwalking in this sweet wood; but the next time we come to a seat, if it\nis not disagreeable to you, I should be glad to sit down for a little\nwhile.\"\n\n\"My dear Fanny,\" cried Edmund, immediately drawing her arm within his,\n\"how thoughtless I have been! I hope you are not very tired. Perhaps,\"\nturning to Miss Crawford, \"my other companion may do me the honour of\ntaking an arm.\"\n\n\"Thank you, but I am not at all tired.\" She took it, however, as she\nspoke, and the gratification of having her do so, of feeling such a\nconnexion for the first time, made him a little forgetful of Fanny.\n\"You scarcely touch me,\" said he. \"You do not make me of any use. What a\ndifference in the weight of a woman's arm from that of a man! At Oxford\nI have been a good deal used to have a man lean on me for the length of\na street, and you are only a fly in the comparison.\"\n\n\"I am really not tired, which I almost wonder at; for we must have\nwalked at least a mile in this wood. Do not you think we have?\"\n\n\"Not half a mile,\" was his sturdy answer; for he was not yet so much in\nlove as to measure distance, or reckon time, with feminine lawlessness.\n\n\"Oh! you do not consider how much we have wound about. We have taken\nsuch a very serpentine course, and the wood itself must be half a mile\nlong in a straight line, for we have never seen the end of it yet since\nwe left the first great path.\"\n\n\"But if you remember, before we left that first great path, we saw\ndirectly to the end of it. We looked down the whole vista, and saw it\nclosed by iron gates, and it could not have been more than a furlong in\nlength.\"\n\n\"Oh! I know nothing of your furlongs, but I am sure it is a very long\nwood, and that we have been winding in and out ever since we came into\nit; and therefore, when I say that we have walked a mile in it, I must\nspeak within compass.\"\n\n\"We have been exactly a quarter of an hour here,\" said Edmund, taking\nout his watch. \"Do you think we are walking four miles an hour?\"\n\n\"Oh! do not attack me with your watch. A watch is always too fast or too\nslow. I cannot be dictated to by a watch.\"\n\nA few steps farther brought them out at the bottom of the very walk they\nhad been talking of; and standing back, well shaded and sheltered, and\nlooking over a ha-ha into the park, was a comfortable-sized bench, on\nwhich they all sat down.\n\n\"I am afraid you are very tired, Fanny,\" said Edmund, observing her;\n\"why would not you speak sooner? This will be a bad day's amusement for\nyou if you are to be knocked up. Every sort of exercise fatigues her so\nsoon, Miss Crawford, except riding.\"\n\n\"How abominable in you, then, to let me engross her horse as I did all\nlast week! I am ashamed of you and of myself, but it shall never happen\nagain.\"\n\n\"_Your_ attentiveness and consideration makes me more sensible of my own\nneglect. Fanny's interest seems in safer hands with you than with me.\"\n\n\"That she should be tired now, however, gives me no surprise; for there\nis nothing in the course of one's duties so fatiguing as what we have\nbeen doing this morning: seeing a great house, dawdling from one room to\nanother, straining one's eyes and one's attention, hearing what one does\nnot understand, admiring what one does not care for. It is generally\nallowed to be the greatest bore in the world, and Miss Price has found\nit so, though she did not know it.\"\n\n\"I shall soon be rested,\" said Fanny; \"to sit in the shade on a fine\nday, and look upon verdure, is the most perfect refreshment.\"\n\nAfter sitting a little while Miss Crawford was up again. \"I must move,\"\nsaid she; \"resting fatigues me. I have looked across the ha-ha till I\nam weary. I must go and look through that iron gate at the same view,\nwithout being able to see it so well.\"\n\nEdmund left the seat likewise. \"Now, Miss Crawford, if you will look up\nthe walk, you will convince yourself that it cannot be half a mile long,\nor half half a mile.\"\n\n\"It is an immense distance,\" said she; \"I see _that_ with a glance.\"\n\nHe still reasoned with her, but in vain. She would not calculate, she\nwould not compare. She would only smile and assert. The greatest degree\nof rational consistency could not have been more engaging, and they\ntalked with mutual satisfaction. At last it was agreed that they should\nendeavour to determine the dimensions of the wood by walking a little\nmore about it. They would go to one end of it, in the line they were\nthen in--for there was a straight green walk along the bottom by\nthe side of the ha-ha--and perhaps turn a little way in some other\ndirection, if it seemed likely to assist them, and be back in a few\nminutes. Fanny said she was rested, and would have moved too, but this\nwas not suffered. Edmund urged her remaining where she was with an\nearnestness which she could not resist, and she was left on the bench to\nthink with pleasure of her cousin's care, but with great regret that she\nwas not stronger. She watched them till they had turned the corner, and\nlistened till all sound of them had ceased.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nA quarter of an hour, twenty minutes, passed away, and Fanny was still\nthinking of Edmund, Miss Crawford, and herself, without interruption\nfrom any one. She began to be surprised at being left so long, and to\nlisten with an anxious desire of hearing their steps and their voices\nagain. She listened, and at length she heard; she heard voices and feet\napproaching; but she had just satisfied herself that it was not those\nshe wanted, when Miss Bertram, Mr. Rushworth, and Mr. Crawford issued\nfrom the same path which she had trod herself, and were before her.\n\n\"Miss Price all alone\" and \"My dear Fanny, how comes this?\" were the\nfirst salutations. She told her story. \"Poor dear Fanny,\" cried her\ncousin, \"how ill you have been used by them! You had better have staid\nwith us.\"\n\nThen seating herself with a gentleman on each side, she resumed\nthe conversation which had engaged them before, and discussed the\npossibility of improvements with much animation. Nothing was fixed\non; but Henry Crawford was full of ideas and projects, and, generally\nspeaking, whatever he proposed was immediately approved, first by her,\nand then by Mr. Rushworth, whose principal business seemed to be to\nhear the others, and who scarcely risked an original thought of his own\nbeyond a wish that they had seen his friend Smith's place.\n\nAfter some minutes spent in this way, Miss Bertram, observing the iron\ngate, expressed a wish of passing through it into the park, that their\nviews and their plans might be more comprehensive. It was the very thing\nof all others to be wished, it was the best, it was the only way of\nproceeding with any advantage, in Henry Crawford's opinion; and he\ndirectly saw a knoll not half a mile off, which would give them exactly\nthe requisite command of the house. Go therefore they must to that\nknoll, and through that gate; but the gate was locked. Mr. Rushworth\nwished he had brought the key; he had been very near thinking whether he\nshould not bring the key; he was determined he would never come without\nthe key again; but still this did not remove the present evil. They\ncould not get through; and as Miss Bertram's inclination for so doing\ndid by no means lessen, it ended in Mr. Rushworth's declaring outright\nthat he would go and fetch the key. He set off accordingly.\n\n\"It is undoubtedly the best thing we can do now, as we are so far from\nthe house already,\" said Mr. Crawford, when he was gone.\n\n\"Yes, there is nothing else to be done. But now, sincerely, do not you\nfind the place altogether worse than you expected?\"\n\n\"No, indeed, far otherwise. I find it better, grander, more complete in\nits style, though that style may not be the best. And to tell you the\ntruth,\" speaking rather lower, \"I do not think that _I_ shall ever see\nSotherton again with so much pleasure as I do now. Another summer will\nhardly improve it to me.\"\n\nAfter a moment's embarrassment the lady replied, \"You are too much a\nman of the world not to see with the eyes of the world. If other people\nthink Sotherton improved, I have no doubt that you will.\"\n\n\"I am afraid I am not quite so much the man of the world as might be\ngood for me in some points. My feelings are not quite so evanescent, nor\nmy memory of the past under such easy dominion as one finds to be the\ncase with men of the world.\"\n\nThis was followed by a short silence. Miss Bertram began again. \"You\nseemed to enjoy your drive here very much this morning. I was glad to\nsee you so well entertained. You and Julia were laughing the whole way.\"\n\n\"Were we? Yes, I believe we were; but I have not the least recollection\nat what. Oh! I believe I was relating to her some ridiculous stories of\nan old Irish groom of my uncle's. Your sister loves to laugh.\"\n\n\"You think her more light-hearted than I am?\"\n\n\"More easily amused,\" he replied; \"consequently, you know,\" smiling,\n\"better company. I could not have hoped to entertain you with Irish\nanecdotes during a ten miles' drive.\"\n\n\"Naturally, I believe, I am as lively as Julia, but I have more to think\nof now.\"\n\n\"You have, undoubtedly; and there are situations in which very high\nspirits would denote insensibility. Your prospects, however, are too\nfair to justify want of spirits. You have a very smiling scene before\nyou.\"\n\n\"Do you mean literally or figuratively? Literally, I conclude. Yes,\ncertainly, the sun shines, and the park looks very cheerful. But\nunluckily that iron gate, that ha-ha, give me a feeling of restraint and\nhardship. 'I cannot get out,' as the starling said.\" As she spoke, and\nit was with expression, she walked to the gate: he followed her. \"Mr.\nRushworth is so long fetching this key!\"\n\n\"And for the world you would not get out without the key and without Mr.\nRushworth's authority and protection, or I think you might with little\ndifficulty pass round the edge of the gate, here, with my assistance;\nI think it might be done, if you really wished to be more at large, and\ncould allow yourself to think it not prohibited.\"\n\n\"Prohibited! nonsense! I certainly can get out that way, and I will.\nMr. Rushworth will be here in a moment, you know; we shall not be out of\nsight.\"\n\n\"Or if we are, Miss Price will be so good as to tell him that he will\nfind us near that knoll: the grove of oak on the knoll.\"\n\nFanny, feeling all this to be wrong, could not help making an effort to\nprevent it. \"You will hurt yourself, Miss Bertram,\" she cried; \"you will\ncertainly hurt yourself against those spikes; you will tear your gown;\nyou will be in danger of slipping into the ha-ha. You had better not\ngo.\"\n\nHer cousin was safe on the other side while these words were spoken,\nand, smiling with all the good-humour of success, she said, \"Thank you,\nmy dear Fanny, but I and my gown are alive and well, and so good-bye.\"\n\nFanny was again left to her solitude, and with no increase of pleasant\nfeelings, for she was sorry for almost all that she had seen and heard,\nastonished at Miss Bertram, and angry with Mr. Crawford. By taking\na circuitous route, and, as it appeared to her, very unreasonable\ndirection to the knoll, they were soon beyond her eye; and for some\nminutes longer she remained without sight or sound of any companion.\nShe seemed to have the little wood all to herself. She could almost\nhave thought that Edmund and Miss Crawford had left it, but that it was\nimpossible for Edmund to forget her so entirely.\n\nShe was again roused from disagreeable musings by sudden footsteps:\nsomebody was coming at a quick pace down the principal walk. She\nexpected Mr. Rushworth, but it was Julia, who, hot and out of breath,\nand with a look of disappointment, cried out on seeing her, \"Heyday!\nWhere are the others? I thought Maria and Mr. Crawford were with you.\"\n\nFanny explained.\n\n\"A pretty trick, upon my word! I cannot see them anywhere,\" looking\neagerly into the park. \"But they cannot be very far off, and I think I\nam equal to as much as Maria, even without help.\"\n\n\"But, Julia, Mr. Rushworth will be here in a moment with the key. Do\nwait for Mr. Rushworth.\"\n\n\"Not I, indeed. I have had enough of the family for one morning. Why,\nchild, I have but this moment escaped from his horrible mother. Such a\npenance as I have been enduring, while you were sitting here so composed\nand so happy! It might have been as well, perhaps, if you had been in my\nplace, but you always contrive to keep out of these scrapes.\"\n\nThis was a most unjust reflection, but Fanny could allow for it, and let\nit pass: Julia was vexed, and her temper was hasty; but she felt that it\nwould not last, and therefore, taking no notice, only asked her if she\nhad not seen Mr. Rushworth.\n\n\"Yes, yes, we saw him. He was posting away as if upon life and death,\nand could but just spare time to tell us his errand, and where you all\nwere.\"\n\n\"It is a pity he should have so much trouble for nothing.\"\n\n\"_That_ is Miss Maria's concern. I am not obliged to punish myself for\n_her_ sins. The mother I could not avoid, as long as my tiresome aunt\nwas dancing about with the housekeeper, but the son I _can_ get away\nfrom.\"\n\nAnd she immediately scrambled across the fence, and walked away, not\nattending to Fanny's last question of whether she had seen anything of\nMiss Crawford and Edmund. The sort of dread in which Fanny now sat of\nseeing Mr. Rushworth prevented her thinking so much of their continued\nabsence, however, as she might have done. She felt that he had been\nvery ill-used, and was quite unhappy in having to communicate what had\npassed. He joined her within five minutes after Julia's exit; and\nthough she made the best of the story, he was evidently mortified and\ndispleased in no common degree. At first he scarcely said anything; his\nlooks only expressed his extreme surprise and vexation, and he walked to\nthe gate and stood there, without seeming to know what to do.\n\n\"They desired me to stay--my cousin Maria charged me to say that you\nwould find them at that knoll, or thereabouts.\"\n\n\"I do not believe I shall go any farther,\" said he sullenly; \"I see\nnothing of them. By the time I get to the knoll they may be gone\nsomewhere else. I have had walking enough.\"\n\nAnd he sat down with a most gloomy countenance by Fanny.\n\n\"I am very sorry,\" said she; \"it is very unlucky.\" And she longed to be\nable to say something more to the purpose.\n\nAfter an interval of silence, \"I think they might as well have staid for\nme,\" said he.\n\n\"Miss Bertram thought you would follow her.\"\n\n\"I should not have had to follow her if she had staid.\"\n\nThis could not be denied, and Fanny was silenced. After another pause,\nhe went on--\"Pray, Miss Price, are you such a great admirer of this Mr.\nCrawford as some people are? For my part, I can see nothing in him.\"\n\n\"I do not think him at all handsome.\"\n\n\"Handsome! Nobody can call such an undersized man handsome. He is not\nfive foot nine. I should not wonder if he is not more than five foot\neight. I think he is an ill-looking fellow. In my opinion, these\nCrawfords are no addition at all. We did very well without them.\"\n\nA small sigh escaped Fanny here, and she did not know how to contradict\nhim.\n\n\"If I had made any difficulty about fetching the key, there might have\nbeen some excuse, but I went the very moment she said she wanted it.\"\n\n\"Nothing could be more obliging than your manner, I am sure, and I dare\nsay you walked as fast as you could; but still it is some distance, you\nknow, from this spot to the house, quite into the house; and when people\nare waiting, they are bad judges of time, and every half minute seems\nlike five.\"\n\nHe got up and walked to the gate again, and \"wished he had had the key\nabout him at the time.\" Fanny thought she discerned in his standing\nthere an indication of relenting, which encouraged her to another\nattempt, and she said, therefore, \"It is a pity you should not join\nthem. They expected to have a better view of the house from that part\nof the park, and will be thinking how it may be improved; and nothing of\nthat sort, you know, can be settled without you.\"\n\nShe found herself more successful in sending away than in retaining a\ncompanion. Mr. Rushworth was worked on. \"Well,\" said he, \"if you\nreally think I had better go: it would be foolish to bring the key\nfor nothing.\" And letting himself out, he walked off without farther\nceremony.\n\nFanny's thoughts were now all engrossed by the two who had left her so\nlong ago, and getting quite impatient, she resolved to go in search\nof them. She followed their steps along the bottom walk, and had just\nturned up into another, when the voice and the laugh of Miss Crawford\nonce more caught her ear; the sound approached, and a few more windings\nbrought them before her. They were just returned into the wilderness\nfrom the park, to which a sidegate, not fastened, had tempted them very\nsoon after their leaving her, and they had been across a portion of the\npark into the very avenue which Fanny had been hoping the whole morning\nto reach at last, and had been sitting down under one of the trees. This\nwas their history. It was evident that they had been spending their time\npleasantly, and were not aware of the length of their absence. Fanny's\nbest consolation was in being assured that Edmund had wished for her\nvery much, and that he should certainly have come back for her, had she\nnot been tired already; but this was not quite sufficient to do away\nwith the pain of having been left a whole hour, when he had talked of\nonly a few minutes, nor to banish the sort of curiosity she felt to know\nwhat they had been conversing about all that time; and the result of\nthe whole was to her disappointment and depression, as they prepared by\ngeneral agreement to return to the house.\n\nOn reaching the bottom of the steps to the terrace, Mrs. Rushworth\nand Mrs. Norris presented themselves at the top, just ready for the\nwilderness, at the end of an hour and a half from their leaving the\nhouse. Mrs. Norris had been too well employed to move faster. Whatever\ncross-accidents had occurred to intercept the pleasures of her nieces,\nshe had found a morning of complete enjoyment; for the housekeeper,\nafter a great many courtesies on the subject of pheasants, had taken her\nto the dairy, told her all about their cows, and given her the receipt\nfor a famous cream cheese; and since Julia's leaving them they had\nbeen met by the gardener, with whom she had made a most satisfactory\nacquaintance, for she had set him right as to his grandson's illness,\nconvinced him that it was an ague, and promised him a charm for it; and\nhe, in return, had shewn her all his choicest nursery of plants, and\nactually presented her with a very curious specimen of heath.\n\nOn this _rencontre_ they all returned to the house together, there\nto lounge away the time as they could with sofas, and chit-chat, and\nQuarterly Reviews, till the return of the others, and the arrival of\ndinner. It was late before the Miss Bertrams and the two gentlemen came\nin, and their ramble did not appear to have been more than partially\nagreeable, or at all productive of anything useful with regard to the\nobject of the day. By their own accounts they had been all walking after\neach other, and the junction which had taken place at last seemed, to\nFanny's observation, to have been as much too late for re-establishing\nharmony, as it confessedly had been for determining on any alteration.\nShe felt, as she looked at Julia and Mr. Rushworth, that hers was not\nthe only dissatisfied bosom amongst them: there was gloom on the face of\neach. Mr. Crawford and Miss Bertram were much more gay, and she thought\nthat he was taking particular pains, during dinner, to do away any\nlittle resentment of the other two, and restore general good-humour.\n\nDinner was soon followed by tea and coffee, a ten miles' drive home\nallowed no waste of hours; and from the time of their sitting down to\ntable, it was a quick succession of busy nothings till the carriage came\nto the door, and Mrs. Norris, having fidgeted about, and obtained a\nfew pheasants' eggs and a cream cheese from the housekeeper, and made\nabundance of civil speeches to Mrs. Rushworth, was ready to lead the\nway. At the same moment Mr. Crawford, approaching Julia, said, \"I hope I\nam not to lose my companion, unless she is afraid of the evening air\nin so exposed a seat.\" The request had not been foreseen, but was very\ngraciously received, and Julia's day was likely to end almost as well as\nit began. Miss Bertram had made up her mind to something different, and\nwas a little disappointed; but her conviction of being really the\none preferred comforted her under it, and enabled her to receive Mr.\nRushworth's parting attentions as she ought. He was certainly better\npleased to hand her into the barouche than to assist her in ascending\nthe box, and his complacency seemed confirmed by the arrangement.\n\n\"Well, Fanny, this has been a fine day for you, upon my word,\" said\nMrs. Norris, as they drove through the park. \"Nothing but pleasure from\nbeginning to end! I am sure you ought to be very much obliged to your\naunt Bertram and me for contriving to let you go. A pretty good day's\namusement you have had!\"\n\nMaria was just discontented enough to say directly, \"I think _you_ have\ndone pretty well yourself, ma'am. Your lap seems full of good things,\nand here is a basket of something between us which has been knocking my\nelbow unmercifully.\"\n\n\"My dear, it is only a beautiful little heath, which that nice old\ngardener would make me take; but if it is in your way, I will have it in\nmy lap directly. There, Fanny, you shall carry that parcel for me; take\ngreat care of it: do not let it fall; it is a cream cheese, just like\nthe excellent one we had at dinner. Nothing would satisfy that good old\nMrs. Whitaker, but my taking one of the cheeses. I stood out as long\nas I could, till the tears almost came into her eyes, and I knew it was\njust the sort that my sister would be delighted with. That Mrs. Whitaker\nis a treasure! She was quite shocked when I asked her whether wine was\nallowed at the second table, and she has turned away two housemaids for\nwearing white gowns. Take care of the cheese, Fanny. Now I can manage\nthe other parcel and the basket very well.\"\n\n\"What else have you been spunging?\" said Maria, half-pleased that\nSotherton should be so complimented.\n\n\"Spunging, my dear! It is nothing but four of those beautiful pheasants'\neggs, which Mrs. Whitaker would quite force upon me: she would not take\na denial. She said it must be such an amusement to me, as she understood\nI lived quite alone, to have a few living creatures of that sort; and\nso to be sure it will. I shall get the dairymaid to set them under the\nfirst spare hen, and if they come to good I can have them moved to my\nown house and borrow a coop; and it will be a great delight to me in\nmy lonely hours to attend to them. And if I have good luck, your mother\nshall have some.\"\n\nIt was a beautiful evening, mild and still, and the drive was as\npleasant as the serenity of Nature could make it; but when Mrs. Norris\nceased speaking, it was altogether a silent drive to those within. Their\nspirits were in general exhausted; and to determine whether the day had\nafforded most pleasure or pain, might occupy the meditations of almost\nall.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\nThe day at Sotherton, with all its imperfections, afforded the Miss\nBertrams much more agreeable feelings than were derived from the letters\nfrom Antigua, which soon afterwards reached Mansfield. It was much\npleasanter to think of Henry Crawford than of their father; and to think\nof their father in England again within a certain period, which these\nletters obliged them to do, was a most unwelcome exercise.\n\nNovember was the black month fixed for his return. Sir Thomas wrote of\nit with as much decision as experience and anxiety could authorise. His\nbusiness was so nearly concluded as to justify him in proposing to take\nhis passage in the September packet, and he consequently looked forward\nwith the hope of being with his beloved family again early in November.\n\nMaria was more to be pitied than Julia; for to her the father brought a\nhusband, and the return of the friend most solicitous for her happiness\nwould unite her to the lover, on whom she had chosen that happiness\nshould depend. It was a gloomy prospect, and all she could do was to\nthrow a mist over it, and hope when the mist cleared away she should\nsee something else. It would hardly be _early_ in November, there\nwere generally delays, a bad passage or _something_; that favouring\n_something_ which everybody who shuts their eyes while they look, or\ntheir understandings while they reason, feels the comfort of. It would\nprobably be the middle of November at least; the middle of November\nwas three months off. Three months comprised thirteen weeks. Much might\nhappen in thirteen weeks.\n\nSir Thomas would have been deeply mortified by a suspicion of half that\nhis daughters felt on the subject of his return, and would hardly have\nfound consolation in a knowledge of the interest it excited in the\nbreast of another young lady. Miss Crawford, on walking up with her\nbrother to spend the evening at Mansfield Park, heard the good news; and\nthough seeming to have no concern in the affair beyond politeness, and\nto have vented all her feelings in a quiet congratulation, heard it with\nan attention not so easily satisfied. Mrs. Norris gave the particulars\nof the letters, and the subject was dropt; but after tea, as Miss\nCrawford was standing at an open window with Edmund and Fanny looking\nout on a twilight scene, while the Miss Bertrams, Mr. Rushworth,\nand Henry Crawford were all busy with candles at the pianoforte, she\nsuddenly revived it by turning round towards the group, and saying, \"How\nhappy Mr. Rushworth looks! He is thinking of November.\"\n\nEdmund looked round at Mr. Rushworth too, but had nothing to say.\n\n\"Your father's return will be a very interesting event.\"\n\n\"It will, indeed, after such an absence; an absence not only long, but\nincluding so many dangers.\"\n\n\"It will be the forerunner also of other interesting events: your\nsister's marriage, and your taking orders.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Don't be affronted,\" said she, laughing, \"but it does put me in mind of\nsome of the old heathen heroes, who, after performing great exploits in\na foreign land, offered sacrifices to the gods on their safe return.\"\n\n\"There is no sacrifice in the case,\" replied Edmund, with a serious\nsmile, and glancing at the pianoforte again; \"it is entirely her own\ndoing.\"\n\n\"Oh yes I know it is. I was merely joking. She has done no more than\nwhat every young woman would do; and I have no doubt of her being\nextremely happy. My other sacrifice, of course, you do not understand.\"\n\n\"My taking orders, I assure you, is quite as voluntary as Maria's\nmarrying.\"\n\n\"It is fortunate that your inclination and your father's convenience\nshould accord so well. There is a very good living kept for you, I\nunderstand, hereabouts.\"\n\n\"Which you suppose has biassed me?\"\n\n\"But _that_ I am sure it has not,\" cried Fanny.\n\n\"Thank you for your good word, Fanny, but it is more than I would affirm\nmyself. On the contrary, the knowing that there was such a provision for\nme probably did bias me. Nor can I think it wrong that it should. There\nwas no natural disinclination to be overcome, and I see no reason why\na man should make a worse clergyman for knowing that he will have a\ncompetence early in life. I was in safe hands. I hope I should not have\nbeen influenced myself in a wrong way, and I am sure my father was too\nconscientious to have allowed it. I have no doubt that I was biased, but\nI think it was blamelessly.\"\n\n\"It is the same sort of thing,\" said Fanny, after a short pause, \"as for\nthe son of an admiral to go into the navy, or the son of a general to be\nin the army, and nobody sees anything wrong in that. Nobody wonders that\nthey should prefer the line where their friends can serve them best, or\nsuspects them to be less in earnest in it than they appear.\"\n\n\"No, my dear Miss Price, and for reasons good. The profession, either\nnavy or army, is its own justification. It has everything in its favour:\nheroism, danger, bustle, fashion. Soldiers and sailors are always\nacceptable in society. Nobody can wonder that men are soldiers and\nsailors.\"\n\n\"But the motives of a man who takes orders with the certainty of\npreferment may be fairly suspected, you think?\" said Edmund. \"To be\njustified in your eyes, he must do it in the most complete uncertainty\nof any provision.\"\n\n\"What! take orders without a living! No; that is madness indeed;\nabsolute madness.\"\n\n\"Shall I ask you how the church is to be filled, if a man is neither to\ntake orders with a living nor without? No; for you certainly would not\nknow what to say. But I must beg some advantage to the clergyman from\nyour own argument. As he cannot be influenced by those feelings which\nyou rank highly as temptation and reward to the soldier and sailor in\ntheir choice of a profession, as heroism, and noise, and fashion, are\nall against him, he ought to be less liable to the suspicion of wanting\nsincerity or good intentions in the choice of his.\"\n\n\"Oh! no doubt he is very sincere in preferring an income ready made,\nto the trouble of working for one; and has the best intentions of doing\nnothing all the rest of his days but eat, drink, and grow fat. It is\nindolence, Mr. Bertram, indeed. Indolence and love of ease; a want of\nall laudable ambition, of taste for good company, or of inclination\nto take the trouble of being agreeable, which make men clergymen.\nA clergyman has nothing to do but be slovenly and selfish--read the\nnewspaper, watch the weather, and quarrel with his wife. His curate does\nall the work, and the business of his own life is to dine.\"\n\n\"There are such clergymen, no doubt, but I think they are not so common\nas to justify Miss Crawford in esteeming it their general character. I\nsuspect that in this comprehensive and (may I say) commonplace censure,\nyou are not judging from yourself, but from prejudiced persons, whose\nopinions you have been in the habit of hearing. It is impossible that\nyour own observation can have given you much knowledge of the clergy.\nYou can have been personally acquainted with very few of a set of men\nyou condemn so conclusively. You are speaking what you have been told at\nyour uncle's table.\"\n\n\"I speak what appears to me the general opinion; and where an opinion\nis general, it is usually correct. Though _I_ have not seen much of\nthe domestic lives of clergymen, it is seen by too many to leave any\ndeficiency of information.\"\n\n\"Where any one body of educated men, of whatever denomination, are\ncondemned indiscriminately, there must be a deficiency of information,\nor (smiling) of something else. Your uncle, and his brother admirals,\nperhaps knew little of clergymen beyond the chaplains whom, good or bad,\nthey were always wishing away.\"\n\n\"Poor William! He has met with great kindness from the chaplain of the\nAntwerp,\" was a tender apostrophe of Fanny's, very much to the purpose\nof her own feelings if not of the conversation.\n\n\"I have been so little addicted to take my opinions from my uncle,\"\nsaid Miss Crawford, \"that I can hardly suppose--and since you push me so\nhard, I must observe, that I am not entirely without the means of seeing\nwhat clergymen are, being at this present time the guest of my own\nbrother, Dr. Grant. And though Dr. Grant is most kind and obliging to\nme, and though he is really a gentleman, and, I dare say, a good scholar\nand clever, and often preaches good sermons, and is very respectable,\n_I_ see him to be an indolent, selfish _bon_ _vivant_, who must have\nhis palate consulted in everything; who will not stir a finger for the\nconvenience of any one; and who, moreover, if the cook makes a blunder,\nis out of humour with his excellent wife. To own the truth, Henry and\nI were partly driven out this very evening by a disappointment about a\ngreen goose, which he could not get the better of. My poor sister was\nforced to stay and bear it.\"\n\n\"I do not wonder at your disapprobation, upon my word. It is a great\ndefect of temper, made worse by a very faulty habit of self-indulgence;\nand to see your sister suffering from it must be exceedingly painful to\nsuch feelings as yours. Fanny, it goes against us. We cannot attempt to\ndefend Dr. Grant.\"\n\n\"No,\" replied Fanny, \"but we need not give up his profession for all\nthat; because, whatever profession Dr. Grant had chosen, he would have\ntaken a--not a good temper into it; and as he must, either in the navy\nor army, have had a great many more people under his command than he\nhas now, I think more would have been made unhappy by him as a sailor or\nsoldier than as a clergyman. Besides, I cannot but suppose that whatever\nthere may be to wish otherwise in Dr. Grant would have been in a greater\ndanger of becoming worse in a more active and worldly profession, where\nhe would have had less time and obligation--where he might have escaped\nthat knowledge of himself, the _frequency_, at least, of that knowledge\nwhich it is impossible he should escape as he is now. A man--a sensible\nman like Dr. Grant, cannot be in the habit of teaching others their duty\nevery week, cannot go to church twice every Sunday, and preach such very\ngood sermons in so good a manner as he does, without being the better\nfor it himself. It must make him think; and I have no doubt that he\noftener endeavours to restrain himself than he would if he had been\nanything but a clergyman.\"\n\n\"We cannot prove to the contrary, to be sure; but I wish you a better\nfate, Miss Price, than to be the wife of a man whose amiableness\ndepends upon his own sermons; for though he may preach himself into a\ngood-humour every Sunday, it will be bad enough to have him quarrelling\nabout green geese from Monday morning till Saturday night.\"\n\n\"I think the man who could often quarrel with Fanny,\" said Edmund\naffectionately, \"must be beyond the reach of any sermons.\"\n\nFanny turned farther into the window; and Miss Crawford had only time\nto say, in a pleasant manner, \"I fancy Miss Price has been more used to\ndeserve praise than to hear it\"; when, being earnestly invited by the\nMiss Bertrams to join in a glee, she tripped off to the instrument,\nleaving Edmund looking after her in an ecstasy of admiration of all her\nmany virtues, from her obliging manners down to her light and graceful\ntread.\n\n\"There goes good-humour, I am sure,\" said he presently. \"There goes a\ntemper which would never give pain! How well she walks! and how readily\nshe falls in with the inclination of others! joining them the moment she\nis asked. What a pity,\" he added, after an instant's reflection, \"that\nshe should have been in such hands!\"\n\nFanny agreed to it, and had the pleasure of seeing him continue at the\nwindow with her, in spite of the expected glee; and of having his eyes\nsoon turned, like hers, towards the scene without, where all that was\nsolemn, and soothing, and lovely, appeared in the brilliancy of an\nunclouded night, and the contrast of the deep shade of the woods. Fanny\nspoke her feelings. \"Here's harmony!\" said she; \"here's repose! Here's\nwhat may leave all painting and all music behind, and what poetry only\ncan attempt to describe! Here's what may tranquillise every care, and\nlift the heart to rapture! When I look out on such a night as this, I\nfeel as if there could be neither wickedness nor sorrow in the world;\nand there certainly would be less of both if the sublimity of Nature\nwere more attended to, and people were carried more out of themselves by\ncontemplating such a scene.\"\n\n\"I like to hear your enthusiasm, Fanny. It is a lovely night, and they\nare much to be pitied who have not been taught to feel, in some degree,\nas you do; who have not, at least, been given a taste for Nature in\nearly life. They lose a great deal.\"\n\n\"_You_ taught me to think and feel on the subject, cousin.\"\n\n\"I had a very apt scholar. There's Arcturus looking very bright.\"\n\n\"Yes, and the Bear. I wish I could see Cassiopeia.\"\n\n\"We must go out on the lawn for that. Should you be afraid?\"\n\n\"Not in the least. It is a great while since we have had any\nstar-gazing.\"\n\n\"Yes; I do not know how it has happened.\" The glee began. \"We will stay\ntill this is finished, Fanny,\" said he, turning his back on the window;\nand as it advanced, she had the mortification of seeing him advance too,\nmoving forward by gentle degrees towards the instrument, and when it\nceased, he was close by the singers, among the most urgent in requesting\nto hear the glee again.\n\nFanny sighed alone at the window till scolded away by Mrs. Norris's\nthreats of catching cold.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\nSir Thomas was to return in November, and his eldest son had duties to\ncall him earlier home. The approach of September brought tidings of Mr.\nBertram, first in a letter to the gamekeeper and then in a letter\nto Edmund; and by the end of August he arrived himself, to be gay,\nagreeable, and gallant again as occasion served, or Miss Crawford\ndemanded; to tell of races and Weymouth, and parties and friends, to\nwhich she might have listened six weeks before with some interest, and\naltogether to give her the fullest conviction, by the power of actual\ncomparison, of her preferring his younger brother.\n\nIt was very vexatious, and she was heartily sorry for it; but so it was;\nand so far from now meaning to marry the elder, she did not even want\nto attract him beyond what the simplest claims of conscious beauty\nrequired: his lengthened absence from Mansfield, without anything but\npleasure in view, and his own will to consult, made it perfectly clear\nthat he did not care about her; and his indifference was so much more\nthan equalled by her own, that were he now to step forth the owner of\nMansfield Park, the Sir Thomas complete, which he was to be in time, she\ndid not believe she could accept him.\n\nThe season and duties which brought Mr. Bertram back to Mansfield took\nMr. Crawford into Norfolk. Everingham could not do without him in the\nbeginning of September. He went for a fortnight--a fortnight of such\ndullness to the Miss Bertrams as ought to have put them both on their\nguard, and made even Julia admit, in her jealousy of her sister, the\nabsolute necessity of distrusting his attentions, and wishing him not\nto return; and a fortnight of sufficient leisure, in the intervals of\nshooting and sleeping, to have convinced the gentleman that he ought\nto keep longer away, had he been more in the habit of examining his own\nmotives, and of reflecting to what the indulgence of his idle vanity was\ntending; but, thoughtless and selfish from prosperity and bad example,\nhe would not look beyond the present moment. The sisters, handsome,\nclever, and encouraging, were an amusement to his sated mind; and\nfinding nothing in Norfolk to equal the social pleasures of Mansfield,\nhe gladly returned to it at the time appointed, and was welcomed thither\nquite as gladly by those whom he came to trifle with further.\n\nMaria, with only Mr. Rushworth to attend to her, and doomed to the\nrepeated details of his day's sport, good or bad, his boast of his dogs,\nhis jealousy of his neighbours, his doubts of their qualifications,\nand his zeal after poachers, subjects which will not find their way to\nfemale feelings without some talent on one side or some attachment on\nthe other, had missed Mr. Crawford grievously; and Julia, unengaged and\nunemployed, felt all the right of missing him much more. Each sister\nbelieved herself the favourite. Julia might be justified in so doing by\nthe hints of Mrs. Grant, inclined to credit what she wished, and Maria\nby the hints of Mr. Crawford himself. Everything returned into the same\nchannel as before his absence; his manners being to each so animated and\nagreeable as to lose no ground with either, and just stopping short of\nthe consistence, the steadiness, the solicitude, and the warmth which\nmight excite general notice.\n\nFanny was the only one of the party who found anything to dislike; but\nsince the day at Sotherton, she could never see Mr. Crawford with either\nsister without observation, and seldom without wonder or censure; and\nhad her confidence in her own judgment been equal to her exercise of it\nin every other respect, had she been sure that she was seeing clearly,\nand judging candidly, she would probably have made some important\ncommunications to her usual confidant. As it was, however, she only\nhazarded a hint, and the hint was lost. \"I am rather surprised,\" said\nshe, \"that Mr. Crawford should come back again so soon, after being here\nso long before, full seven weeks; for I had understood he was so\nvery fond of change and moving about, that I thought something would\ncertainly occur, when he was once gone, to take him elsewhere. He is\nused to much gayer places than Mansfield.\"\n\n\"It is to his credit,\" was Edmund's answer; \"and I dare say it gives his\nsister pleasure. She does not like his unsettled habits.\"\n\n\"What a favourite he is with my cousins!\"\n\n\"Yes, his manners to women are such as must please. Mrs. Grant, I\nbelieve, suspects him of a preference for Julia; I have never seen much\nsymptom of it, but I wish it may be so. He has no faults but what a\nserious attachment would remove.\"\n\n\"If Miss Bertram were not engaged,\" said Fanny cautiously, \"I could\nsometimes almost think that he admired her more than Julia.\"\n\n\"Which is, perhaps, more in favour of his liking Julia best, than you,\nFanny, may be aware; for I believe it often happens that a man, before\nhe has quite made up his own mind, will distinguish the sister or\nintimate friend of the woman he is really thinking of more than the\nwoman herself. Crawford has too much sense to stay here if he found\nhimself in any danger from Maria; and I am not at all afraid for her,\nafter such a proof as she has given that her feelings are not strong.\"\n\nFanny supposed she must have been mistaken, and meant to think\ndifferently in future; but with all that submission to Edmund could\ndo, and all the help of the coinciding looks and hints which she\noccasionally noticed in some of the others, and which seemed to say that\nJulia was Mr. Crawford's choice, she knew not always what to think. She\nwas privy, one evening, to the hopes of her aunt Norris on the subject,\nas well as to her feelings, and the feelings of Mrs. Rushworth, on a\npoint of some similarity, and could not help wondering as she listened;\nand glad would she have been not to be obliged to listen, for it was\nwhile all the other young people were dancing, and she sitting,\nmost unwillingly, among the chaperons at the fire, longing for the\nre-entrance of her elder cousin, on whom all her own hopes of a partner\nthen depended. It was Fanny's first ball, though without the preparation\nor splendour of many a young lady's first ball, being the thought only\nof the afternoon, built on the late acquisition of a violin player in\nthe servants' hall, and the possibility of raising five couple with\nthe help of Mrs. Grant and a new intimate friend of Mr. Bertram's just\narrived on a visit. It had, however, been a very happy one to Fanny\nthrough four dances, and she was quite grieved to be losing even a\nquarter of an hour. While waiting and wishing, looking now at\nthe dancers and now at the door, this dialogue between the two\nabove-mentioned ladies was forced on her--\n\n\"I think, ma'am,\" said Mrs. Norris, her eyes directed towards Mr.\nRushworth and Maria, who were partners for the second time, \"we shall\nsee some happy faces again now.\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am, indeed,\" replied the other, with a stately simper, \"there\nwill be some satisfaction in looking on _now_, and I think it was rather\na pity they should have been obliged to part. Young folks in their\nsituation should be excused complying with the common forms. I wonder my\nson did not propose it.\"\n\n\"I dare say he did, ma'am. Mr. Rushworth is never remiss. But dear Maria\nhas such a strict sense of propriety, so much of that true delicacy\nwhich one seldom meets with nowadays, Mrs. Rushworth--that wish of\navoiding particularity! Dear ma'am, only look at her face at this\nmoment; how different from what it was the two last dances!\"\n\nMiss Bertram did indeed look happy, her eyes were sparkling with\npleasure, and she was speaking with great animation, for Julia and her\npartner, Mr. Crawford, were close to her; they were all in a cluster\ntogether. How she had looked before, Fanny could not recollect, for she\nhad been dancing with Edmund herself, and had not thought about her.\n\nMrs. Norris continued, \"It is quite delightful, ma'am, to see young\npeople so properly happy, so well suited, and so much the thing! I\ncannot but think of dear Sir Thomas's delight. And what do you say,\nma'am, to the chance of another match? Mr. Rushworth has set a good\nexample, and such things are very catching.\"\n\nMrs. Rushworth, who saw nothing but her son, was quite at a loss.\n\n\"The couple above, ma'am. Do you see no symptoms there?\"\n\n\"Oh dear! Miss Julia and Mr. Crawford. Yes, indeed, a very pretty match.\nWhat is his property?\"\n\n\"Four thousand a year.\"\n\n\"Very well. Those who have not more must be satisfied with what they\nhave. Four thousand a year is a pretty estate, and he seems a very\ngenteel, steady young man, so I hope Miss Julia will be very happy.\"\n\n\"It is not a settled thing, ma'am, yet. We only speak of it among\nfriends. But I have very little doubt it _will_ be. He is growing\nextremely particular in his attentions.\"\n\nFanny could listen no farther. Listening and wondering were all\nsuspended for a time, for Mr. Bertram was in the room again; and though\nfeeling it would be a great honour to be asked by him, she thought it\nmust happen. He came towards their little circle; but instead of asking\nher to dance, drew a chair near her, and gave her an account of the\npresent state of a sick horse, and the opinion of the groom, from\nwhom he had just parted. Fanny found that it was not to be, and in the\nmodesty of her nature immediately felt that she had been unreasonable\nin expecting it. When he had told of his horse, he took a newspaper from\nthe table, and looking over it, said in a languid way, \"If you want to\ndance, Fanny, I will stand up with you.\" With more than equal civility\nthe offer was declined; she did not wish to dance. \"I am glad of it,\"\nsaid he, in a much brisker tone, and throwing down the newspaper again,\n\"for I am tired to death. I only wonder how the good people can keep\nit up so long. They had need be _all_ in love, to find any amusement in\nsuch folly; and so they are, I fancy. If you look at them you may see\nthey are so many couple of lovers--all but Yates and Mrs. Grant--and,\nbetween ourselves, she, poor woman, must want a lover as much as any one\nof them. A desperate dull life hers must be with the doctor,\" making\na sly face as he spoke towards the chair of the latter, who proving,\nhowever, to be close at his elbow, made so instantaneous a change of\nexpression and subject necessary, as Fanny, in spite of everything,\ncould hardly help laughing at. \"A strange business this in America, Dr.\nGrant! What is your opinion? I always come to you to know what I am to\nthink of public matters.\"\n\n\"My dear Tom,\" cried his aunt soon afterwards, \"as you are not dancing,\nI dare say you will have no objection to join us in a rubber; shall\nyou?\" Then leaving her seat, and coming to him to enforce the proposal,\nadded in a whisper, \"We want to make a table for Mrs. Rushworth, you\nknow. Your mother is quite anxious about it, but cannot very well spare\ntime to sit down herself, because of her fringe. Now, you and I and Dr.\nGrant will just do; and though _we_ play but half-crowns, you know, you\nmay bet half-guineas with _him_.\"\n\n\"I should be most happy,\" replied he aloud, and jumping up with\nalacrity, \"it would give me the greatest pleasure; but that I am\nthis moment going to dance.\" Come, Fanny, taking her hand, \"do not be\ndawdling any longer, or the dance will be over.\"\n\nFanny was led off very willingly, though it was impossible for her to\nfeel much gratitude towards her cousin, or distinguish, as he certainly\ndid, between the selfishness of another person and his own.\n\n\"A pretty modest request upon my word,\" he indignantly exclaimed as they\nwalked away. \"To want to nail me to a card-table for the next two hours\nwith herself and Dr. Grant, who are always quarrelling, and that poking\nold woman, who knows no more of whist than of algebra. I wish my good\naunt would be a little less busy! And to ask me in such a way too!\nwithout ceremony, before them all, so as to leave me no possibility\nof refusing. _That_ is what I dislike most particularly. It raises my\nspleen more than anything, to have the pretence of being asked, of\nbeing given a choice, and at the same time addressed in such a way as\nto oblige one to do the very thing, whatever it be! If I had not luckily\nthought of standing up with you I could not have got out of it. It is\na great deal too bad. But when my aunt has got a fancy in her head,\nnothing can stop her.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\nThe Honourable John Yates, this new friend, had not much to recommend\nhim beyond habits of fashion and expense, and being the younger son of\na lord with a tolerable independence; and Sir Thomas would probably\nhave thought his introduction at Mansfield by no means desirable. Mr.\nBertram's acquaintance with him had begun at Weymouth, where they had\nspent ten days together in the same society, and the friendship, if\nfriendship it might be called, had been proved and perfected by Mr.\nYates's being invited to take Mansfield in his way, whenever he could,\nand by his promising to come; and he did come rather earlier than had\nbeen expected, in consequence of the sudden breaking-up of a large party\nassembled for gaiety at the house of another friend, which he had left\nWeymouth to join. He came on the wings of disappointment, and with his\nhead full of acting, for it had been a theatrical party; and the play\nin which he had borne a part was within two days of representation,\nwhen the sudden death of one of the nearest connexions of the family\nhad destroyed the scheme and dispersed the performers. To be so near\nhappiness, so near fame, so near the long paragraph in praise of the\nprivate theatricals at Ecclesford, the seat of the Right Hon. Lord\nRavenshaw, in Cornwall, which would of course have immortalised the\nwhole party for at least a twelvemonth! and being so near, to lose\nit all, was an injury to be keenly felt, and Mr. Yates could talk of\nnothing else. Ecclesford and its theatre, with its arrangements and\ndresses, rehearsals and jokes, was his never-failing subject, and to\nboast of the past his only consolation.\n\nHappily for him, a love of the theatre is so general, an itch for acting\nso strong among young people, that he could hardly out-talk the interest\nof his hearers. From the first casting of the parts to the epilogue it\nwas all bewitching, and there were few who did not wish to have been a\nparty concerned, or would have hesitated to try their skill. The play\nhad been Lovers' Vows, and Mr. Yates was to have been Count Cassel. \"A\ntrifling part,\" said he, \"and not at all to my taste, and such a one\nas I certainly would not accept again; but I was determined to make no\ndifficulties. Lord Ravenshaw and the duke had appropriated the only two\ncharacters worth playing before I reached Ecclesford; and though Lord\nRavenshaw offered to resign his to me, it was impossible to take it, you\nknow. I was sorry for _him_ that he should have so mistaken his powers,\nfor he was no more equal to the Baron--a little man with a weak voice,\nalways hoarse after the first ten minutes. It must have injured the\npiece materially; but _I_ was resolved to make no difficulties. Sir\nHenry thought the duke not equal to Frederick, but that was because\nSir Henry wanted the part himself; whereas it was certainly in the best\nhands of the two. I was surprised to see Sir Henry such a stick. Luckily\nthe strength of the piece did not depend upon him. Our Agatha was\ninimitable, and the duke was thought very great by many. And upon the\nwhole, it would certainly have gone off wonderfully.\"\n\n\"It was a hard case, upon my word\"; and, \"I do think you were very much\nto be pitied,\" were the kind responses of listening sympathy.\n\n\"It is not worth complaining about; but to be sure the poor old dowager\ncould not have died at a worse time; and it is impossible to help\nwishing that the news could have been suppressed for just the three days\nwe wanted. It was but three days; and being only a grandmother, and all\nhappening two hundred miles off, I think there would have been no great\nharm, and it was suggested, I know; but Lord Ravenshaw, who I suppose is\none of the most correct men in England, would not hear of it.\"\n\n\"An afterpiece instead of a comedy,\" said Mr. Bertram. \"Lovers' Vows\nwere at an end, and Lord and Lady Ravenshaw left to act My Grandmother\nby themselves. Well, the jointure may comfort _him_; and perhaps,\nbetween friends, he began to tremble for his credit and his lungs in the\nBaron, and was not sorry to withdraw; and to make _you_ amends, Yates, I\nthink we must raise a little theatre at Mansfield, and ask you to be our\nmanager.\"\n\nThis, though the thought of the moment, did not end with the moment; for\nthe inclination to act was awakened, and in no one more strongly than in\nhim who was now master of the house; and who, having so much leisure as\nto make almost any novelty a certain good, had likewise such a degree of\nlively talents and comic taste, as were exactly adapted to the novelty\nof acting. The thought returned again and again. \"Oh for the Ecclesford\ntheatre and scenery to try something with.\" Each sister could echo the\nwish; and Henry Crawford, to whom, in all the riot of his gratifications\nit was yet an untasted pleasure, was quite alive at the idea. \"I really\nbelieve,\" said he, \"I could be fool enough at this moment to undertake\nany character that ever was written, from Shylock or Richard III down to\nthe singing hero of a farce in his scarlet coat and cocked hat. I feel\nas if I could be anything or everything; as if I could rant and storm,\nor sigh or cut capers, in any tragedy or comedy in the English language.\nLet us be doing something. Be it only half a play, an act, a scene; what\nshould prevent us? Not these countenances, I am sure,\" looking towards\nthe Miss Bertrams; \"and for a theatre, what signifies a theatre? We\nshall be only amusing ourselves. Any room in this house might suffice.\"\n\n\"We must have a curtain,\" said Tom Bertram; \"a few yards of green baize\nfor a curtain, and perhaps that may be enough.\"\n\n\"Oh, quite enough,\" cried Mr. Yates, \"with only just a side wing or two\nrun up, doors in flat, and three or four scenes to be let down; nothing\nmore would be necessary on such a plan as this. For mere amusement among\nourselves we should want nothing more.\"\n\n\"I believe we must be satisfied with _less_,\" said Maria. \"There would\nnot be time, and other difficulties would arise. We must rather adopt\nMr. Crawford's views, and make the _performance_, not the _theatre_, our\nobject. Many parts of our best plays are independent of scenery.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" said Edmund, who began to listen with alarm. \"Let us do nothing\nby halves. If we are to act, let it be in a theatre completely fitted\nup with pit, boxes, and gallery, and let us have a play entire from\nbeginning to end; so as it be a German play, no matter what, with a good\ntricking, shifting afterpiece, and a figure-dance, and a hornpipe, and a\nsong between the acts. If we do not outdo Ecclesford, we do nothing.\"\n\n\"Now, Edmund, do not be disagreeable,\" said Julia. \"Nobody loves a play\nbetter than you do, or can have gone much farther to see one.\"\n\n\"True, to see real acting, good hardened real acting; but I would hardly\nwalk from this room to the next to look at the raw efforts of those who\nhave not been bred to the trade: a set of gentlemen and ladies, who have\nall the disadvantages of education and decorum to struggle through.\"\n\nAfter a short pause, however, the subject still continued, and was\ndiscussed with unabated eagerness, every one's inclination increasing\nby the discussion, and a knowledge of the inclination of the rest; and\nthough nothing was settled but that Tom Bertram would prefer a comedy,\nand his sisters and Henry Crawford a tragedy, and that nothing in the\nworld could be easier than to find a piece which would please them all,\nthe resolution to act something or other seemed so decided as to\nmake Edmund quite uncomfortable. He was determined to prevent it, if\npossible, though his mother, who equally heard the conversation which\npassed at table, did not evince the least disapprobation.\n\nThe same evening afforded him an opportunity of trying his strength.\nMaria, Julia, Henry Crawford, and Mr. Yates were in the billiard-room.\nTom, returning from them into the drawing-room, where Edmund was\nstanding thoughtfully by the fire, while Lady Bertram was on the sofa at\na little distance, and Fanny close beside her arranging her work, thus\nbegan as he entered--\"Such a horribly vile billiard-table as ours is not\nto be met with, I believe, above ground. I can stand it no longer, and I\nthink, I may say, that nothing shall ever tempt me to it again; but one\ngood thing I have just ascertained: it is the very room for a theatre,\nprecisely the shape and length for it; and the doors at the farther\nend, communicating with each other, as they may be made to do in five\nminutes, by merely moving the bookcase in my father's room, is the very\nthing we could have desired, if we had sat down to wish for it; and\nmy father's room will be an excellent greenroom. It seems to join the\nbilliard-room on purpose.\"\n\n\"You are not serious, Tom, in meaning to act?\" said Edmund, in a low\nvoice, as his brother approached the fire.\n\n\"Not serious! never more so, I assure you. What is there to surprise you\nin it?\"\n\n\"I think it would be very wrong. In a _general_ light, private\ntheatricals are open to some objections, but as _we_ are circumstanced,\nI must think it would be highly injudicious, and more than injudicious\nto attempt anything of the kind. It would shew great want of feeling\non my father's account, absent as he is, and in some degree of constant\ndanger; and it would be imprudent, I think, with regard to Maria, whose\nsituation is a very delicate one, considering everything, extremely\ndelicate.\"\n\n\"You take up a thing so seriously! as if we were going to act three\ntimes a week till my father's return, and invite all the country. But\nit is not to be a display of that sort. We mean nothing but a little\namusement among ourselves, just to vary the scene, and exercise our\npowers in something new. We want no audience, no publicity. We may be\ntrusted, I think, in chusing some play most perfectly unexceptionable;\nand I can conceive no greater harm or danger to any of us in conversing\nin the elegant written language of some respectable author than in\nchattering in words of our own. I have no fears and no scruples. And\nas to my father's being absent, it is so far from an objection, that I\nconsider it rather as a motive; for the expectation of his return must\nbe a very anxious period to my mother; and if we can be the means of\namusing that anxiety, and keeping up her spirits for the next few weeks,\nI shall think our time very well spent, and so, I am sure, will he. It\nis a _very_ anxious period for her.\"\n\nAs he said this, each looked towards their mother. Lady Bertram, sunk\nback in one corner of the sofa, the picture of health, wealth, ease,\nand tranquillity, was just falling into a gentle doze, while Fanny was\ngetting through the few difficulties of her work for her.\n\nEdmund smiled and shook his head.\n\n\"By Jove! this won't do,\" cried Tom, throwing himself into a chair with\na hearty laugh. \"To be sure, my dear mother, your anxiety--I was unlucky\nthere.\"\n\n\"What is the matter?\" asked her ladyship, in the heavy tone of one\nhalf-roused; \"I was not asleep.\"\n\n\"Oh dear, no, ma'am, nobody suspected you! Well, Edmund,\" he continued,\nreturning to the former subject, posture, and voice, as soon as Lady\nBertram began to nod again, \"but _this_ I _will_ maintain, that we shall\nbe doing no harm.\"\n\n\"I cannot agree with you; I am convinced that my father would totally\ndisapprove it.\"\n\n\"And I am convinced to the contrary. Nobody is fonder of the exercise\nof talent in young people, or promotes it more, than my father, and for\nanything of the acting, spouting, reciting kind, I think he has always a\ndecided taste. I am sure he encouraged it in us as boys. How many a time\nhave we mourned over the dead body of Julius Caesar, and to _be'd_ and\nnot _to_ _be'd_, in this very room, for his amusement? And I am sure,\n_my_ _name_ _was_ _Norval_, every evening of my life through one\nChristmas holidays.\"\n\n\"It was a very different thing. You must see the difference yourself. My\nfather wished us, as schoolboys, to speak well, but he would never\nwish his grown-up daughters to be acting plays. His sense of decorum is\nstrict.\"\n\n\"I know all that,\" said Tom, displeased. \"I know my father as well as\nyou do; and I'll take care that his daughters do nothing to distress\nhim. Manage your own concerns, Edmund, and I'll take care of the rest of\nthe family.\"\n\n\"If you are resolved on acting,\" replied the persevering Edmund, \"I must\nhope it will be in a very small and quiet way; and I think a theatre\nought not to be attempted. It would be taking liberties with my father's\nhouse in his absence which could not be justified.\"\n\n\"For everything of that nature I will be answerable,\" said Tom, in a\ndecided tone. \"His house shall not be hurt. I have quite as great an\ninterest in being careful of his house as you can have; and as to such\nalterations as I was suggesting just now, such as moving a bookcase, or\nunlocking a door, or even as using the billiard-room for the space of a\nweek without playing at billiards in it, you might just as well suppose\nhe would object to our sitting more in this room, and less in the\nbreakfast-room, than we did before he went away, or to my sister's\npianoforte being moved from one side of the room to the other. Absolute\nnonsense!\"\n\n\"The innovation, if not wrong as an innovation, will be wrong as an\nexpense.\"\n\n\"Yes, the expense of such an undertaking would be prodigious! Perhaps\nit might cost a whole twenty pounds. Something of a theatre we must have\nundoubtedly, but it will be on the simplest plan: a green curtain and a\nlittle carpenter's work, and that's all; and as the carpenter's work\nmay be all done at home by Christopher Jackson himself, it will be\ntoo absurd to talk of expense; and as long as Jackson is employed,\neverything will be right with Sir Thomas. Don't imagine that nobody in\nthis house can see or judge but yourself. Don't act yourself, if you do\nnot like it, but don't expect to govern everybody else.\"\n\n\"No, as to acting myself,\" said Edmund, \"_that_ I absolutely protest\nagainst.\"\n\nTom walked out of the room as he said it, and Edmund was left to sit\ndown and stir the fire in thoughtful vexation.\n\nFanny, who had heard it all, and borne Edmund company in every feeling\nthroughout the whole, now ventured to say, in her anxiety to suggest\nsome comfort, \"Perhaps they may not be able to find any play to suit\nthem. Your brother's taste and your sisters' seem very different.\"\n\n\"I have no hope there, Fanny. If they persist in the scheme, they will\nfind something. I shall speak to my sisters and try to dissuade _them_,\nand that is all I can do.\"\n\n\"I should think my aunt Norris would be on your side.\"\n\n\"I dare say she would, but she has no influence with either Tom or my\nsisters that could be of any use; and if I cannot convince them myself,\nI shall let things take their course, without attempting it through\nher. Family squabbling is the greatest evil of all, and we had better do\nanything than be altogether by the ears.\"\n\nHis sisters, to whom he had an opportunity of speaking the next morning,\nwere quite as impatient of his advice, quite as unyielding to his\nrepresentation, quite as determined in the cause of pleasure, as Tom.\nTheir mother had no objection to the plan, and they were not in the\nleast afraid of their father's disapprobation. There could be no harm in\nwhat had been done in so many respectable families, and by so many women\nof the first consideration; and it must be scrupulousness run mad that\ncould see anything to censure in a plan like theirs, comprehending only\nbrothers and sisters and intimate friends, and which would never be\nheard of beyond themselves. Julia _did_ seem inclined to admit that\nMaria's situation might require particular caution and delicacy--but\nthat could not extend to _her_--she was at liberty; and Maria evidently\nconsidered her engagement as only raising her so much more above\nrestraint, and leaving her less occasion than Julia to consult either\nfather or mother. Edmund had little to hope, but he was still urging the\nsubject when Henry Crawford entered the room, fresh from the Parsonage,\ncalling out, \"No want of hands in our theatre, Miss Bertram. No want\nof understrappers: my sister desires her love, and hopes to be admitted\ninto the company, and will be happy to take the part of any old duenna\nor tame confidante, that you may not like to do yourselves.\"\n\nMaria gave Edmund a glance, which meant, \"What say you now? Can we\nbe wrong if Mary Crawford feels the same?\" And Edmund, silenced,\nwas obliged to acknowledge that the charm of acting might well carry\nfascination to the mind of genius; and with the ingenuity of love, to\ndwell more on the obliging, accommodating purport of the message than on\nanything else.\n\nThe scheme advanced. Opposition was vain; and as to Mrs. Norris, he\nwas mistaken in supposing she would wish to make any. She started no\ndifficulties that were not talked down in five minutes by her eldest\nnephew and niece, who were all-powerful with her; and as the whole\narrangement was to bring very little expense to anybody, and none at all\nto herself, as she foresaw in it all the comforts of hurry, bustle,\nand importance, and derived the immediate advantage of fancying herself\nobliged to leave her own house, where she had been living a month at\nher own cost, and take up her abode in theirs, that every hour might be\nspent in their service, she was, in fact, exceedingly delighted with the\nproject.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\nFanny seemed nearer being right than Edmund had supposed. The business\nof finding a play that would suit everybody proved to be no trifle; and\nthe carpenter had received his orders and taken his measurements, had\nsuggested and removed at least two sets of difficulties, and having made\nthe necessity of an enlargement of plan and expense fully evident, was\nalready at work, while a play was still to seek. Other preparations\nwere also in hand. An enormous roll of green baize had arrived from\nNorthampton, and been cut out by Mrs. Norris (with a saving by her good\nmanagement of full three-quarters of a yard), and was actually forming\ninto a curtain by the housemaids, and still the play was wanting; and\nas two or three days passed away in this manner, Edmund began almost to\nhope that none might ever be found.\n\nThere were, in fact, so many things to be attended to, so many people\nto be pleased, so many best characters required, and, above all, such a\nneed that the play should be at once both tragedy and comedy, that there\ndid seem as little chance of a decision as anything pursued by youth and\nzeal could hold out.\n\nOn the tragic side were the Miss Bertrams, Henry Crawford, and Mr.\nYates; on the comic, Tom Bertram, not _quite_ alone, because it was\nevident that Mary Crawford's wishes, though politely kept back, inclined\nthe same way: but his determinateness and his power seemed to make\nallies unnecessary; and, independent of this great irreconcilable\ndifference, they wanted a piece containing very few characters in the\nwhole, but every character first-rate, and three principal women. All\nthe best plays were run over in vain. Neither Hamlet, nor Macbeth, nor\nOthello, nor Douglas, nor The Gamester, presented anything that could\nsatisfy even the tragedians; and The Rivals, The School for Scandal,\nWheel of Fortune, Heir at Law, and a long et cetera, were successively\ndismissed with yet warmer objections. No piece could be proposed that\ndid not supply somebody with a difficulty, and on one side or the other\nit was a continual repetition of, \"Oh no, _that_ will never do! Let us\nhave no ranting tragedies. Too many characters. Not a tolerable\nwoman's part in the play. Anything but _that_, my dear Tom. It would be\nimpossible to fill it up. One could not expect anybody to take such a\npart. Nothing but buffoonery from beginning to end. _That_ might do,\nperhaps, but for the low parts. If I _must_ give my opinion, I have\nalways thought it the most insipid play in the English language. _I_ do\nnot wish to make objections; I shall be happy to be of any use, but I\nthink we could not chuse worse.\"\n\nFanny looked on and listened, not unamused to observe the selfishness\nwhich, more or less disguised, seemed to govern them all, and wondering\nhow it would end. For her own gratification she could have wished that\nsomething might be acted, for she had never seen even half a play, but\neverything of higher consequence was against it.\n\n\"This will never do,\" said Tom Bertram at last. \"We are wasting time\nmost abominably. Something must be fixed on. No matter what, so that\nsomething is chosen. We must not be so nice. A few characters too many\nmust not frighten us. We must _double_ them. We must descend a little.\nIf a part is insignificant, the greater our credit in making anything of\nit. From this moment I make no difficulties. I take any part you chuse\nto give me, so as it be comic. Let it but be comic, I condition for\nnothing more.\"\n\nFor about the fifth time he then proposed the Heir at Law, doubting only\nwhether to prefer Lord Duberley or Dr. Pangloss for himself; and very\nearnestly, but very unsuccessfully, trying to persuade the others that\nthere were some fine tragic parts in the rest of the dramatis personae.\n\nThe pause which followed this fruitless effort was ended by the same\nspeaker, who, taking up one of the many volumes of plays that lay on the\ntable, and turning it over, suddenly exclaimed--\"Lovers' Vows! And why\nshould not Lovers' Vows do for _us_ as well as for the Ravenshaws? How\ncame it never to be thought of before? It strikes me as if it would do\nexactly. What say you all? Here are two capital tragic parts for Yates\nand Crawford, and here is the rhyming Butler for me, if nobody else\nwants it; a trifling part, but the sort of thing I should not dislike,\nand, as I said before, I am determined to take anything and do my best.\nAnd as for the rest, they may be filled up by anybody. It is only Count\nCassel and Anhalt.\"\n\nThe suggestion was generally welcome. Everybody was growing weary of\nindecision, and the first idea with everybody was, that nothing had been\nproposed before so likely to suit them all. Mr. Yates was particularly\npleased: he had been sighing and longing to do the Baron at Ecclesford,\nhad grudged every rant of Lord Ravenshaw's, and been forced to re-rant\nit all in his own room. The storm through Baron Wildenheim was the\nheight of his theatrical ambition; and with the advantage of knowing\nhalf the scenes by heart already, he did now, with the greatest\nalacrity, offer his services for the part. To do him justice, however,\nhe did not resolve to appropriate it; for remembering that there was\nsome very good ranting-ground in Frederick, he professed an equal\nwillingness for that. Henry Crawford was ready to take either. Whichever\nMr. Yates did not chuse would perfectly satisfy him, and a short parley\nof compliment ensued. Miss Bertram, feeling all the interest of an\nAgatha in the question, took on her to decide it, by observing to Mr.\nYates that this was a point in which height and figure ought to\nbe considered, and that _his_ being the tallest, seemed to fit him\npeculiarly for the Baron. She was acknowledged to be quite right, and\nthe two parts being accepted accordingly, she was certain of the proper\nFrederick. Three of the characters were now cast, besides Mr. Rushworth,\nwho was always answered for by Maria as willing to do anything; when\nJulia, meaning, like her sister, to be Agatha, began to be scrupulous on\nMiss Crawford's account.\n\n\"This is not behaving well by the absent,\" said she. \"Here are not women\nenough. Amelia and Agatha may do for Maria and me, but here is nothing\nfor your sister, Mr. Crawford.\"\n\nMr. Crawford desired _that_ might not be thought of: he was very sure\nhis sister had no wish of acting but as she might be useful, and that\nshe would not allow herself to be considered in the present case. But\nthis was immediately opposed by Tom Bertram, who asserted the part of\nAmelia to be in every respect the property of Miss Crawford, if she\nwould accept it. \"It falls as naturally, as necessarily to her,\"\nsaid he, \"as Agatha does to one or other of my sisters. It can be no\nsacrifice on their side, for it is highly comic.\"\n\nA short silence followed. Each sister looked anxious; for each felt the\nbest claim to Agatha, and was hoping to have it pressed on her by the\nrest. Henry Crawford, who meanwhile had taken up the play, and with\nseeming carelessness was turning over the first act, soon settled the\nbusiness.\n\n\"I must entreat Miss _Julia_ Bertram,\" said he, \"not to engage in the\npart of Agatha, or it will be the ruin of all my solemnity. You must\nnot, indeed you must not\" (turning to her). \"I could not stand your\ncountenance dressed up in woe and paleness. The many laughs we have had\ntogether would infallibly come across me, and Frederick and his knapsack\nwould be obliged to run away.\"\n\nPleasantly, courteously, it was spoken; but the manner was lost in the\nmatter to Julia's feelings. She saw a glance at Maria which confirmed\nthe injury to herself: it was a scheme, a trick; she was slighted, Maria\nwas preferred; the smile of triumph which Maria was trying to suppress\nshewed how well it was understood; and before Julia could command\nherself enough to speak, her brother gave his weight against her too,\nby saying, \"Oh yes! Maria must be Agatha. Maria will be the best Agatha.\nThough Julia fancies she prefers tragedy, I would not trust her in it.\nThere is nothing of tragedy about her. She has not the look of it. Her\nfeatures are not tragic features, and she walks too quick, and speaks\ntoo quick, and would not keep her countenance. She had better do the old\ncountrywoman: the Cottager's wife; you had, indeed, Julia. Cottager's\nwife is a very pretty part, I assure you. The old lady relieves the\nhigh-flown benevolence of her husband with a good deal of spirit. You\nshall be Cottager's wife.\"\n\n\"Cottager's wife!\" cried Mr. Yates. \"What are you talking of? The most\ntrivial, paltry, insignificant part; the merest commonplace; not a\ntolerable speech in the whole. Your sister do that! It is an insult\nto propose it. At Ecclesford the governess was to have done it. We\nall agreed that it could not be offered to anybody else. A little more\njustice, Mr. Manager, if you please. You do not deserve the office, if\nyou cannot appreciate the talents of your company a little better.\"\n\n\"Why, as to _that_, my good friend, till I and my company have really\nacted there must be some guesswork; but I mean no disparagement to\nJulia. We cannot have two Agathas, and we must have one Cottager's\nwife; and I am sure I set her the example of moderation myself in being\nsatisfied with the old Butler. If the part is trifling she will have\nmore credit in making something of it; and if she is so desperately bent\nagainst everything humorous, let her take Cottager's speeches instead of\nCottager's wife's, and so change the parts all through; _he_ is solemn\nand pathetic enough, I am sure. It could make no difference in the play,\nand as for Cottager himself, when he has got his wife's speeches, _I_\nwould undertake him with all my heart.\"\n\n\"With all your partiality for Cottager's wife,\" said Henry Crawford, \"it\nwill be impossible to make anything of it fit for your sister, and we\nmust not suffer her good-nature to be imposed on. We must not _allow_\nher to accept the part. She must not be left to her own complaisance.\nHer talents will be wanted in Amelia. Amelia is a character more\ndifficult to be well represented than even Agatha. I consider Amelia\nis the most difficult character in the whole piece. It requires great\npowers, great nicety, to give her playfulness and simplicity without\nextravagance. I have seen good actresses fail in the part. Simplicity,\nindeed, is beyond the reach of almost every actress by profession.\nIt requires a delicacy of feeling which they have not. It requires a\ngentlewoman--a Julia Bertram. You _will_ undertake it, I hope?\" turning\nto her with a look of anxious entreaty, which softened her a little; but\nwhile she hesitated what to say, her brother again interposed with Miss\nCrawford's better claim.\n\n\"No, no, Julia must not be Amelia. It is not at all the part for her.\nShe would not like it. She would not do well. She is too tall and\nrobust. Amelia should be a small, light, girlish, skipping figure. It is\nfit for Miss Crawford, and Miss Crawford only. She looks the part, and I\nam persuaded will do it admirably.\"\n\nWithout attending to this, Henry Crawford continued his supplication.\n\"You must oblige us,\" said he, \"indeed you must. When you have studied\nthe character, I am sure you will feel it suit you. Tragedy may be your\nchoice, but it will certainly appear that comedy chuses _you_. You\nwill be to visit me in prison with a basket of provisions; you will\nnot refuse to visit me in prison? I think I see you coming in with your\nbasket.\"\n\nThe influence of his voice was felt. Julia wavered; but was he only\ntrying to soothe and pacify her, and make her overlook the previous\naffront? She distrusted him. The slight had been most determined. He\nwas, perhaps, but at treacherous play with her. She looked suspiciously\nat her sister; Maria's countenance was to decide it: if she were vexed\nand alarmed--but Maria looked all serenity and satisfaction, and Julia\nwell knew that on this ground Maria could not be happy but at her\nexpense. With hasty indignation, therefore, and a tremulous voice, she\nsaid to him, \"You do not seem afraid of not keeping your countenance\nwhen I come in with a basket of provisions--though one might have\nsupposed--but it is only as Agatha that I was to be so overpowering!\"\nShe stopped--Henry Crawford looked rather foolish, and as if he did not\nknow what to say. Tom Bertram began again--\n\n\"Miss Crawford must be Amelia. She will be an excellent Amelia.\"\n\n\"Do not be afraid of _my_ wanting the character,\" cried Julia, with\nangry quickness: \"I am _not_ to be Agatha, and I am sure I will do\nnothing else; and as to Amelia, it is of all parts in the world the\nmost disgusting to me. I quite detest her. An odious, little, pert,\nunnatural, impudent girl. I have always protested against comedy, and\nthis is comedy in its worst form.\" And so saying, she walked hastily\nout of the room, leaving awkward feelings to more than one, but exciting\nsmall compassion in any except Fanny, who had been a quiet auditor of\nthe whole, and who could not think of her as under the agitations of\n_jealousy_ without great pity.\n\nA short silence succeeded her leaving them; but her brother soon\nreturned to business and Lovers' Vows, and was eagerly looking over\nthe play, with Mr. Yates's help, to ascertain what scenery would be\nnecessary--while Maria and Henry Crawford conversed together in an\nunder-voice, and the declaration with which she began of, \"I am sure I\nwould give up the part to Julia most willingly, but that though I shall\nprobably do it very ill, I feel persuaded _she_ would do it worse,\" was\ndoubtless receiving all the compliments it called for.\n\nWhen this had lasted some time, the division of the party was completed\nby Tom Bertram and Mr. Yates walking off together to consult farther in\nthe room now beginning to be called _the_ _Theatre_, and Miss Bertram's\nresolving to go down to the Parsonage herself with the offer of Amelia\nto Miss Crawford; and Fanny remained alone.\n\nThe first use she made of her solitude was to take up the volume which\nhad been left on the table, and begin to acquaint herself with the play\nof which she had heard so much. Her curiosity was all awake, and she ran\nthrough it with an eagerness which was suspended only by intervals of\nastonishment, that it could be chosen in the present instance, that it\ncould be proposed and accepted in a private theatre! Agatha and Amelia\nappeared to her in their different ways so totally improper for home\nrepresentation--the situation of one, and the language of the other,\nso unfit to be expressed by any woman of modesty, that she could hardly\nsuppose her cousins could be aware of what they were engaging in; and\nlonged to have them roused as soon as possible by the remonstrance which\nEdmund would certainly make.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\nMiss Crawford accepted the part very readily; and soon after Miss\nBertram's return from the Parsonage, Mr. Rushworth arrived, and another\ncharacter was consequently cast. He had the offer of Count Cassel\nand Anhalt, and at first did not know which to chuse, and wanted Miss\nBertram to direct him; but upon being made to understand the different\nstyle of the characters, and which was which, and recollecting that he\nhad once seen the play in London, and had thought Anhalt a very stupid\nfellow, he soon decided for the Count. Miss Bertram approved the\ndecision, for the less he had to learn the better; and though she could\nnot sympathise in his wish that the Count and Agatha might be to act\ntogether, nor wait very patiently while he was slowly turning over the\nleaves with the hope of still discovering such a scene, she very kindly\ntook his part in hand, and curtailed every speech that admitted being\nshortened; besides pointing out the necessity of his being very much\ndressed, and chusing his colours. Mr. Rushworth liked the idea of his\nfinery very well, though affecting to despise it; and was too much\nengaged with what his own appearance would be to think of the others,\nor draw any of those conclusions, or feel any of that displeasure which\nMaria had been half prepared for.\n\nThus much was settled before Edmund, who had been out all the morning,\nknew anything of the matter; but when he entered the drawing-room before\ndinner, the buzz of discussion was high between Tom, Maria, and Mr.\nYates; and Mr. Rushworth stepped forward with great alacrity to tell him\nthe agreeable news.\n\n\"We have got a play,\" said he. \"It is to be Lovers' Vows; and I am to be\nCount Cassel, and am to come in first with a blue dress and a pink satin\ncloak, and afterwards am to have another fine fancy suit, by way of a\nshooting-dress. I do not know how I shall like it.\"\n\nFanny's eyes followed Edmund, and her heart beat for him as she heard\nthis speech, and saw his look, and felt what his sensations must be.\n\n\"Lovers' Vows!\" in a tone of the greatest amazement, was his only reply\nto Mr. Rushworth, and he turned towards his brother and sisters as if\nhardly doubting a contradiction.\n\n\"Yes,\" cried Mr. Yates. \"After all our debatings and difficulties, we\nfind there is nothing that will suit us altogether so well, nothing so\nunexceptionable, as Lovers' Vows. The wonder is that it should not have\nbeen thought of before. My stupidity was abominable, for here we have\nall the advantage of what I saw at Ecclesford; and it is so useful to\nhave anything of a model! We have cast almost every part.\"\n\n\"But what do you do for women?\" said Edmund gravely, and looking at\nMaria.\n\nMaria blushed in spite of herself as she answered, \"I take the part\nwhich Lady Ravenshaw was to have done, and\" (with a bolder eye) \"Miss\nCrawford is to be Amelia.\"\n\n\"I should not have thought it the sort of play to be so easily filled\nup, with _us_,\" replied Edmund, turning away to the fire, where sat\nhis mother, aunt, and Fanny, and seating himself with a look of great\nvexation.\n\nMr. Rushworth followed him to say, \"I come in three times, and have\ntwo-and-forty speeches. That's something, is not it? But I do not much\nlike the idea of being so fine. I shall hardly know myself in a blue\ndress and a pink satin cloak.\"\n\nEdmund could not answer him. In a few minutes Mr. Bertram was called\nout of the room to satisfy some doubts of the carpenter; and being\naccompanied by Mr. Yates, and followed soon afterwards by Mr. Rushworth,\nEdmund almost immediately took the opportunity of saying, \"I cannot,\nbefore Mr. Yates, speak what I feel as to this play, without reflecting\non his friends at Ecclesford; but I must now, my dear Maria, tell _you_,\nthat I think it exceedingly unfit for private representation, and that I\nhope you will give it up. I cannot but suppose you _will_ when you have\nread it carefully over. Read only the first act aloud to either your\nmother or aunt, and see how you can approve it. It will not be necessary\nto send you to your _father's_ judgment, I am convinced.\"\n\n\"We see things very differently,\" cried Maria. \"I am perfectly\nacquainted with the play, I assure you; and with a very few omissions,\nand so forth, which will be made, of course, I can see nothing\nobjectionable in it; and _I_ am not the _only_ young woman you find who\nthinks it very fit for private representation.\"\n\n\"I am sorry for it,\" was his answer; \"but in this matter it is _you_ who\nare to lead. _You_ must set the example. If others have blundered, it\nis your place to put them right, and shew them what true delicacy is.\nIn all points of decorum _your_ conduct must be law to the rest of the\nparty.\"\n\nThis picture of her consequence had some effect, for no one loved better\nto lead than Maria; and with far more good-humour she answered, \"I am\nmuch obliged to you, Edmund; you mean very well, I am sure: but I still\nthink you see things too strongly; and I really cannot undertake to\nharangue all the rest upon a subject of this kind. _There_ would be the\ngreatest indecorum, I think.\"\n\n\"Do you imagine that I could have such an idea in my head? No; let your\nconduct be the only harangue. Say that, on examining the part, you feel\nyourself unequal to it; that you find it requiring more exertion and\nconfidence than you can be supposed to have. Say this with firmness, and\nit will be quite enough. All who can distinguish will understand your\nmotive. The play will be given up, and your delicacy honoured as it\nought.\"\n\n\"Do not act anything improper, my dear,\" said Lady Bertram. \"Sir Thomas\nwould not like it.--Fanny, ring the bell; I must have my dinner.--To be\nsure, Julia is dressed by this time.\"\n\n\"I am convinced, madam,\" said Edmund, preventing Fanny, \"that Sir Thomas\nwould not like it.\"\n\n\"There, my dear, do you hear what Edmund says?\"\n\n\"If I were to decline the part,\" said Maria, with renewed zeal, \"Julia\nwould certainly take it.\"\n\n\"What!\" cried Edmund, \"if she knew your reasons!\"\n\n\"Oh! she might think the difference between us--the difference in our\nsituations--that _she_ need not be so scrupulous as _I_ might feel\nnecessary. I am sure she would argue so. No; you must excuse me; I\ncannot retract my consent; it is too far settled, everybody would be so\ndisappointed, Tom would be quite angry; and if we are so very nice, we\nshall never act anything.\"\n\n\"I was just going to say the very same thing,\" said Mrs. Norris.\n\"If every play is to be objected to, you will act nothing, and the\npreparations will be all so much money thrown away, and I am sure _that_\nwould be a discredit to us all. I do not know the play; but, as Maria\nsays, if there is anything a little too warm (and it is so with most of\nthem) it can be easily left out. We must not be over-precise, Edmund. As\nMr. Rushworth is to act too, there can be no harm. I only wish Tom had\nknown his own mind when the carpenters began, for there was the loss\nof half a day's work about those side-doors. The curtain will be a good\njob, however. The maids do their work very well, and I think we shall be\nable to send back some dozens of the rings. There is no occasion to put\nthem so very close together. I _am_ of some use, I hope, in preventing\nwaste and making the most of things. There should always be one\nsteady head to superintend so many young ones. I forgot to tell Tom of\nsomething that happened to me this very day. I had been looking about me\nin the poultry-yard, and was just coming out, when who should I see but\nDick Jackson making up to the servants' hall-door with two bits of deal\nboard in his hand, bringing them to father, you may be sure; mother had\nchanced to send him of a message to father, and then father had bid\nhim bring up them two bits of board, for he could not no how do without\nthem. I knew what all this meant, for the servants' dinner-bell\nwas ringing at the very moment over our heads; and as I hate such\nencroaching people (the Jacksons are very encroaching, I have always\nsaid so: just the sort of people to get all they can), I said to the boy\ndirectly (a great lubberly fellow of ten years old, you know, who ought\nto be ashamed of himself), '_I'll_ take the boards to your father, Dick,\nso get you home again as fast as you can.' The boy looked very silly,\nand turned away without offering a word, for I believe I might speak\npretty sharp; and I dare say it will cure him of coming marauding about\nthe house for one while. I hate such greediness--so good as your father\nis to the family, employing the man all the year round!\"\n\nNobody was at the trouble of an answer; the others soon returned; and\nEdmund found that to have endeavoured to set them right must be his only\nsatisfaction.\n\nDinner passed heavily. Mrs. Norris related again her triumph over Dick\nJackson, but neither play nor preparation were otherwise much talked\nof, for Edmund's disapprobation was felt even by his brother, though\nhe would not have owned it. Maria, wanting Henry Crawford's animating\nsupport, thought the subject better avoided. Mr. Yates, who was trying\nto make himself agreeable to Julia, found her gloom less impenetrable on\nany topic than that of his regret at her secession from their company;\nand Mr. Rushworth, having only his own part and his own dress in his\nhead, had soon talked away all that could be said of either.\n\nBut the concerns of the theatre were suspended only for an hour or two:\nthere was still a great deal to be settled; and the spirits of evening\ngiving fresh courage, Tom, Maria, and Mr. Yates, soon after their being\nreassembled in the drawing-room, seated themselves in committee at a\nseparate table, with the play open before them, and were just getting\ndeep in the subject when a most welcome interruption was given by the\nentrance of Mr. and Miss Crawford, who, late and dark and dirty as it\nwas, could not help coming, and were received with the most grateful\njoy.\n\n\"Well, how do you go on?\" and \"What have you settled?\" and \"Oh! we\ncan do nothing without you,\" followed the first salutations; and Henry\nCrawford was soon seated with the other three at the table, while his\nsister made her way to Lady Bertram, and with pleasant attention was\ncomplimenting _her_. \"I must really congratulate your ladyship,\" said\nshe, \"on the play being chosen; for though you have borne it with\nexemplary patience, I am sure you must be sick of all our noise and\ndifficulties. The actors may be glad, but the bystanders must be\ninfinitely more thankful for a decision; and I do sincerely give you\njoy, madam, as well as Mrs. Norris, and everybody else who is in the\nsame predicament,\" glancing half fearfully, half slyly, beyond Fanny to\nEdmund.\n\nShe was very civilly answered by Lady Bertram, but Edmund said nothing.\nHis being only a bystander was not disclaimed. After continuing in chat\nwith the party round the fire a few minutes, Miss Crawford returned\nto the party round the table; and standing by them, seemed to\ninterest herself in their arrangements till, as if struck by a sudden\nrecollection, she exclaimed, \"My good friends, you are most composedly\nat work upon these cottages and alehouses, inside and out; but pray let\nme know my fate in the meanwhile. Who is to be Anhalt? What gentleman\namong you am I to have the pleasure of making love to?\"\n\nFor a moment no one spoke; and then many spoke together to tell the same\nmelancholy truth, that they had not yet got any Anhalt. \"Mr. Rushworth\nwas to be Count Cassel, but no one had yet undertaken Anhalt.\"\n\n\"I had my choice of the parts,\" said Mr. Rushworth; \"but I thought I\nshould like the Count best, though I do not much relish the finery I am\nto have.\"\n\n\"You chose very wisely, I am sure,\" replied Miss Crawford, with a\nbrightened look; \"Anhalt is a heavy part.\"\n\n\"_The_ _Count_ has two-and-forty speeches,\" returned Mr. Rushworth,\n\"which is no trifle.\"\n\n\"I am not at all surprised,\" said Miss Crawford, after a short pause,\n\"at this want of an Anhalt. Amelia deserves no better. Such a forward\nyoung lady may well frighten the men.\"\n\n\"I should be but too happy in taking the part, if it were possible,\"\ncried Tom; \"but, unluckily, the Butler and Anhalt are in together. I\nwill not entirely give it up, however; I will try what can be done--I\nwill look it over again.\"\n\n\"Your _brother_ should take the part,\" said Mr. Yates, in a low voice.\n\"Do not you think he would?\"\n\n\"_I_ shall not ask him,\" replied Tom, in a cold, determined manner.\n\nMiss Crawford talked of something else, and soon afterwards rejoined the\nparty at the fire.\n\n\"They do not want me at all,\" said she, seating herself. \"I only puzzle\nthem, and oblige them to make civil speeches. Mr. Edmund Bertram, as\nyou do not act yourself, you will be a disinterested adviser; and,\ntherefore, I apply to _you_. What shall we do for an Anhalt? Is it\npracticable for any of the others to double it? What is your advice?\"\n\n\"My advice,\" said he calmly, \"is that you change the play.\"\n\n\"_I_ should have no objection,\" she replied; \"for though I should not\nparticularly dislike the part of Amelia if well supported, that is, if\neverything went well, I shall be sorry to be an inconvenience; but\nas they do not chuse to hear your advice at _that_ _table_\" (looking\nround), \"it certainly will not be taken.\"\n\nEdmund said no more.\n\n\"If _any_ part could tempt _you_ to act, I suppose it would be Anhalt,\"\nobserved the lady archly, after a short pause; \"for he is a clergyman,\nyou know.\"\n\n\"_That_ circumstance would by no means tempt me,\" he replied, \"for I\nshould be sorry to make the character ridiculous by bad acting. It\nmust be very difficult to keep Anhalt from appearing a formal, solemn\nlecturer; and the man who chuses the profession itself is, perhaps, one\nof the last who would wish to represent it on the stage.\"\n\nMiss Crawford was silenced, and with some feelings of resentment and\nmortification, moved her chair considerably nearer the tea-table, and\ngave all her attention to Mrs. Norris, who was presiding there.\n\n\"Fanny,\" cried Tom Bertram, from the other table, where the conference\nwas eagerly carrying on, and the conversation incessant, \"we want your\nservices.\"\n\nFanny was up in a moment, expecting some errand; for the habit of\nemploying her in that way was not yet overcome, in spite of all that\nEdmund could do.\n\n\"Oh! we do not want to disturb you from your seat. We do not want your\n_present_ services. We shall only want you in our play. You must be\nCottager's wife.\"\n\n\"Me!\" cried Fanny, sitting down again with a most frightened look.\n\"Indeed you must excuse me. I could not act anything if you were to give\nme the world. No, indeed, I cannot act.\"\n\n\"Indeed, but you must, for we cannot excuse you. It need not frighten\nyou: it is a nothing of a part, a mere nothing, not above half a dozen\nspeeches altogether, and it will not much signify if nobody hears a word\nyou say; so you may be as creep-mouse as you like, but we must have you\nto look at.\"\n\n\"If you are afraid of half a dozen speeches,\" cried Mr. Rushworth, \"what\nwould you do with such a part as mine? I have forty-two to learn.\"\n\n\"It is not that I am afraid of learning by heart,\" said Fanny, shocked\nto find herself at that moment the only speaker in the room, and to feel\nthat almost every eye was upon her; \"but I really cannot act.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, you can act well enough for _us_. Learn your part, and we\nwill teach you all the rest. You have only two scenes, and as I shall\nbe Cottager, I'll put you in and push you about, and you will do it very\nwell, I'll answer for it.\"\n\n\"No, indeed, Mr. Bertram, you must excuse me. You cannot have an idea.\nIt would be absolutely impossible for me. If I were to undertake it, I\nshould only disappoint you.\"\n\n\"Phoo! Phoo! Do not be so shamefaced. You'll do it very well. Every\nallowance will be made for you. We do not expect perfection. You must\nget a brown gown, and a white apron, and a mob cap, and we must make\nyou a few wrinkles, and a little of the crowsfoot at the corner of your\neyes, and you will be a very proper, little old woman.\"\n\n\"You must excuse me, indeed you must excuse me,\" cried Fanny, growing\nmore and more red from excessive agitation, and looking distressfully\nat Edmund, who was kindly observing her; but unwilling to exasperate\nhis brother by interference, gave her only an encouraging smile. Her\nentreaty had no effect on Tom: he only said again what he had said\nbefore; and it was not merely Tom, for the requisition was now backed by\nMaria, and Mr. Crawford, and Mr. Yates, with an urgency which differed\nfrom his but in being more gentle or more ceremonious, and which\naltogether was quite overpowering to Fanny; and before she could breathe\nafter it, Mrs. Norris completed the whole by thus addressing her in a\nwhisper at once angry and audible--\"What a piece of work here is about\nnothing: I am quite ashamed of you, Fanny, to make such a difficulty of\nobliging your cousins in a trifle of this sort--so kind as they are to\nyou! Take the part with a good grace, and let us hear no more of the\nmatter, I entreat.\"\n\n\"Do not urge her, madam,\" said Edmund. \"It is not fair to urge her\nin this manner. You see she does not like to act. Let her chuse for\nherself, as well as the rest of us. Her judgment may be quite as safely\ntrusted. Do not urge her any more.\"\n\n\"I am not going to urge her,\" replied Mrs. Norris sharply; \"but I shall\nthink her a very obstinate, ungrateful girl, if she does not do what her\naunt and cousins wish her--very ungrateful, indeed, considering who and\nwhat she is.\"\n\nEdmund was too angry to speak; but Miss Crawford, looking for a moment\nwith astonished eyes at Mrs. Norris, and then at Fanny, whose tears were\nbeginning to shew themselves, immediately said, with some keenness, \"I\ndo not like my situation: this _place_ is too hot for me,\" and moved\naway her chair to the opposite side of the table, close to Fanny, saying\nto her, in a kind, low whisper, as she placed herself, \"Never mind,\nmy dear Miss Price, this is a cross evening: everybody is cross and\nteasing, but do not let us mind them\"; and with pointed attention\ncontinued to talk to her and endeavour to raise her spirits, in spite of\nbeing out of spirits herself. By a look at her brother she prevented any\nfarther entreaty from the theatrical board, and the really good feelings\nby which she was almost purely governed were rapidly restoring her to\nall the little she had lost in Edmund's favour.\n\nFanny did not love Miss Crawford; but she felt very much obliged to her\nfor her present kindness; and when, from taking notice of her work,\nand wishing _she_ could work as well, and begging for the pattern, and\nsupposing Fanny was now preparing for her _appearance_, as of course she\nwould come out when her cousin was married, Miss Crawford proceeded to\ninquire if she had heard lately from her brother at sea, and said that\nshe had quite a curiosity to see him, and imagined him a very fine young\nman, and advised Fanny to get his picture drawn before he went to sea\nagain--she could not help admitting it to be very agreeable flattery, or\nhelp listening, and answering with more animation than she had intended.\n\nThe consultation upon the play still went on, and Miss Crawford's\nattention was first called from Fanny by Tom Bertram's telling her,\nwith infinite regret, that he found it absolutely impossible for him to\nundertake the part of Anhalt in addition to the Butler: he had been most\nanxiously trying to make it out to be feasible, but it would not do;\nhe must give it up. \"But there will not be the smallest difficulty in\nfilling it,\" he added. \"We have but to speak the word; we may pick and\nchuse. I could name, at this moment, at least six young men within six\nmiles of us, who are wild to be admitted into our company, and there are\none or two that would not disgrace us: I should not be afraid to trust\neither of the Olivers or Charles Maddox. Tom Oliver is a very clever\nfellow, and Charles Maddox is as gentlemanlike a man as you will see\nanywhere, so I will take my horse early to-morrow morning and ride over\nto Stoke, and settle with one of them.\"\n\nWhile he spoke, Maria was looking apprehensively round at Edmund in full\nexpectation that he must oppose such an enlargement of the plan as this:\nso contrary to all their first protestations; but Edmund said nothing.\nAfter a moment's thought, Miss Crawford calmly replied, \"As far as I\nam concerned, I can have no objection to anything that you all think\neligible. Have I ever seen either of the gentlemen? Yes, Mr. Charles\nMaddox dined at my sister's one day, did not he, Henry? A quiet-looking\nyoung man. I remember him. Let _him_ be applied to, if you please, for\nit will be less unpleasant to me than to have a perfect stranger.\"\n\nCharles Maddox was to be the man. Tom repeated his resolution of going\nto him early on the morrow; and though Julia, who had scarcely opened\nher lips before, observed, in a sarcastic manner, and with a glance\nfirst at Maria and then at Edmund, that \"the Mansfield theatricals would\nenliven the whole neighbourhood exceedingly,\" Edmund still held his\npeace, and shewed his feelings only by a determined gravity.\n\n\"I am not very sanguine as to our play,\" said Miss Crawford, in an\nundervoice to Fanny, after some consideration; \"and I can tell Mr.\nMaddox that I shall shorten some of _his_ speeches, and a great many of\n_my_ _own_, before we rehearse together. It will be very disagreeable,\nand by no means what I expected.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\nIt was not in Miss Crawford's power to talk Fanny into any real\nforgetfulness of what had passed. When the evening was over, she went to\nbed full of it, her nerves still agitated by the shock of such an attack\nfrom her cousin Tom, so public and so persevered in, and her spirits\nsinking under her aunt's unkind reflection and reproach. To be called\ninto notice in such a manner, to hear that it was but the prelude to\nsomething so infinitely worse, to be told that she must do what was\nso impossible as to act; and then to have the charge of obstinacy and\ningratitude follow it, enforced with such a hint at the dependence\nof her situation, had been too distressing at the time to make the\nremembrance when she was alone much less so, especially with the\nsuperadded dread of what the morrow might produce in continuation of the\nsubject. Miss Crawford had protected her only for the time; and if\nshe were applied to again among themselves with all the authoritative\nurgency that Tom and Maria were capable of, and Edmund perhaps away,\nwhat should she do? She fell asleep before she could answer the\nquestion, and found it quite as puzzling when she awoke the next\nmorning. The little white attic, which had continued her sleeping-room\never since her first entering the family, proving incompetent to suggest\nany reply, she had recourse, as soon as she was dressed, to another\napartment more spacious and more meet for walking about in and thinking,\nand of which she had now for some time been almost equally mistress. It\nhad been their school-room; so called till the Miss Bertrams would not\nallow it to be called so any longer, and inhabited as such to a later\nperiod. There Miss Lee had lived, and there they had read and written,\nand talked and laughed, till within the last three years, when she had\nquitted them. The room had then become useless, and for some time was\nquite deserted, except by Fanny, when she visited her plants, or wanted\none of the books, which she was still glad to keep there, from the\ndeficiency of space and accommodation in her little chamber above: but\ngradually, as her value for the comforts of it increased, she had added\nto her possessions, and spent more of her time there; and having nothing\nto oppose her, had so naturally and so artlessly worked herself into it,\nthat it was now generally admitted to be hers. The East room, as it had\nbeen called ever since Maria Bertram was sixteen, was now considered\nFanny's, almost as decidedly as the white attic: the smallness of the\none making the use of the other so evidently reasonable that the Miss\nBertrams, with every superiority in their own apartments which their own\nsense of superiority could demand, were entirely approving it; and Mrs.\nNorris, having stipulated for there never being a fire in it on Fanny's\naccount, was tolerably resigned to her having the use of what nobody\nelse wanted, though the terms in which she sometimes spoke of the\nindulgence seemed to imply that it was the best room in the house.\n\nThe aspect was so favourable that even without a fire it was habitable\nin many an early spring and late autumn morning to such a willing mind\nas Fanny's; and while there was a gleam of sunshine she hoped not to be\ndriven from it entirely, even when winter came. The comfort of it in\nher hours of leisure was extreme. She could go there after anything\nunpleasant below, and find immediate consolation in some pursuit, or\nsome train of thought at hand. Her plants, her books--of which she had\nbeen a collector from the first hour of her commanding a shilling--her\nwriting-desk, and her works of charity and ingenuity, were all within\nher reach; or if indisposed for employment, if nothing but musing would\ndo, she could scarcely see an object in that room which had not an\ninteresting remembrance connected with it. Everything was a friend, or\nbore her thoughts to a friend; and though there had been sometimes much\nof suffering to her; though her motives had often been misunderstood,\nher feelings disregarded, and her comprehension undervalued; though she\nhad known the pains of tyranny, of ridicule, and neglect, yet almost\nevery recurrence of either had led to something consolatory: her aunt\nBertram had spoken for her, or Miss Lee had been encouraging, or, what\nwas yet more frequent or more dear, Edmund had been her champion and her\nfriend: he had supported her cause or explained her meaning, he had told\nher not to cry, or had given her some proof of affection which made\nher tears delightful; and the whole was now so blended together, so\nharmonised by distance, that every former affliction had its charm. The\nroom was most dear to her, and she would not have changed its furniture\nfor the handsomest in the house, though what had been originally plain\nhad suffered all the ill-usage of children; and its greatest elegancies\nand ornaments were a faded footstool of Julia's work, too ill done\nfor the drawing-room, three transparencies, made in a rage for\ntransparencies, for the three lower panes of one window, where Tintern\nAbbey held its station between a cave in Italy and a moonlight lake in\nCumberland, a collection of family profiles, thought unworthy of being\nanywhere else, over the mantelpiece, and by their side, and pinned\nagainst the wall, a small sketch of a ship sent four years ago from the\nMediterranean by William, with H.M.S. Antwerp at the bottom, in letters\nas tall as the mainmast.\n\nTo this nest of comforts Fanny now walked down to try its influence on\nan agitated, doubting spirit, to see if by looking at Edmund's profile\nshe could catch any of his counsel, or by giving air to her geraniums\nshe might inhale a breeze of mental strength herself. But she had more\nthan fears of her own perseverance to remove: she had begun to feel\nundecided as to what she _ought_ _to_ _do_; and as she walked round the\nroom her doubts were increasing. Was she _right_ in refusing what was\nso warmly asked, so strongly wished for--what might be so essential to a\nscheme on which some of those to whom she owed the greatest complaisance\nhad set their hearts? Was it not ill-nature, selfishness, and a fear of\nexposing herself? And would Edmund's judgment, would his persuasion of\nSir Thomas's disapprobation of the whole, be enough to justify her in a\ndetermined denial in spite of all the rest? It would be so horrible to\nher to act that she was inclined to suspect the truth and purity of her\nown scruples; and as she looked around her, the claims of her cousins\nto being obliged were strengthened by the sight of present upon present\nthat she had received from them. The table between the windows was\ncovered with work-boxes and netting-boxes which had been given her at\ndifferent times, principally by Tom; and she grew bewildered as to the\namount of the debt which all these kind remembrances produced. A tap at\nthe door roused her in the midst of this attempt to find her way to her\nduty, and her gentle \"Come in\" was answered by the appearance of one,\nbefore whom all her doubts were wont to be laid. Her eyes brightened at\nthe sight of Edmund.\n\n\"Can I speak with you, Fanny, for a few minutes?\" said he.\n\n\"Yes, certainly.\"\n\n\"I want to consult. I want your opinion.\"\n\n\"My opinion!\" she cried, shrinking from such a compliment, highly as it\ngratified her.\n\n\"Yes, your advice and opinion. I do not know what to do. This acting\nscheme gets worse and worse, you see. They have chosen almost as bad a\nplay as they could, and now, to complete the business, are going to ask\nthe help of a young man very slightly known to any of us. This is the\nend of all the privacy and propriety which was talked about at first.\nI know no harm of Charles Maddox; but the excessive intimacy which\nmust spring from his being admitted among us in this manner is highly\nobjectionable, the _more_ than intimacy--the familiarity. I cannot\nthink of it with any patience; and it does appear to me an evil of such\nmagnitude as must, _if_ _possible_, be prevented. Do not you see it in\nthe same light?\"\n\n\"Yes; but what can be done? Your brother is so determined.\"\n\n\"There is but _one_ thing to be done, Fanny. I must take Anhalt myself.\nI am well aware that nothing else will quiet Tom.\"\n\nFanny could not answer him.\n\n\"It is not at all what I like,\" he continued. \"No man can like being\ndriven into the _appearance_ of such inconsistency. After being known to\noppose the scheme from the beginning, there is absurdity in the face of\nmy joining them _now_, when they are exceeding their first plan in every\nrespect; but I can think of no other alternative. Can you, Fanny?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Fanny slowly, \"not immediately, but--\"\n\n\"But what? I see your judgment is not with me. Think it a little over.\nPerhaps you are not so much aware as I am of the mischief that _may_, of\nthe unpleasantness that _must_ arise from a young man's being received\nin this manner: domesticated among us; authorised to come at all hours,\nand placed suddenly on a footing which must do away all restraints. To\nthink only of the licence which every rehearsal must tend to create. It\nis all very bad! Put yourself in Miss Crawford's place, Fanny. Consider\nwhat it would be to act Amelia with a stranger. She has a right to be\nfelt for, because she evidently feels for herself. I heard enough of\nwhat she said to you last night to understand her unwillingness to be\nacting with a stranger; and as she probably engaged in the part with\ndifferent expectations--perhaps without considering the subject enough\nto know what was likely to be--it would be ungenerous, it would be\nreally wrong to expose her to it. Her feelings ought to be respected.\nDoes it not strike you so, Fanny? You hesitate.\"\n\n\"I am sorry for Miss Crawford; but I am more sorry to see you drawn in\nto do what you had resolved against, and what you are known to think\nwill be disagreeable to my uncle. It will be such a triumph to the\nothers!\"\n\n\"They will not have much cause of triumph when they see how infamously I\nact. But, however, triumph there certainly will be, and I must brave it.\nBut if I can be the means of restraining the publicity of the business,\nof limiting the exhibition, of concentrating our folly, I shall be\nwell repaid. As I am now, I have no influence, I can do nothing: I have\noffended them, and they will not hear me; but when I have put them in\ngood-humour by this concession, I am not without hopes of persuading\nthem to confine the representation within a much smaller circle than\nthey are now in the high road for. This will be a material gain. My\nobject is to confine it to Mrs. Rushworth and the Grants. Will not this\nbe worth gaining?\"\n\n\"Yes, it will be a great point.\"\n\n\"But still it has not your approbation. Can you mention any other\nmeasure by which I have a chance of doing equal good?\"\n\n\"No, I cannot think of anything else.\"\n\n\"Give me your approbation, then, Fanny. I am not comfortable without\nit.\"\n\n\"Oh, cousin!\"\n\n\"If you are against me, I ought to distrust myself, and yet--But it is\nabsolutely impossible to let Tom go on in this way, riding about the\ncountry in quest of anybody who can be persuaded to act--no matter whom:\nthe look of a gentleman is to be enough. I thought _you_ would have\nentered more into Miss Crawford's feelings.\"\n\n\"No doubt she will be very glad. It must be a great relief to her,\" said\nFanny, trying for greater warmth of manner.\n\n\"She never appeared more amiable than in her behaviour to you last\nnight. It gave her a very strong claim on my goodwill.\"\n\n\"She _was_ very kind, indeed, and I am glad to have her spared\"...\n\nShe could not finish the generous effusion. Her conscience stopt her in\nthe middle, but Edmund was satisfied.\n\n\"I shall walk down immediately after breakfast,\" said he, \"and am sure\nof giving pleasure there. And now, dear Fanny, I will not interrupt you\nany longer. You want to be reading. But I could not be easy till I had\nspoken to you, and come to a decision. Sleeping or waking, my head has\nbeen full of this matter all night. It is an evil, but I am certainly\nmaking it less than it might be. If Tom is up, I shall go to him\ndirectly and get it over, and when we meet at breakfast we shall be all\nin high good-humour at the prospect of acting the fool together with\nsuch unanimity. _You_, in the meanwhile, will be taking a trip into\nChina, I suppose. How does Lord Macartney go on?\"--opening a volume on\nthe table and then taking up some others. \"And here are Crabbe's Tales,\nand the Idler, at hand to relieve you, if you tire of your great book. I\nadmire your little establishment exceedingly; and as soon as I am\ngone, you will empty your head of all this nonsense of acting, and sit\ncomfortably down to your table. But do not stay here to be cold.\"\n\nHe went; but there was no reading, no China, no composure for Fanny. He\nhad told her the most extraordinary, the most inconceivable, the most\nunwelcome news; and she could think of nothing else. To be acting! After\nall his objections--objections so just and so public! After all that she\nhad heard him say, and seen him look, and known him to be feeling. Could\nit be possible? Edmund so inconsistent! Was he not deceiving himself?\nWas he not wrong? Alas! it was all Miss Crawford's doing. She had seen\nher influence in every speech, and was miserable. The doubts and alarms\nas to her own conduct, which had previously distressed her, and\nwhich had all slept while she listened to him, were become of little\nconsequence now. This deeper anxiety swallowed them up. Things should\ntake their course; she cared not how it ended. Her cousins might attack,\nbut could hardly tease her. She was beyond their reach; and if at last\nobliged to yield--no matter--it was all misery now.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\nIt was, indeed, a triumphant day to Mr. Bertram and Maria. Such a\nvictory over Edmund's discretion had been beyond their hopes, and was\nmost delightful. There was no longer anything to disturb them in their\ndarling project, and they congratulated each other in private on the\njealous weakness to which they attributed the change, with all the glee\nof feelings gratified in every way. Edmund might still look grave, and\nsay he did not like the scheme in general, and must disapprove the play\nin particular; their point was gained: he was to act, and he was driven\nto it by the force of selfish inclinations only. Edmund had descended\nfrom that moral elevation which he had maintained before, and they were\nboth as much the better as the happier for the descent.\n\nThey behaved very well, however, to _him_ on the occasion, betraying no\nexultation beyond the lines about the corners of the mouth, and seemed\nto think it as great an escape to be quit of the intrusion of Charles\nMaddox, as if they had been forced into admitting him against their\ninclination. \"To have it quite in their own family circle was what\nthey had particularly wished. A stranger among them would have been the\ndestruction of all their comfort\"; and when Edmund, pursuing that idea,\ngave a hint of his hope as to the limitation of the audience, they were\nready, in the complaisance of the moment, to promise anything. It was\nall good-humour and encouragement. Mrs. Norris offered to contrive his\ndress, Mr. Yates assured him that Anhalt's last scene with the Baron\nadmitted a good deal of action and emphasis, and Mr. Rushworth undertook\nto count his speeches.\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Tom, \"Fanny may be more disposed to oblige us now.\nPerhaps you may persuade _her_.\"\n\n\"No, she is quite determined. She certainly will not act.\"\n\n\"Oh! very well.\" And not another word was said; but Fanny felt herself\nagain in danger, and her indifference to the danger was beginning to\nfail her already.\n\nThere were not fewer smiles at the Parsonage than at the Park on this\nchange in Edmund; Miss Crawford looked very lovely in hers, and entered\nwith such an instantaneous renewal of cheerfulness into the whole\naffair as could have but one effect on him. \"He was certainly right in\nrespecting such feelings; he was glad he had determined on it.\" And the\nmorning wore away in satisfactions very sweet, if not very sound. One\nadvantage resulted from it to Fanny: at the earnest request of Miss\nCrawford, Mrs. Grant had, with her usual good-humour, agreed to\nundertake the part for which Fanny had been wanted; and this was all\nthat occurred to gladden _her_ heart during the day; and even this, when\nimparted by Edmund, brought a pang with it, for it was Miss Crawford to\nwhom she was obliged--it was Miss Crawford whose kind exertions were to\nexcite her gratitude, and whose merit in making them was spoken of\nwith a glow of admiration. She was safe; but peace and safety were\nunconnected here. Her mind had been never farther from peace. She could\nnot feel that she had done wrong herself, but she was disquieted\nin every other way. Her heart and her judgment were equally against\nEdmund's decision: she could not acquit his unsteadiness, and his\nhappiness under it made her wretched. She was full of jealousy and\nagitation. Miss Crawford came with looks of gaiety which seemed an\ninsult, with friendly expressions towards herself which she could hardly\nanswer calmly. Everybody around her was gay and busy, prosperous and\nimportant; each had their object of interest, their part, their dress,\ntheir favourite scene, their friends and confederates: all were finding\nemployment in consultations and comparisons, or diversion in the playful\nconceits they suggested. She alone was sad and insignificant: she had\nno share in anything; she might go or stay; she might be in the midst\nof their noise, or retreat from it to the solitude of the East room,\nwithout being seen or missed. She could almost think anything would\nhave been preferable to this. Mrs. Grant was of consequence: _her_\ngood-nature had honourable mention; her taste and her time were\nconsidered; her presence was wanted; she was sought for, and attended,\nand praised; and Fanny was at first in some danger of envying her the\ncharacter she had accepted. But reflection brought better feelings, and\nshewed her that Mrs. Grant was entitled to respect, which could never\nhave belonged to _her_; and that, had she received even the greatest,\nshe could never have been easy in joining a scheme which, considering\nonly her uncle, she must condemn altogether.\n\nFanny's heart was not absolutely the only saddened one amongst them,\nas she soon began to acknowledge to herself. Julia was a sufferer too,\nthough not quite so blamelessly.\n\nHenry Crawford had trifled with her feelings; but she had very long\nallowed and even sought his attentions, with a jealousy of her sister so\nreasonable as ought to have been their cure; and now that the conviction\nof his preference for Maria had been forced on her, she submitted to it\nwithout any alarm for Maria's situation, or any endeavour at rational\ntranquillity for herself. She either sat in gloomy silence, wrapt in\nsuch gravity as nothing could subdue, no curiosity touch, no wit amuse;\nor allowing the attentions of Mr. Yates, was talking with forced gaiety\nto him alone, and ridiculing the acting of the others.\n\nFor a day or two after the affront was given, Henry Crawford had\nendeavoured to do it away by the usual attack of gallantry and\ncompliment, but he had not cared enough about it to persevere against a\nfew repulses; and becoming soon too busy with his play to have time for\nmore than one flirtation, he grew indifferent to the quarrel, or rather\nthought it a lucky occurrence, as quietly putting an end to what might\nere long have raised expectations in more than Mrs. Grant. She was not\npleased to see Julia excluded from the play, and sitting by disregarded;\nbut as it was not a matter which really involved her happiness, as Henry\nmust be the best judge of his own, and as he did assure her, with a\nmost persuasive smile, that neither he nor Julia had ever had a serious\nthought of each other, she could only renew her former caution as to\nthe elder sister, entreat him not to risk his tranquillity by too\nmuch admiration there, and then gladly take her share in anything that\nbrought cheerfulness to the young people in general, and that did so\nparticularly promote the pleasure of the two so dear to her.\n\n\"I rather wonder Julia is not in love with Henry,\" was her observation\nto Mary.\n\n\"I dare say she is,\" replied Mary coldly. \"I imagine both sisters are.\"\n\n\"Both! no, no, that must not be. Do not give him a hint of it. Think of\nMr. Rushworth!\"\n\n\"You had better tell Miss Bertram to think of Mr. Rushworth. It may\ndo _her_ some good. I often think of Mr. Rushworth's property and\nindependence, and wish them in other hands; but I never think of him. A\nman might represent the county with such an estate; a man might escape a\nprofession and represent the county.\"\n\n\"I dare say he _will_ be in parliament soon. When Sir Thomas comes, I\ndare say he will be in for some borough, but there has been nobody to\nput him in the way of doing anything yet.\"\n\n\"Sir Thomas is to achieve many mighty things when he comes home,\" said\nMary, after a pause. \"Do you remember Hawkins Browne's 'Address to\nTobacco,' in imitation of Pope?--\n\n     Blest leaf! whose aromatic gales dispense\n     To Templars modesty, to Parsons sense.\n\nI will parody them--\n\n     Blest Knight! whose dictatorial looks dispense\n     To Children affluence, to Rushworth sense.\n\nWill not that do, Mrs. Grant? Everything seems to depend upon Sir\nThomas's return.\"\n\n\"You will find his consequence very just and reasonable when you see him\nin his family, I assure you. I do not think we do so well without him.\nHe has a fine dignified manner, which suits the head of such a house,\nand keeps everybody in their place. Lady Bertram seems more of a cipher\nnow than when he is at home; and nobody else can keep Mrs. Norris in\norder. But, Mary, do not fancy that Maria Bertram cares for Henry. I\nam sure _Julia_ does not, or she would not have flirted as she did last\nnight with Mr. Yates; and though he and Maria are very good friends, I\nthink she likes Sotherton too well to be inconstant.\"\n\n\"I would not give much for Mr. Rushworth's chance if Henry stept in\nbefore the articles were signed.\"\n\n\"If you have such a suspicion, something must be done; and as soon as\nthe play is all over, we will talk to him seriously and make him know\nhis own mind; and if he means nothing, we will send him off, though he\nis Henry, for a time.\"\n\nJulia _did_ suffer, however, though Mrs. Grant discerned it not, and\nthough it escaped the notice of many of her own family likewise. She had\nloved, she did love still, and she had all the suffering which a warm\ntemper and a high spirit were likely to endure under the disappointment\nof a dear, though irrational hope, with a strong sense of ill-usage.\nHer heart was sore and angry, and she was capable only of angry\nconsolations. The sister with whom she was used to be on easy terms was\nnow become her greatest enemy: they were alienated from each other;\nand Julia was not superior to the hope of some distressing end to the\nattentions which were still carrying on there, some punishment to\nMaria for conduct so shameful towards herself as well as towards Mr.\nRushworth. With no material fault of temper, or difference of opinion,\nto prevent their being very good friends while their interests were\nthe same, the sisters, under such a trial as this, had not affection or\nprinciple enough to make them merciful or just, to give them honour or\ncompassion. Maria felt her triumph, and pursued her purpose, careless of\nJulia; and Julia could never see Maria distinguished by Henry Crawford\nwithout trusting that it would create jealousy, and bring a public\ndisturbance at last.\n\nFanny saw and pitied much of this in Julia; but there was no outward\nfellowship between them. Julia made no communication, and Fanny took\nno liberties. They were two solitary sufferers, or connected only by\nFanny's consciousness.\n\nThe inattention of the two brothers and the aunt to Julia's\ndiscomposure, and their blindness to its true cause, must be imputed to\nthe fullness of their own minds. They were totally preoccupied. Tom was\nengrossed by the concerns of his theatre, and saw nothing that did not\nimmediately relate to it. Edmund, between his theatrical and his real\npart, between Miss Crawford's claims and his own conduct, between love\nand consistency, was equally unobservant; and Mrs. Norris was too busy\nin contriving and directing the general little matters of the company,\nsuperintending their various dresses with economical expedient, for\nwhich nobody thanked her, and saving, with delighted integrity, half\na crown here and there to the absent Sir Thomas, to have leisure for\nwatching the behaviour, or guarding the happiness of his daughters.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\nEverything was now in a regular train: theatre, actors, actresses, and\ndresses, were all getting forward; but though no other great impediments\narose, Fanny found, before many days were past, that it was not all\nuninterrupted enjoyment to the party themselves, and that she had not to\nwitness the continuance of such unanimity and delight as had been almost\ntoo much for her at first. Everybody began to have their vexation.\nEdmund had many. Entirely against _his_ judgment, a scene-painter\narrived from town, and was at work, much to the increase of the\nexpenses, and, what was worse, of the eclat of their proceedings; and\nhis brother, instead of being really guided by him as to the privacy of\nthe representation, was giving an invitation to every family who came\nin his way. Tom himself began to fret over the scene-painter's slow\nprogress, and to feel the miseries of waiting. He had learned his\npart--all his parts, for he took every trifling one that could be united\nwith the Butler, and began to be impatient to be acting; and every day\nthus unemployed was tending to increase his sense of the insignificance\nof all his parts together, and make him more ready to regret that some\nother play had not been chosen.\n\nFanny, being always a very courteous listener, and often the only\nlistener at hand, came in for the complaints and the distresses of\nmost of them. _She_ knew that Mr. Yates was in general thought to rant\ndreadfully; that Mr. Yates was disappointed in Henry Crawford; that\nTom Bertram spoke so quick he would be unintelligible; that Mrs. Grant\nspoiled everything by laughing; that Edmund was behindhand with his\npart, and that it was misery to have anything to do with Mr. Rushworth,\nwho was wanting a prompter through every speech. She knew, also, that\npoor Mr. Rushworth could seldom get anybody to rehearse with him: _his_\ncomplaint came before her as well as the rest; and so decided to her\neye was her cousin Maria's avoidance of him, and so needlessly often the\nrehearsal of the first scene between her and Mr. Crawford, that she had\nsoon all the terror of other complaints from _him_. So far from being\nall satisfied and all enjoying, she found everybody requiring something\nthey had not, and giving occasion of discontent to the others. Everybody\nhad a part either too long or too short; nobody would attend as they\nought; nobody would remember on which side they were to come in; nobody\nbut the complainer would observe any directions.\n\nFanny believed herself to derive as much innocent enjoyment from the\nplay as any of them; Henry Crawford acted well, and it was a pleasure to\n_her_ to creep into the theatre, and attend the rehearsal of the first\nact, in spite of the feelings it excited in some speeches for Maria.\nMaria, she also thought, acted well, too well; and after the first\nrehearsal or two, Fanny began to be their only audience; and sometimes\nas prompter, sometimes as spectator, was often very useful. As far as\nshe could judge, Mr. Crawford was considerably the best actor of all: he\nhad more confidence than Edmund, more judgment than Tom, more talent and\ntaste than Mr. Yates. She did not like him as a man, but she must admit\nhim to be the best actor, and on this point there were not many who\ndiffered from her. Mr. Yates, indeed, exclaimed against his tameness and\ninsipidity; and the day came at last, when Mr. Rushworth turned to her\nwith a black look, and said, \"Do you think there is anything so very\nfine in all this? For the life and soul of me, I cannot admire him; and,\nbetween ourselves, to see such an undersized, little, mean-looking man,\nset up for a fine actor, is very ridiculous in my opinion.\"\n\nFrom this moment there was a return of his former jealousy, which Maria,\nfrom increasing hopes of Crawford, was at little pains to remove; and\nthe chances of Mr. Rushworth's ever attaining to the knowledge of his\ntwo-and-forty speeches became much less. As to his ever making anything\n_tolerable_ of them, nobody had the smallest idea of that except\nhis mother; _she_, indeed, regretted that his part was not more\nconsiderable, and deferred coming over to Mansfield till they were\nforward enough in their rehearsal to comprehend all his scenes; but the\nothers aspired at nothing beyond his remembering the catchword, and the\nfirst line of his speech, and being able to follow the prompter through\nthe rest. Fanny, in her pity and kindheartedness, was at great pains to\nteach him how to learn, giving him all the helps and directions in her\npower, trying to make an artificial memory for him, and learning every\nword of his part herself, but without his being much the forwarder.\n\nMany uncomfortable, anxious, apprehensive feelings she certainly had;\nbut with all these, and other claims on her time and attention, she was\nas far from finding herself without employment or utility amongst them,\nas without a companion in uneasiness; quite as far from having no\ndemand on her leisure as on her compassion. The gloom of her first\nanticipations was proved to have been unfounded. She was occasionally\nuseful to all; she was perhaps as much at peace as any.\n\nThere was a great deal of needlework to be done, moreover, in which her\nhelp was wanted; and that Mrs. Norris thought her quite as well off\nas the rest, was evident by the manner in which she claimed it--\"Come,\nFanny,\" she cried, \"these are fine times for you, but you must not be\nalways walking from one room to the other, and doing the lookings-on at\nyour ease, in this way; I want you here. I have been slaving myself till\nI can hardly stand, to contrive Mr. Rushworth's cloak without sending\nfor any more satin; and now I think you may give me your help in putting\nit together. There are but three seams; you may do them in a trice. It\nwould be lucky for me if I had nothing but the executive part to do.\n_You_ are best off, I can tell you: but if nobody did more than _you_,\nwe should not get on very fast.\"\n\nFanny took the work very quietly, without attempting any defence; but\nher kinder aunt Bertram observed on her behalf--\n\n\"One cannot wonder, sister, that Fanny _should_ be delighted: it is\nall new to her, you know; you and I used to be very fond of a play\nourselves, and so am I still; and as soon as I am a little more at\nleisure, _I_ mean to look in at their rehearsals too. What is the play\nabout, Fanny? you have never told me.\"\n\n\"Oh! sister, pray do not ask her now; for Fanny is not one of those who\ncan talk and work at the same time. It is about Lovers' Vows.\"\n\n\"I believe,\" said Fanny to her aunt Bertram, \"there will be three acts\nrehearsed to-morrow evening, and that will give you an opportunity of\nseeing all the actors at once.\"\n\n\"You had better stay till the curtain is hung,\" interposed Mrs. Norris;\n\"the curtain will be hung in a day or two--there is very little sense in\na play without a curtain--and I am much mistaken if you do not find it\ndraw up into very handsome festoons.\"\n\nLady Bertram seemed quite resigned to waiting. Fanny did not share her\naunt's composure: she thought of the morrow a great deal, for if the\nthree acts were rehearsed, Edmund and Miss Crawford would then be acting\ntogether for the first time; the third act would bring a scene between\nthem which interested her most particularly, and which she was longing\nand dreading to see how they would perform. The whole subject of it was\nlove--a marriage of love was to be described by the gentleman, and very\nlittle short of a declaration of love be made by the lady.\n\nShe had read and read the scene again with many painful, many wondering\nemotions, and looked forward to their representation of it as a\ncircumstance almost too interesting. She did not _believe_ they had yet\nrehearsed it, even in private.\n\nThe morrow came, the plan for the evening continued, and Fanny's\nconsideration of it did not become less agitated. She worked very\ndiligently under her aunt's directions, but her diligence and her\nsilence concealed a very absent, anxious mind; and about noon she\nmade her escape with her work to the East room, that she might have no\nconcern in another, and, as she deemed it, most unnecessary rehearsal of\nthe first act, which Henry Crawford was just proposing, desirous at\nonce of having her time to herself, and of avoiding the sight of Mr.\nRushworth. A glimpse, as she passed through the hall, of the two ladies\nwalking up from the Parsonage made no change in her wish of retreat, and\nshe worked and meditated in the East room, undisturbed, for a quarter of\nan hour, when a gentle tap at the door was followed by the entrance of\nMiss Crawford.\n\n\"Am I right? Yes; this is the East room. My dear Miss Price, I beg your\npardon, but I have made my way to you on purpose to entreat your help.\"\n\nFanny, quite surprised, endeavoured to shew herself mistress of the room\nby her civilities, and looked at the bright bars of her empty grate with\nconcern.\n\n\"Thank you; I am quite warm, very warm. Allow me to stay here a little\nwhile, and do have the goodness to hear me my third act. I have brought\nmy book, and if you would but rehearse it with me, I should be _so_\nobliged! I came here to-day intending to rehearse it with Edmund--by\nourselves--against the evening, but he is not in the way; and if he\n_were_, I do not think I could go through it with _him_, till I have\nhardened myself a little; for really there is a speech or two. You will\nbe so good, won't you?\"\n\nFanny was most civil in her assurances, though she could not give them\nin a very steady voice.\n\n\"Have you ever happened to look at the part I mean?\" continued Miss\nCrawford, opening her book. \"Here it is. I did not think much of it at\nfirst--but, upon my word. There, look at _that_ speech, and _that_, and\n_that_. How am I ever to look him in the face and say such things? Could\nyou do it? But then he is your cousin, which makes all the difference.\nYou must rehearse it with me, that I may fancy _you_ him, and get on by\ndegrees. You _have_ a look of _his_ sometimes.\"\n\n\"Have I? I will do my best with the greatest readiness; but I must\n_read_ the part, for I can say very little of it.\"\n\n\"_None_ of it, I suppose. You are to have the book, of course. Now for\nit. We must have two chairs at hand for you to bring forward to the\nfront of the stage. There--very good school-room chairs, not made for a\ntheatre, I dare say; much more fitted for little girls to sit and kick\ntheir feet against when they are learning a lesson. What would your\ngoverness and your uncle say to see them used for such a purpose? Could\nSir Thomas look in upon us just now, he would bless himself, for we\nare rehearsing all over the house. Yates is storming away in the\ndining-room. I heard him as I came upstairs, and the theatre is engaged\nof course by those indefatigable rehearsers, Agatha and Frederick. If\n_they_ are not perfect, I _shall_ be surprised. By the bye, I looked in\nupon them five minutes ago, and it happened to be exactly at one of the\ntimes when they were trying _not_ to embrace, and Mr. Rushworth was with\nme. I thought he began to look a little queer, so I turned it off as\nwell as I could, by whispering to him, 'We shall have an excellent\nAgatha; there is something so _maternal_ in her manner, so completely\n_maternal_ in her voice and countenance.' Was not that well done of me?\nHe brightened up directly. Now for my soliloquy.\"\n\nShe began, and Fanny joined in with all the modest feeling which the\nidea of representing Edmund was so strongly calculated to inspire; but\nwith looks and voice so truly feminine as to be no very good picture of\na man. With such an Anhalt, however, Miss Crawford had courage enough;\nand they had got through half the scene, when a tap at the door brought\na pause, and the entrance of Edmund, the next moment, suspended it all.\n\nSurprise, consciousness, and pleasure appeared in each of the three\non this unexpected meeting; and as Edmund was come on the very same\nbusiness that had brought Miss Crawford, consciousness and pleasure were\nlikely to be more than momentary in _them_. He too had his book, and was\nseeking Fanny, to ask her to rehearse with him, and help him to prepare\nfor the evening, without knowing Miss Crawford to be in the house;\nand great was the joy and animation of being thus thrown together, of\ncomparing schemes, and sympathising in praise of Fanny's kind offices.\n\n_She_ could not equal them in their warmth. _Her_ spirits sank under the\nglow of theirs, and she felt herself becoming too nearly nothing to\nboth to have any comfort in having been sought by either. They must now\nrehearse together. Edmund proposed, urged, entreated it, till the lady,\nnot very unwilling at first, could refuse no longer, and Fanny was\nwanted only to prompt and observe them. She was invested, indeed, with\nthe office of judge and critic, and earnestly desired to exercise it and\ntell them all their faults; but from doing so every feeling within her\nshrank--she could not, would not, dared not attempt it: had she been\notherwise qualified for criticism, her conscience must have restrained\nher from venturing at disapprobation. She believed herself to feel too\nmuch of it in the aggregate for honesty or safety in particulars. To\nprompt them must be enough for her; and it was sometimes _more_ than\nenough; for she could not always pay attention to the book. In watching\nthem she forgot herself; and, agitated by the increasing spirit of\nEdmund's manner, had once closed the page and turned away exactly as he\nwanted help. It was imputed to very reasonable weariness, and she was\nthanked and pitied; but she deserved their pity more than she hoped they\nwould ever surmise. At last the scene was over, and Fanny forced herself\nto add her praise to the compliments each was giving the other; and when\nagain alone and able to recall the whole, she was inclined to believe\ntheir performance would, indeed, have such nature and feeling in it as\nmust ensure their credit, and make it a very suffering exhibition to\nherself. Whatever might be its effect, however, she must stand the brunt\nof it again that very day.\n\nThe first regular rehearsal of the three first acts was certainly to\ntake place in the evening: Mrs. Grant and the Crawfords were engaged to\nreturn for that purpose as soon as they could after dinner; and every\none concerned was looking forward with eagerness. There seemed a general\ndiffusion of cheerfulness on the occasion. Tom was enjoying such an\nadvance towards the end; Edmund was in spirits from the morning's\nrehearsal, and little vexations seemed everywhere smoothed away. All\nwere alert and impatient; the ladies moved soon, the gentlemen soon\nfollowed them, and with the exception of Lady Bertram, Mrs. Norris, and\nJulia, everybody was in the theatre at an early hour; and having lighted\nit up as well as its unfinished state admitted, were waiting only the\narrival of Mrs. Grant and the Crawfords to begin.\n\nThey did not wait long for the Crawfords, but there was no Mrs. Grant.\nShe could not come. Dr. Grant, professing an indisposition, for which he\nhad little credit with his fair sister-in-law, could not spare his wife.\n\n\"Dr. Grant is ill,\" said she, with mock solemnity. \"He has been ill ever\nsince he did not eat any of the pheasant today. He fancied it tough,\nsent away his plate, and has been suffering ever since\".\n\nHere was disappointment! Mrs. Grant's non-attendance was sad indeed.\nHer pleasant manners and cheerful conformity made her always valuable\namongst them; but _now_ she was absolutely necessary. They could not\nact, they could not rehearse with any satisfaction without her. The\ncomfort of the whole evening was destroyed. What was to be done? Tom, as\nCottager, was in despair. After a pause of perplexity, some eyes began\nto be turned towards Fanny, and a voice or two to say, \"If Miss Price\nwould be so good as to _read_ the part.\" She was immediately surrounded\nby supplications; everybody asked it; even Edmund said, \"Do, Fanny, if\nit is not _very_ disagreeable to you.\"\n\nBut Fanny still hung back. She could not endure the idea of it. Why was\nnot Miss Crawford to be applied to as well? Or why had not she rather\ngone to her own room, as she had felt to be safest, instead of attending\nthe rehearsal at all? She had known it would irritate and distress her;\nshe had known it her duty to keep away. She was properly punished.\n\n\"You have only to _read_ the part,\" said Henry Crawford, with renewed\nentreaty.\n\n\"And I do believe she can say every word of it,\" added Maria, \"for she\ncould put Mrs. Grant right the other day in twenty places. Fanny, I am\nsure you know the part.\"\n\nFanny could not say she did _not_; and as they all persevered, as\nEdmund repeated his wish, and with a look of even fond dependence on\nher good-nature, she must yield. She would do her best. Everybody was\nsatisfied; and she was left to the tremors of a most palpitating heart,\nwhile the others prepared to begin.\n\nThey _did_ begin; and being too much engaged in their own noise to be\nstruck by an unusual noise in the other part of the house, had proceeded\nsome way when the door of the room was thrown open, and Julia, appearing\nat it, with a face all aghast, exclaimed, \"My father is come! He is in\nthe hall at this moment.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\nHow is the consternation of the party to be described? To the greater\nnumber it was a moment of absolute horror. Sir Thomas in the house! All\nfelt the instantaneous conviction. Not a hope of imposition or mistake\nwas harboured anywhere. Julia's looks were an evidence of the fact that\nmade it indisputable; and after the first starts and exclamations, not a\nword was spoken for half a minute: each with an altered countenance was\nlooking at some other, and almost each was feeling it a stroke the most\nunwelcome, most ill-timed, most appalling! Mr. Yates might consider\nit only as a vexatious interruption for the evening, and Mr. Rushworth\nmight imagine it a blessing; but every other heart was sinking under\nsome degree of self-condemnation or undefined alarm, every other heart\nwas suggesting, \"What will become of us? what is to be done now?\" It\nwas a terrible pause; and terrible to every ear were the corroborating\nsounds of opening doors and passing footsteps.\n\nJulia was the first to move and speak again. Jealousy and bitterness\nhad been suspended: selfishness was lost in the common cause; but at the\nmoment of her appearance, Frederick was listening with looks of devotion\nto Agatha's narrative, and pressing her hand to his heart; and as soon\nas she could notice this, and see that, in spite of the shock of her\nwords, he still kept his station and retained her sister's hand, her\nwounded heart swelled again with injury, and looking as red as she had\nbeen white before, she turned out of the room, saying, \"_I_ need not be\nafraid of appearing before him.\"\n\nHer going roused the rest; and at the same moment the two brothers\nstepped forward, feeling the necessity of doing something. A very few\nwords between them were sufficient. The case admitted no difference of\nopinion: they must go to the drawing-room directly. Maria joined them\nwith the same intent, just then the stoutest of the three; for the\nvery circumstance which had driven Julia away was to her the sweetest\nsupport. Henry Crawford's retaining her hand at such a moment, a moment\nof such peculiar proof and importance, was worth ages of doubt and\nanxiety. She hailed it as an earnest of the most serious determination,\nand was equal even to encounter her father. They walked off, utterly\nheedless of Mr. Rushworth's repeated question of, \"Shall I go too? Had\nnot I better go too? Will not it be right for me to go too?\" but they\nwere no sooner through the door than Henry Crawford undertook to answer\nthe anxious inquiry, and, encouraging him by all means to pay his\nrespects to Sir Thomas without delay, sent him after the others with\ndelighted haste.\n\nFanny was left with only the Crawfords and Mr. Yates. She had been quite\noverlooked by her cousins; and as her own opinion of her claims on Sir\nThomas's affection was much too humble to give her any idea of classing\nherself with his children, she was glad to remain behind and gain a\nlittle breathing-time. Her agitation and alarm exceeded all that was\nendured by the rest, by the right of a disposition which not even\ninnocence could keep from suffering. She was nearly fainting: all her\nformer habitual dread of her uncle was returning, and with it compassion\nfor him and for almost every one of the party on the development before\nhim, with solicitude on Edmund's account indescribable. She had found\na seat, where in excessive trembling she was enduring all these fearful\nthoughts, while the other three, no longer under any restraint, were\ngiving vent to their feelings of vexation, lamenting over such an\nunlooked-for premature arrival as a most untoward event, and without\nmercy wishing poor Sir Thomas had been twice as long on his passage, or\nwere still in Antigua.\n\nThe Crawfords were more warm on the subject than Mr. Yates, from better\nunderstanding the family, and judging more clearly of the mischief that\nmust ensue. The ruin of the play was to them a certainty: they felt\nthe total destruction of the scheme to be inevitably at hand; while Mr.\nYates considered it only as a temporary interruption, a disaster for the\nevening, and could even suggest the possibility of the rehearsal being\nrenewed after tea, when the bustle of receiving Sir Thomas were over,\nand he might be at leisure to be amused by it. The Crawfords laughed\nat the idea; and having soon agreed on the propriety of their walking\nquietly home and leaving the family to themselves, proposed Mr. Yates's\naccompanying them and spending the evening at the Parsonage. But Mr.\nYates, having never been with those who thought much of parental claims,\nor family confidence, could not perceive that anything of the kind was\nnecessary; and therefore, thanking them, said, \"he preferred remaining\nwhere he was, that he might pay his respects to the old gentleman\nhandsomely since he _was_ come; and besides, he did not think it would\nbe fair by the others to have everybody run away.\"\n\nFanny was just beginning to collect herself, and to feel that if she\nstaid longer behind it might seem disrespectful, when this point was\nsettled, and being commissioned with the brother and sister's apology,\nsaw them preparing to go as she quitted the room herself to perform the\ndreadful duty of appearing before her uncle.\n\nToo soon did she find herself at the drawing-room door; and after\npausing a moment for what she knew would not come, for a courage which\nthe outside of no door had ever supplied to her, she turned the lock in\ndesperation, and the lights of the drawing-room, and all the collected\nfamily, were before her. As she entered, her own name caught her ear.\nSir Thomas was at that moment looking round him, and saying, \"But where\nis Fanny? Why do not I see my little Fanny?\"--and on perceiving her,\ncame forward with a kindness which astonished and penetrated her,\ncalling her his dear Fanny, kissing her affectionately, and observing\nwith decided pleasure how much she was grown! Fanny knew not how to\nfeel, nor where to look. She was quite oppressed. He had never been so\nkind, so _very_ kind to her in his life. His manner seemed changed, his\nvoice was quick from the agitation of joy; and all that had been awful\nin his dignity seemed lost in tenderness. He led her nearer the light\nand looked at her again--inquired particularly after her health, and\nthen, correcting himself, observed that he need not inquire, for\nher appearance spoke sufficiently on that point. A fine blush having\nsucceeded the previous paleness of her face, he was justified in his\nbelief of her equal improvement in health and beauty. He inquired next\nafter her family, especially William: and his kindness altogether was\nsuch as made her reproach herself for loving him so little, and thinking\nhis return a misfortune; and when, on having courage to lift her eyes to\nhis face, she saw that he was grown thinner, and had the burnt, fagged,\nworn look of fatigue and a hot climate, every tender feeling was\nincreased, and she was miserable in considering how much unsuspected\nvexation was probably ready to burst on him.\n\nSir Thomas was indeed the life of the party, who at his suggestion\nnow seated themselves round the fire. He had the best right to be the\ntalker; and the delight of his sensations in being again in his own\nhouse, in the centre of his family, after such a separation, made him\ncommunicative and chatty in a very unusual degree; and he was ready to\ngive every information as to his voyage, and answer every question\nof his two sons almost before it was put. His business in Antigua had\nlatterly been prosperously rapid, and he came directly from Liverpool,\nhaving had an opportunity of making his passage thither in a private\nvessel, instead of waiting for the packet; and all the little\nparticulars of his proceedings and events, his arrivals and departures,\nwere most promptly delivered, as he sat by Lady Bertram and looked with\nheartfelt satisfaction on the faces around him--interrupting himself\nmore than once, however, to remark on his good fortune in finding them\nall at home--coming unexpectedly as he did--all collected together\nexactly as he could have wished, but dared not depend on. Mr. Rushworth\nwas not forgotten: a most friendly reception and warmth of hand-shaking\nhad already met him, and with pointed attention he was now included in\nthe objects most intimately connected with Mansfield. There was nothing\ndisagreeable in Mr. Rushworth's appearance, and Sir Thomas was liking\nhim already.\n\nBy not one of the circle was he listened to with such unbroken,\nunalloyed enjoyment as by his wife, who was really extremely happy to\nsee him, and whose feelings were so warmed by his sudden arrival as to\nplace her nearer agitation than she had been for the last twenty years.\nShe had been _almost_ fluttered for a few minutes, and still remained so\nsensibly animated as to put away her work, move Pug from her side, and\ngive all her attention and all the rest of her sofa to her husband. She\nhad no anxieties for anybody to cloud _her_ pleasure: her own time had\nbeen irreproachably spent during his absence: she had done a great\ndeal of carpet-work, and made many yards of fringe; and she would have\nanswered as freely for the good conduct and useful pursuits of all\nthe young people as for her own. It was so agreeable to her to see\nhim again, and hear him talk, to have her ear amused and her whole\ncomprehension filled by his narratives, that she began particularly\nto feel how dreadfully she must have missed him, and how impossible it\nwould have been for her to bear a lengthened absence.\n\nMrs. Norris was by no means to be compared in happiness to her\nsister. Not that _she_ was incommoded by many fears of Sir Thomas's\ndisapprobation when the present state of his house should be known, for\nher judgment had been so blinded that, except by the instinctive caution\nwith which she had whisked away Mr. Rushworth's pink satin cloak as her\nbrother-in-law entered, she could hardly be said to shew any sign of\nalarm; but she was vexed by the _manner_ of his return. It had left her\nnothing to do. Instead of being sent for out of the room, and seeing\nhim first, and having to spread the happy news through the house, Sir\nThomas, with a very reasonable dependence, perhaps, on the nerves of his\nwife and children, had sought no confidant but the butler, and had been\nfollowing him almost instantaneously into the drawing-room. Mrs. Norris\nfelt herself defrauded of an office on which she had always depended,\nwhether his arrival or his death were to be the thing unfolded; and was\nnow trying to be in a bustle without having anything to bustle about,\nand labouring to be important where nothing was wanted but tranquillity\nand silence. Would Sir Thomas have consented to eat, she might have gone\nto the housekeeper with troublesome directions, and insulted the footmen\nwith injunctions of despatch; but Sir Thomas resolutely declined all\ndinner: he would take nothing, nothing till tea came--he would rather\nwait for tea. Still Mrs. Norris was at intervals urging something\ndifferent; and in the most interesting moment of his passage to England,\nwhen the alarm of a French privateer was at the height, she burst\nthrough his recital with the proposal of soup. \"Sure, my dear Sir\nThomas, a basin of soup would be a much better thing for you than tea.\nDo have a basin of soup.\"\n\nSir Thomas could not be provoked. \"Still the same anxiety for\neverybody's comfort, my dear Mrs. Norris,\" was his answer. \"But indeed I\nwould rather have nothing but tea.\"\n\n\"Well, then, Lady Bertram, suppose you speak for tea directly; suppose\nyou hurry Baddeley a little; he seems behindhand to-night.\" She carried\nthis point, and Sir Thomas's narrative proceeded.\n\nAt length there was a pause. His immediate communications were\nexhausted, and it seemed enough to be looking joyfully around him, now\nat one, now at another of the beloved circle; but the pause was not\nlong: in the elation of her spirits Lady Bertram became talkative, and\nwhat were the sensations of her children upon hearing her say, \"How\ndo you think the young people have been amusing themselves lately, Sir\nThomas? They have been acting. We have been all alive with acting.\"\n\n\"Indeed! and what have you been acting?\"\n\n\"Oh! they'll tell you all about it.\"\n\n\"The _all_ will soon be told,\" cried Tom hastily, and with affected\nunconcern; \"but it is not worth while to bore my father with it now. You\nwill hear enough of it to-morrow, sir. We have just been trying, by way\nof doing something, and amusing my mother, just within the last week,\nto get up a few scenes, a mere trifle. We have had such incessant rains\nalmost since October began, that we have been nearly confined to the\nhouse for days together. I have hardly taken out a gun since the 3rd.\nTolerable sport the first three days, but there has been no attempting\nanything since. The first day I went over Mansfield Wood, and Edmund\ntook the copses beyond Easton, and we brought home six brace between\nus, and might each have killed six times as many, but we respect your\npheasants, sir, I assure you, as much as you could desire. I do not\nthink you will find your woods by any means worse stocked than they\nwere. _I_ never saw Mansfield Wood so full of pheasants in my life\nas this year. I hope you will take a day's sport there yourself, sir,\nsoon.\"\n\nFor the present the danger was over, and Fanny's sick feelings subsided;\nbut when tea was soon afterwards brought in, and Sir Thomas, getting up,\nsaid that he found that he could not be any longer in the house without\njust looking into his own dear room, every agitation was returning. He\nwas gone before anything had been said to prepare him for the change he\nmust find there; and a pause of alarm followed his disappearance. Edmund\nwas the first to speak--\n\n\"Something must be done,\" said he.\n\n\"It is time to think of our visitors,\" said Maria, still feeling her\nhand pressed to Henry Crawford's heart, and caring little for anything\nelse. \"Where did you leave Miss Crawford, Fanny?\"\n\nFanny told of their departure, and delivered their message.\n\n\"Then poor Yates is all alone,\" cried Tom. \"I will go and fetch him. He\nwill be no bad assistant when it all comes out.\"\n\nTo the theatre he went, and reached it just in time to witness the first\nmeeting of his father and his friend. Sir Thomas had been a good deal\nsurprised to find candles burning in his room; and on casting his eye\nround it, to see other symptoms of recent habitation and a general air\nof confusion in the furniture. The removal of the bookcase from before\nthe billiard-room door struck him especially, but he had scarcely more\nthan time to feel astonished at all this, before there were sounds from\nthe billiard-room to astonish him still farther. Some one was talking\nthere in a very loud accent; he did not know the voice--more than\ntalking--almost hallooing. He stepped to the door, rejoicing at that\nmoment in having the means of immediate communication, and, opening it,\nfound himself on the stage of a theatre, and opposed to a ranting young\nman, who appeared likely to knock him down backwards. At the very moment\nof Yates perceiving Sir Thomas, and giving perhaps the very best start\nhe had ever given in the whole course of his rehearsals, Tom Bertram\nentered at the other end of the room; and never had he found greater\ndifficulty in keeping his countenance. His father's looks of solemnity\nand amazement on this his first appearance on any stage, and the gradual\nmetamorphosis of the impassioned Baron Wildenheim into the well-bred and\neasy Mr. Yates, making his bow and apology to Sir Thomas Bertram, was\nsuch an exhibition, such a piece of true acting, as he would not have\nlost upon any account. It would be the last--in all probability--the\nlast scene on that stage; but he was sure there could not be a finer.\nThe house would close with the greatest eclat.\n\nThere was little time, however, for the indulgence of any images of\nmerriment. It was necessary for him to step forward, too, and assist\nthe introduction, and with many awkward sensations he did his best. Sir\nThomas received Mr. Yates with all the appearance of cordiality which\nwas due to his own character, but was really as far from pleased\nwith the necessity of the acquaintance as with the manner of its\ncommencement. Mr. Yates's family and connexions were sufficiently known\nto him to render his introduction as the \"particular friend,\" another of\nthe hundred particular friends of his son, exceedingly unwelcome; and it\nneeded all the felicity of being again at home, and all the forbearance\nit could supply, to save Sir Thomas from anger on finding himself thus\nbewildered in his own house, making part of a ridiculous exhibition in\nthe midst of theatrical nonsense, and forced in so untoward a moment to\nadmit the acquaintance of a young man whom he felt sure of disapproving,\nand whose easy indifference and volubility in the course of the first\nfive minutes seemed to mark him the most at home of the two.\n\nTom understood his father's thoughts, and heartily wishing he might be\nalways as well disposed to give them but partial expression, began to\nsee, more clearly than he had ever done before, that there might be some\nground of offence, that there might be some reason for the glance his\nfather gave towards the ceiling and stucco of the room; and that when he\ninquired with mild gravity after the fate of the billiard-table, he was\nnot proceeding beyond a very allowable curiosity. A few minutes were\nenough for such unsatisfactory sensations on each side; and Sir\nThomas having exerted himself so far as to speak a few words of\ncalm approbation in reply to an eager appeal of Mr. Yates, as to the\nhappiness of the arrangement, the three gentlemen returned to the\ndrawing-room together, Sir Thomas with an increase of gravity which was\nnot lost on all.\n\n\"I come from your theatre,\" said he composedly, as he sat down; \"I found\nmyself in it rather unexpectedly. Its vicinity to my own room--but in\nevery respect, indeed, it took me by surprise, as I had not the smallest\nsuspicion of your acting having assumed so serious a character. It\nappears a neat job, however, as far as I could judge by candlelight,\nand does my friend Christopher Jackson credit.\" And then he would\nhave changed the subject, and sipped his coffee in peace over domestic\nmatters of a calmer hue; but Mr. Yates, without discernment to catch Sir\nThomas's meaning, or diffidence, or delicacy, or discretion enough to\nallow him to lead the discourse while he mingled among the others with\nthe least obtrusiveness himself, would keep him on the topic of the\ntheatre, would torment him with questions and remarks relative to it,\nand finally would make him hear the whole history of his disappointment\nat Ecclesford. Sir Thomas listened most politely, but found much to\noffend his ideas of decorum, and confirm his ill-opinion of Mr. Yates's\nhabits of thinking, from the beginning to the end of the story; and when\nit was over, could give him no other assurance of sympathy than what a\nslight bow conveyed.\n\n\"This was, in fact, the origin of _our_ acting,\" said Tom, after\na moment's thought. \"My friend Yates brought the infection from\nEcclesford, and it spread--as those things always spread, you know,\nsir--the faster, probably, from _your_ having so often encouraged the\nsort of thing in us formerly. It was like treading old ground again.\"\n\nMr. Yates took the subject from his friend as soon as possible, and\nimmediately gave Sir Thomas an account of what they had done and were\ndoing: told him of the gradual increase of their views, the happy\nconclusion of their first difficulties, and present promising state of\naffairs; relating everything with so blind an interest as made him not\nonly totally unconscious of the uneasy movements of many of his\nfriends as they sat, the change of countenance, the fidget, the hem! of\nunquietness, but prevented him even from seeing the expression of the\nface on which his own eyes were fixed--from seeing Sir Thomas's dark\nbrow contract as he looked with inquiring earnestness at his daughters\nand Edmund, dwelling particularly on the latter, and speaking a\nlanguage, a remonstrance, a reproof, which _he_ felt at his heart. Not\nless acutely was it felt by Fanny, who had edged back her chair behind\nher aunt's end of the sofa, and, screened from notice herself, saw all\nthat was passing before her. Such a look of reproach at Edmund from his\nfather she could never have expected to witness; and to feel that it\nwas in any degree deserved was an aggravation indeed. Sir Thomas's\nlook implied, \"On your judgment, Edmund, I depended; what have you\nbeen about?\" She knelt in spirit to her uncle, and her bosom swelled to\nutter, \"Oh, not to _him_! Look so to all the others, but not to _him_!\"\n\nMr. Yates was still talking. \"To own the truth, Sir Thomas, we were in\nthe middle of a rehearsal when you arrived this evening. We were going\nthrough the three first acts, and not unsuccessfully upon the whole. Our\ncompany is now so dispersed, from the Crawfords being gone home, that\nnothing more can be done to-night; but if you will give us the honour of\nyour company to-morrow evening, I should not be afraid of the result. We\nbespeak your indulgence, you understand, as young performers; we bespeak\nyour indulgence.\"\n\n\"My indulgence shall be given, sir,\" replied Sir Thomas gravely, \"but\nwithout any other rehearsal.\" And with a relenting smile, he added, \"I\ncome home to be happy and indulgent.\" Then turning away towards any\nor all of the rest, he tranquilly said, \"Mr. and Miss Crawford were\nmentioned in my last letters from Mansfield. Do you find them agreeable\nacquaintance?\"\n\nTom was the only one at all ready with an answer, but he being entirely\nwithout particular regard for either, without jealousy either in love\nor acting, could speak very handsomely of both. \"Mr. Crawford was a\nmost pleasant, gentleman-like man; his sister a sweet, pretty, elegant,\nlively girl.\"\n\nMr. Rushworth could be silent no longer. \"I do not say he is not\ngentleman-like, considering; but you should tell your father he is not\nabove five feet eight, or he will be expecting a well-looking man.\"\n\nSir Thomas did not quite understand this, and looked with some surprise\nat the speaker.\n\n\"If I must say what I think,\" continued Mr. Rushworth, \"in my opinion it\nis very disagreeable to be always rehearsing. It is having too much of a\ngood thing. I am not so fond of acting as I was at first. I think we are\na great deal better employed, sitting comfortably here among ourselves,\nand doing nothing.\"\n\nSir Thomas looked again, and then replied with an approving smile, \"I am\nhappy to find our sentiments on this subject so much the same. It gives\nme sincere satisfaction. That I should be cautious and quick-sighted,\nand feel many scruples which my children do _not_ feel, is perfectly\nnatural; and equally so that my value for domestic tranquillity, for a\nhome which shuts out noisy pleasures, should much exceed theirs. But at\nyour time of life to feel all this, is a most favourable circumstance\nfor yourself, and for everybody connected with you; and I am sensible of\nthe importance of having an ally of such weight.\"\n\nSir Thomas meant to be giving Mr. Rushworth's opinion in better words\nthan he could find himself. He was aware that he must not expect a\ngenius in Mr. Rushworth; but as a well-judging, steady young man, with\nbetter notions than his elocution would do justice to, he intended to\nvalue him very highly. It was impossible for many of the others not to\nsmile. Mr. Rushworth hardly knew what to do with so much meaning; but by\nlooking, as he really felt, most exceedingly pleased with Sir Thomas's\ngood opinion, and saying scarcely anything, he did his best towards\npreserving that good opinion a little longer.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\nEdmund's first object the next morning was to see his father alone, and\ngive him a fair statement of the whole acting scheme, defending his own\nshare in it as far only as he could then, in a soberer moment, feel his\nmotives to deserve, and acknowledging, with perfect ingenuousness, that\nhis concession had been attended with such partial good as to make his\njudgment in it very doubtful. He was anxious, while vindicating himself,\nto say nothing unkind of the others: but there was only one amongst\nthem whose conduct he could mention without some necessity of defence\nor palliation. \"We have all been more or less to blame,\" said he, \"every\none of us, excepting Fanny. Fanny is the only one who has judged rightly\nthroughout; who has been consistent. _Her_ feelings have been steadily\nagainst it from first to last. She never ceased to think of what was due\nto you. You will find Fanny everything you could wish.\"\n\nSir Thomas saw all the impropriety of such a scheme among such a party,\nand at such a time, as strongly as his son had ever supposed he must; he\nfelt it too much, indeed, for many words; and having shaken hands with\nEdmund, meant to try to lose the disagreeable impression, and forget how\nmuch he had been forgotten himself as soon as he could, after the house\nhad been cleared of every object enforcing the remembrance, and restored\nto its proper state. He did not enter into any remonstrance with his\nother children: he was more willing to believe they felt their error\nthan to run the risk of investigation. The reproof of an immediate\nconclusion of everything, the sweep of every preparation, would be\nsufficient.\n\nThere was one person, however, in the house, whom he could not leave\nto learn his sentiments merely through his conduct. He could not help\ngiving Mrs. Norris a hint of his having hoped that her advice might\nhave been interposed to prevent what her judgment must certainly have\ndisapproved. The young people had been very inconsiderate in forming the\nplan; they ought to have been capable of a better decision themselves;\nbut they were young; and, excepting Edmund, he believed, of unsteady\ncharacters; and with greater surprise, therefore, he must regard her\nacquiescence in their wrong measures, her countenance of their unsafe\namusements, than that such measures and such amusements should have\nbeen suggested. Mrs. Norris was a little confounded and as nearly\nbeing silenced as ever she had been in her life; for she was ashamed to\nconfess having never seen any of the impropriety which was so glaring\nto Sir Thomas, and would not have admitted that her influence was\ninsufficient--that she might have talked in vain. Her only resource was\nto get out of the subject as fast as possible, and turn the current\nof Sir Thomas's ideas into a happier channel. She had a great deal to\ninsinuate in her own praise as to _general_ attention to the interest\nand comfort of his family, much exertion and many sacrifices to glance\nat in the form of hurried walks and sudden removals from her own\nfireside, and many excellent hints of distrust and economy to Lady\nBertram and Edmund to detail, whereby a most considerable saving had\nalways arisen, and more than one bad servant been detected. But her\nchief strength lay in Sotherton. Her greatest support and glory was\nin having formed the connexion with the Rushworths. _There_ she\nwas impregnable. She took to herself all the credit of bringing Mr.\nRushworth's admiration of Maria to any effect. \"If I had not been\nactive,\" said she, \"and made a point of being introduced to his mother,\nand then prevailed on my sister to pay the first visit, I am as certain\nas I sit here that nothing would have come of it; for Mr. Rushworth\nis the sort of amiable modest young man who wants a great deal of\nencouragement, and there were girls enough on the catch for him if we\nhad been idle. But I left no stone unturned. I was ready to move heaven\nand earth to persuade my sister, and at last I did persuade her. You\nknow the distance to Sotherton; it was in the middle of winter, and the\nroads almost impassable, but I did persuade her.\"\n\n\"I know how great, how justly great, your influence is with Lady Bertram\nand her children, and am the more concerned that it should not have\nbeen.\"\n\n\"My dear Sir Thomas, if you had seen the state of the roads _that_ day!\nI thought we should never have got through them, though we had the four\nhorses of course; and poor old coachman would attend us, out of his\ngreat love and kindness, though he was hardly able to sit the box on\naccount of the rheumatism which I had been doctoring him for ever since\nMichaelmas. I cured him at last; but he was very bad all the winter--and\nthis was such a day, I could not help going to him up in his room before\nwe set off to advise him not to venture: he was putting on his wig; so\nI said, 'Coachman, you had much better not go; your Lady and I shall be\nvery safe; you know how steady Stephen is, and Charles has been upon the\nleaders so often now, that I am sure there is no fear.' But, however, I\nsoon found it would not do; he was bent upon going, and as I hate to be\nworrying and officious, I said no more; but my heart quite ached for him\nat every jolt, and when we got into the rough lanes about Stoke, where,\nwhat with frost and snow upon beds of stones, it was worse than anything\nyou can imagine, I was quite in an agony about him. And then the poor\nhorses too! To see them straining away! You know how I always feel for\nthe horses. And when we got to the bottom of Sandcroft Hill, what do you\nthink I did? You will laugh at me; but I got out and walked up. I did\nindeed. It might not be saving them much, but it was something, and I\ncould not bear to sit at my ease and be dragged up at the expense of\nthose noble animals. I caught a dreadful cold, but _that_ I did not\nregard. My object was accomplished in the visit.\"\n\n\"I hope we shall always think the acquaintance worth any trouble that\nmight be taken to establish it. There is nothing very striking in Mr.\nRushworth's manners, but I was pleased last night with what appeared to\nbe his opinion on one subject: his decided preference of a quiet family\nparty to the bustle and confusion of acting. He seemed to feel exactly\nas one could wish.\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed, and the more you know of him the better you will like him.\nHe is not a shining character, but he has a thousand good qualities; and\nis so disposed to look up to you, that I am quite laughed at about it,\nfor everybody considers it as my doing. 'Upon my word, Mrs. Norris,'\nsaid Mrs. Grant the other day, 'if Mr. Rushworth were a son of your own,\nhe could not hold Sir Thomas in greater respect.'\"\n\nSir Thomas gave up the point, foiled by her evasions, disarmed by her\nflattery; and was obliged to rest satisfied with the conviction that\nwhere the present pleasure of those she loved was at stake, her kindness\ndid sometimes overpower her judgment.\n\nIt was a busy morning with him. Conversation with any of them occupied\nbut a small part of it. He had to reinstate himself in all the wonted\nconcerns of his Mansfield life: to see his steward and his bailiff; to\nexamine and compute, and, in the intervals of business, to walk into\nhis stables and his gardens, and nearest plantations; but active and\nmethodical, he had not only done all this before he resumed his seat as\nmaster of the house at dinner, he had also set the carpenter to work in\npulling down what had been so lately put up in the billiard-room,\nand given the scene-painter his dismissal long enough to justify the\npleasing belief of his being then at least as far off as Northampton.\nThe scene-painter was gone, having spoilt only the floor of one room,\nruined all the coachman's sponges, and made five of the under-servants\nidle and dissatisfied; and Sir Thomas was in hopes that another day or\ntwo would suffice to wipe away every outward memento of what had been,\neven to the destruction of every unbound copy of Lovers' Vows in the\nhouse, for he was burning all that met his eye.\n\nMr. Yates was beginning now to understand Sir Thomas's intentions,\nthough as far as ever from understanding their source. He and his friend\nhad been out with their guns the chief of the morning, and Tom had taken\nthe opportunity of explaining, with proper apologies for his father's\nparticularity, what was to be expected. Mr. Yates felt it as acutely as\nmight be supposed. To be a second time disappointed in the same way was\nan instance of very severe ill-luck; and his indignation was such,\nthat had it not been for delicacy towards his friend, and his friend's\nyoungest sister, he believed he should certainly attack the baronet\non the absurdity of his proceedings, and argue him into a little more\nrationality. He believed this very stoutly while he was in Mansfield\nWood, and all the way home; but there was a something in Sir Thomas,\nwhen they sat round the same table, which made Mr. Yates think it\nwiser to let him pursue his own way, and feel the folly of it without\nopposition. He had known many disagreeable fathers before, and often\nbeen struck with the inconveniences they occasioned, but never, in\nthe whole course of his life, had he seen one of that class so\nunintelligibly moral, so infamously tyrannical as Sir Thomas. He was\nnot a man to be endured but for his children's sake, and he might be\nthankful to his fair daughter Julia that Mr. Yates did yet mean to stay\na few days longer under his roof.\n\nThe evening passed with external smoothness, though almost every\nmind was ruffled; and the music which Sir Thomas called for from his\ndaughters helped to conceal the want of real harmony. Maria was in a\ngood deal of agitation. It was of the utmost consequence to her that\nCrawford should now lose no time in declaring himself, and she was\ndisturbed that even a day should be gone by without seeming to advance\nthat point. She had been expecting to see him the whole morning, and\nall the evening, too, was still expecting him. Mr. Rushworth had set off\nearly with the great news for Sotherton; and she had fondly hoped for\nsuch an immediate _eclaircissement_ as might save him the trouble of\never coming back again. But they had seen no one from the Parsonage,\nnot a creature, and had heard no tidings beyond a friendly note of\ncongratulation and inquiry from Mrs. Grant to Lady Bertram. It was the\nfirst day for many, many weeks, in which the families had been wholly\ndivided. Four-and-twenty hours had never passed before, since August\nbegan, without bringing them together in some way or other. It was a\nsad, anxious day; and the morrow, though differing in the sort of evil,\ndid by no means bring less. A few moments of feverish enjoyment were\nfollowed by hours of acute suffering. Henry Crawford was again in the\nhouse: he walked up with Dr. Grant, who was anxious to pay his respects\nto Sir Thomas, and at rather an early hour they were ushered into the\nbreakfast-room, where were most of the family. Sir Thomas soon appeared,\nand Maria saw with delight and agitation the introduction of the man she\nloved to her father. Her sensations were indefinable, and so were they\na few minutes afterwards upon hearing Henry Crawford, who had a chair\nbetween herself and Tom, ask the latter in an undervoice whether\nthere were any plans for resuming the play after the present happy\ninterruption (with a courteous glance at Sir Thomas), because, in that\ncase, he should make a point of returning to Mansfield at any time\nrequired by the party: he was going away immediately, being to meet his\nuncle at Bath without delay; but if there were any prospect of a renewal\nof Lovers' Vows, he should hold himself positively engaged, he should\nbreak through every other claim, he should absolutely condition with his\nuncle for attending them whenever he might be wanted. The play should\nnot be lost by _his_ absence.\n\n\"From Bath, Norfolk, London, York, wherever I may be,\" said he; \"I will\nattend you from any place in England, at an hour's notice.\"\n\nIt was well at that moment that Tom had to speak, and not his sister. He\ncould immediately say with easy fluency, \"I am sorry you are going;\nbut as to our play, _that_ is all over--entirely at an end\" (looking\nsignificantly at his father). \"The painter was sent off yesterday, and\nvery little will remain of the theatre to-morrow. I knew how _that_\nwould be from the first. It is early for Bath. You will find nobody\nthere.\"\n\n\"It is about my uncle's usual time.\"\n\n\"When do you think of going?\"\n\n\"I may, perhaps, get as far as Banbury to-day.\"\n\n\"Whose stables do you use at Bath?\" was the next question; and while\nthis branch of the subject was under discussion, Maria, who wanted\nneither pride nor resolution, was preparing to encounter her share of it\nwith tolerable calmness.\n\nTo her he soon turned, repeating much of what he had already said, with\nonly a softened air and stronger expressions of regret. But what availed\nhis expressions or his air? He was going, and, if not voluntarily going,\nvoluntarily intending to stay away; for, excepting what might be due\nto his uncle, his engagements were all self-imposed. He might talk of\nnecessity, but she knew his independence. The hand which had so pressed\nhers to his heart! the hand and the heart were alike motionless and\npassive now! Her spirit supported her, but the agony of her mind was\nsevere. She had not long to endure what arose from listening to language\nwhich his actions contradicted, or to bury the tumult of her feelings\nunder the restraint of society; for general civilities soon called\nhis notice from her, and the farewell visit, as it then became openly\nacknowledged, was a very short one. He was gone--he had touched her\nhand for the last time, he had made his parting bow, and she might seek\ndirectly all that solitude could do for her. Henry Crawford was gone,\ngone from the house, and within two hours afterwards from the parish;\nand so ended all the hopes his selfish vanity had raised in Maria and\nJulia Bertram.\n\nJulia could rejoice that he was gone. His presence was beginning to be\nodious to her; and if Maria gained him not, she was now cool enough to\ndispense with any other revenge. She did not want exposure to be added\nto desertion. Henry Crawford gone, she could even pity her sister.\n\nWith a purer spirit did Fanny rejoice in the intelligence. She heard it\nat dinner, and felt it a blessing. By all the others it was mentioned\nwith regret; and his merits honoured with due gradation of feeling--from\nthe sincerity of Edmund's too partial regard, to the unconcern of his\nmother speaking entirely by rote. Mrs. Norris began to look about her,\nand wonder that his falling in love with Julia had come to nothing; and\ncould almost fear that she had been remiss herself in forwarding it; but\nwith so many to care for, how was it possible for even _her_ activity to\nkeep pace with her wishes?\n\nAnother day or two, and Mr. Yates was gone likewise. In _his_ departure\nSir Thomas felt the chief interest: wanting to be alone with his family,\nthe presence of a stranger superior to Mr. Yates must have been irksome;\nbut of him, trifling and confident, idle and expensive, it was every way\nvexatious. In himself he was wearisome, but as the friend of Tom and\nthe admirer of Julia he became offensive. Sir Thomas had been quite\nindifferent to Mr. Crawford's going or staying: but his good wishes\nfor Mr. Yates's having a pleasant journey, as he walked with him to the\nhall-door, were given with genuine satisfaction. Mr. Yates had staid to\nsee the destruction of every theatrical preparation at Mansfield, the\nremoval of everything appertaining to the play: he left the house in all\nthe soberness of its general character; and Sir Thomas hoped, in seeing\nhim out of it, to be rid of the worst object connected with the scheme,\nand the last that must be inevitably reminding him of its existence.\n\nMrs. Norris contrived to remove one article from his sight that might\nhave distressed him. The curtain, over which she had presided with such\ntalent and such success, went off with her to her cottage, where she\nhappened to be particularly in want of green baize.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\n\nSir Thomas's return made a striking change in the ways of the family,\nindependent of Lovers' Vows. Under his government, Mansfield was an\naltered place. Some members of their society sent away, and the spirits\nof many others saddened--it was all sameness and gloom compared with\nthe past--a sombre family party rarely enlivened. There was little\nintercourse with the Parsonage. Sir Thomas, drawing back from intimacies\nin general, was particularly disinclined, at this time, for any\nengagements but in one quarter. The Rushworths were the only addition to\nhis own domestic circle which he could solicit.\n\nEdmund did not wonder that such should be his father's feelings, nor\ncould he regret anything but the exclusion of the Grants. \"But they,\" he\nobserved to Fanny, \"have a claim. They seem to belong to us; they seem\nto be part of ourselves. I could wish my father were more sensible of\ntheir very great attention to my mother and sisters while he was away. I\nam afraid they may feel themselves neglected. But the truth is, that my\nfather hardly knows them. They had not been here a twelvemonth when he\nleft England. If he knew them better, he would value their society as it\ndeserves; for they are in fact exactly the sort of people he would\nlike. We are sometimes a little in want of animation among ourselves: my\nsisters seem out of spirits, and Tom is certainly not at his ease. Dr.\nand Mrs. Grant would enliven us, and make our evenings pass away with\nmore enjoyment even to my father.\"\n\n\"Do you think so?\" said Fanny: \"in my opinion, my uncle would not like\n_any_ addition. I think he values the very quietness you speak of, and\nthat the repose of his own family circle is all he wants. And it does\nnot appear to me that we are more serious than we used to be--I mean\nbefore my uncle went abroad. As well as I can recollect, it was always\nmuch the same. There was never much laughing in his presence; or, if\nthere is any difference, it is not more, I think, than such an absence\nhas a tendency to produce at first. There must be a sort of shyness; but\nI cannot recollect that our evenings formerly were ever merry, except\nwhen my uncle was in town. No young people's are, I suppose, when those\nthey look up to are at home\".\n\n\"I believe you are right, Fanny,\" was his reply, after a short\nconsideration. \"I believe our evenings are rather returned to what they\nwere, than assuming a new character. The novelty was in their being\nlively. Yet, how strong the impression that only a few weeks will give!\nI have been feeling as if we had never lived so before.\"\n\n\"I suppose I am graver than other people,\" said Fanny. \"The evenings do\nnot appear long to me. I love to hear my uncle talk of the West Indies.\nI could listen to him for an hour together. It entertains _me_ more than\nmany other things have done; but then I am unlike other people, I dare\nsay.\"\n\n\"Why should you dare say _that_?\" (smiling). \"Do you want to be told\nthat you are only unlike other people in being more wise and discreet?\nBut when did you, or anybody, ever get a compliment from me, Fanny? Go\nto my father if you want to be complimented. He will satisfy you. Ask\nyour uncle what he thinks, and you will hear compliments enough: and\nthough they may be chiefly on your person, you must put up with it, and\ntrust to his seeing as much beauty of mind in time.\"\n\nSuch language was so new to Fanny that it quite embarrassed her.\n\n\"Your uncle thinks you very pretty, dear Fanny--and that is the long and\nthe short of the matter. Anybody but myself would have made something\nmore of it, and anybody but you would resent that you had not been\nthought very pretty before; but the truth is, that your uncle never\ndid admire you till now--and now he does. Your complexion is so\nimproved!--and you have gained so much countenance!--and your\nfigure--nay, Fanny, do not turn away about it--it is but an uncle. If\nyou cannot bear an uncle's admiration, what is to become of you? You\nmust really begin to harden yourself to the idea of being worth looking\nat. You must try not to mind growing up into a pretty woman.\"\n\n\"Oh! don't talk so, don't talk so,\" cried Fanny, distressed by more\nfeelings than he was aware of; but seeing that she was distressed, he\nhad done with the subject, and only added more seriously--\n\n\"Your uncle is disposed to be pleased with you in every respect; and I\nonly wish you would talk to him more. You are one of those who are too\nsilent in the evening circle.\"\n\n\"But I do talk to him more than I used. I am sure I do. Did not you hear\nme ask him about the slave-trade last night?\"\n\n\"I did--and was in hopes the question would be followed up by others. It\nwould have pleased your uncle to be inquired of farther.\"\n\n\"And I longed to do it--but there was such a dead silence! And while\nmy cousins were sitting by without speaking a word, or seeming at all\ninterested in the subject, I did not like--I thought it would appear as\nif I wanted to set myself off at their expense, by shewing a curiosity\nand pleasure in his information which he must wish his own daughters to\nfeel.\"\n\n\"Miss Crawford was very right in what she said of you the other day:\nthat you seemed almost as fearful of notice and praise as other women\nwere of neglect. We were talking of you at the Parsonage, and those were\nher words. She has great discernment. I know nobody who distinguishes\ncharacters better. For so young a woman it is remarkable! She certainly\nunderstands _you_ better than you are understood by the greater part of\nthose who have known you so long; and with regard to some others, I can\nperceive, from occasional lively hints, the unguarded expressions of\nthe moment, that she could define _many_ as accurately, did not delicacy\nforbid it. I wonder what she thinks of my father! She must admire him\nas a fine-looking man, with most gentlemanlike, dignified, consistent\nmanners; but perhaps, having seen him so seldom, his reserve may be\na little repulsive. Could they be much together, I feel sure of their\nliking each other. He would enjoy her liveliness and she has talents to\nvalue his powers. I wish they met more frequently! I hope she does not\nsuppose there is any dislike on his side.\"\n\n\"She must know herself too secure of the regard of all the rest of you,\"\nsaid Fanny, with half a sigh, \"to have any such apprehension. And Sir\nThomas's wishing just at first to be only with his family, is so very\nnatural, that she can argue nothing from that. After a little while, I\ndare say, we shall be meeting again in the same sort of way, allowing\nfor the difference of the time of year.\"\n\n\"This is the first October that she has passed in the country since her\ninfancy. I do not call Tunbridge or Cheltenham the country; and November\nis a still more serious month, and I can see that Mrs. Grant is very\nanxious for her not finding Mansfield dull as winter comes on.\"\n\nFanny could have said a great deal, but it was safer to say nothing, and\nleave untouched all Miss Crawford's resources--her accomplishments, her\nspirits, her importance, her friends, lest it should betray her into\nany observations seemingly unhandsome. Miss Crawford's kind opinion of\nherself deserved at least a grateful forbearance, and she began to talk\nof something else.\n\n\"To-morrow, I think, my uncle dines at Sotherton, and you and Mr.\nBertram too. We shall be quite a small party at home. I hope my uncle\nmay continue to like Mr. Rushworth.\"\n\n\"That is impossible, Fanny. He must like him less after to-morrow's\nvisit, for we shall be five hours in his company. I should dread\nthe stupidity of the day, if there were not a much greater evil to\nfollow--the impression it must leave on Sir Thomas. He cannot much\nlonger deceive himself. I am sorry for them all, and would give\nsomething that Rushworth and Maria had never met.\"\n\nIn this quarter, indeed, disappointment was impending over Sir Thomas.\nNot all his good-will for Mr. Rushworth, not all Mr. Rushworth's\ndeference for him, could prevent him from soon discerning some part of\nthe truth--that Mr. Rushworth was an inferior young man, as ignorant\nin business as in books, with opinions in general unfixed, and without\nseeming much aware of it himself.\n\nHe had expected a very different son-in-law; and beginning to feel\ngrave on Maria's account, tried to understand _her_ feelings. Little\nobservation there was necessary to tell him that indifference was the\nmost favourable state they could be in. Her behaviour to Mr. Rushworth\nwas careless and cold. She could not, did not like him. Sir Thomas\nresolved to speak seriously to her. Advantageous as would be the\nalliance, and long standing and public as was the engagement, her\nhappiness must not be sacrificed to it. Mr. Rushworth had, perhaps, been\naccepted on too short an acquaintance, and, on knowing him better, she\nwas repenting.\n\nWith solemn kindness Sir Thomas addressed her: told her his fears,\ninquired into her wishes, entreated her to be open and sincere, and\nassured her that every inconvenience should be braved, and the connexion\nentirely given up, if she felt herself unhappy in the prospect of it. He\nwould act for her and release her. Maria had a moment's struggle as she\nlistened, and only a moment's: when her father ceased, she was able to\ngive her answer immediately, decidedly, and with no apparent agitation.\nShe thanked him for his great attention, his paternal kindness, but he\nwas quite mistaken in supposing she had the smallest desire of breaking\nthrough her engagement, or was sensible of any change of opinion or\ninclination since her forming it. She had the highest esteem for Mr.\nRushworth's character and disposition, and could not have a doubt of her\nhappiness with him.\n\nSir Thomas was satisfied; too glad to be satisfied, perhaps, to urge the\nmatter quite so far as his judgment might have dictated to others. It\nwas an alliance which he could not have relinquished without pain;\nand thus he reasoned. Mr. Rushworth was young enough to improve. Mr.\nRushworth must and would improve in good society; and if Maria could now\nspeak so securely of her happiness with him, speaking certainly without\nthe prejudice, the blindness of love, she ought to be believed. Her\nfeelings, probably, were not acute; he had never supposed them to be\nso; but her comforts might not be less on that account; and if she could\ndispense with seeing her husband a leading, shining character, there\nwould certainly be everything else in her favour. A well-disposed young\nwoman, who did not marry for love, was in general but the more attached\nto her own family; and the nearness of Sotherton to Mansfield\nmust naturally hold out the greatest temptation, and would, in all\nprobability, be a continual supply of the most amiable and innocent\nenjoyments. Such and such-like were the reasonings of Sir Thomas,\nhappy to escape the embarrassing evils of a rupture, the wonder,\nthe reflections, the reproach that must attend it; happy to secure a\nmarriage which would bring him such an addition of respectability\nand influence, and very happy to think anything of his daughter's\ndisposition that was most favourable for the purpose.\n\nTo her the conference closed as satisfactorily as to him. She was in a\nstate of mind to be glad that she had secured her fate beyond recall:\nthat she had pledged herself anew to Sotherton; that she was safe from\nthe possibility of giving Crawford the triumph of governing her actions,\nand destroying her prospects; and retired in proud resolve, determined\nonly to behave more cautiously to Mr. Rushworth in future, that her\nfather might not be again suspecting her.\n\nHad Sir Thomas applied to his daughter within the first three or four\ndays after Henry Crawford's leaving Mansfield, before her feelings were\nat all tranquillised, before she had given up every hope of him, or\nabsolutely resolved on enduring his rival, her answer might have been\ndifferent; but after another three or four days, when there was no\nreturn, no letter, no message, no symptom of a softened heart, no hope\nof advantage from separation, her mind became cool enough to seek all\nthe comfort that pride and self revenge could give.\n\nHenry Crawford had destroyed her happiness, but he should not know that\nhe had done it; he should not destroy her credit, her appearance, her\nprosperity, too. He should not have to think of her as pining in the\nretirement of Mansfield for _him_, rejecting Sotherton and London,\nindependence and splendour, for _his_ sake. Independence was more\nneedful than ever; the want of it at Mansfield more sensibly felt. She\nwas less and less able to endure the restraint which her father imposed.\nThe liberty which his absence had given was now become absolutely\nnecessary. She must escape from him and Mansfield as soon as possible,\nand find consolation in fortune and consequence, bustle and the world,\nfor a wounded spirit. Her mind was quite determined, and varied not.\n\nTo such feelings delay, even the delay of much preparation, would have\nbeen an evil, and Mr. Rushworth could hardly be more impatient for the\nmarriage than herself. In all the important preparations of the mind\nshe was complete: being prepared for matrimony by an hatred of home,\nrestraint, and tranquillity; by the misery of disappointed affection,\nand contempt of the man she was to marry. The rest might wait. The\npreparations of new carriages and furniture might wait for London and\nspring, when her own taste could have fairer play.\n\nThe principals being all agreed in this respect, it soon appeared that a\nvery few weeks would be sufficient for such arrangements as must precede\nthe wedding.\n\nMrs. Rushworth was quite ready to retire, and make way for the fortunate\nyoung woman whom her dear son had selected; and very early in November\nremoved herself, her maid, her footman, and her chariot, with true\ndowager propriety, to Bath, there to parade over the wonders of\nSotherton in her evening parties; enjoying them as thoroughly, perhaps,\nin the animation of a card-table, as she had ever done on the spot; and\nbefore the middle of the same month the ceremony had taken place which\ngave Sotherton another mistress.\n\nIt was a very proper wedding. The bride was elegantly dressed; the two\nbridesmaids were duly inferior; her father gave her away; her mother\nstood with salts in her hand, expecting to be agitated; her aunt tried\nto cry; and the service was impressively read by Dr. Grant. Nothing\ncould be objected to when it came under the discussion of the\nneighbourhood, except that the carriage which conveyed the bride and\nbridegroom and Julia from the church-door to Sotherton was the same\nchaise which Mr. Rushworth had used for a twelvemonth before. In\neverything else the etiquette of the day might stand the strictest\ninvestigation.\n\nIt was done, and they were gone. Sir Thomas felt as an anxious father\nmust feel, and was indeed experiencing much of the agitation which his\nwife had been apprehensive of for herself, but had fortunately escaped.\nMrs. Norris, most happy to assist in the duties of the day, by spending\nit at the Park to support her sister's spirits, and drinking the health\nof Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth in a supernumerary glass or two, was all\njoyous delight; for she had made the match; she had done everything;\nand no one would have supposed, from her confident triumph, that she\nhad ever heard of conjugal infelicity in her life, or could have the\nsmallest insight into the disposition of the niece who had been brought\nup under her eye.\n\nThe plan of the young couple was to proceed, after a few days, to\nBrighton, and take a house there for some weeks. Every public place was\nnew to Maria, and Brighton is almost as gay in winter as in summer. When\nthe novelty of amusement there was over, it would be time for the wider\nrange of London.\n\nJulia was to go with them to Brighton. Since rivalry between the sisters\nhad ceased, they had been gradually recovering much of their former good\nunderstanding; and were at least sufficiently friends to make each of\nthem exceedingly glad to be with the other at such a time. Some other\ncompanion than Mr. Rushworth was of the first consequence to his lady;\nand Julia was quite as eager for novelty and pleasure as Maria, though\nshe might not have struggled through so much to obtain them, and could\nbetter bear a subordinate situation.\n\nTheir departure made another material change at Mansfield, a chasm\nwhich required some time to fill up. The family circle became greatly\ncontracted; and though the Miss Bertrams had latterly added little to\nits gaiety, they could not but be missed. Even their mother missed them;\nand how much more their tenderhearted cousin, who wandered about\nthe house, and thought of them, and felt for them, with a degree of\naffectionate regret which they had never done much to deserve!\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII\n\nFanny's consequence increased on the departure of her cousins. Becoming,\nas she then did, the only young woman in the drawing-room, the only\noccupier of that interesting division of a family in which she had\nhitherto held so humble a third, it was impossible for her not to be\nmore looked at, more thought of and attended to, than she had ever been\nbefore; and \"Where is Fanny?\" became no uncommon question, even without\nher being wanted for any one's convenience.\n\nNot only at home did her value increase, but at the Parsonage too. In\nthat house, which she had hardly entered twice a year since Mr. Norris's\ndeath, she became a welcome, an invited guest, and in the gloom and dirt\nof a November day, most acceptable to Mary Crawford. Her visits there,\nbeginning by chance, were continued by solicitation. Mrs. Grant,\nreally eager to get any change for her sister, could, by the easiest\nself-deceit, persuade herself that she was doing the kindest thing by\nFanny, and giving her the most important opportunities of improvement in\npressing her frequent calls.\n\nFanny, having been sent into the village on some errand by her aunt\nNorris, was overtaken by a heavy shower close to the Parsonage; and\nbeing descried from one of the windows endeavouring to find shelter\nunder the branches and lingering leaves of an oak just beyond their\npremises, was forced, though not without some modest reluctance on her\npart, to come in. A civil servant she had withstood; but when Dr. Grant\nhimself went out with an umbrella, there was nothing to be done but to\nbe very much ashamed, and to get into the house as fast as possible; and\nto poor Miss Crawford, who had just been contemplating the dismal rain\nin a very desponding state of mind, sighing over the ruin of all her\nplan of exercise for that morning, and of every chance of seeing a\nsingle creature beyond themselves for the next twenty-four hours, the\nsound of a little bustle at the front door, and the sight of Miss Price\ndripping with wet in the vestibule, was delightful. The value of an\nevent on a wet day in the country was most forcibly brought before her.\nShe was all alive again directly, and among the most active in being\nuseful to Fanny, in detecting her to be wetter than she would at first\nallow, and providing her with dry clothes; and Fanny, after being\nobliged to submit to all this attention, and to being assisted and\nwaited on by mistresses and maids, being also obliged, on returning\ndownstairs, to be fixed in their drawing-room for an hour while the rain\ncontinued, the blessing of something fresh to see and think of was thus\nextended to Miss Crawford, and might carry on her spirits to the period\nof dressing and dinner.\n\nThe two sisters were so kind to her, and so pleasant, that Fanny might\nhave enjoyed her visit could she have believed herself not in the way,\nand could she have foreseen that the weather would certainly clear at\nthe end of the hour, and save her from the shame of having Dr. Grant's\ncarriage and horses out to take her home, with which she was threatened.\nAs to anxiety for any alarm that her absence in such weather might\noccasion at home, she had nothing to suffer on that score; for as her\nbeing out was known only to her two aunts, she was perfectly aware that\nnone would be felt, and that in whatever cottage aunt Norris might chuse\nto establish her during the rain, her being in such cottage would be\nindubitable to aunt Bertram.\n\nIt was beginning to look brighter, when Fanny, observing a harp in the\nroom, asked some questions about it, which soon led to an acknowledgment\nof her wishing very much to hear it, and a confession, which could\nhardly be believed, of her having never yet heard it since its being\nin Mansfield. To Fanny herself it appeared a very simple and natural\ncircumstance. She had scarcely ever been at the Parsonage since the\ninstrument's arrival, there had been no reason that she should; but Miss\nCrawford, calling to mind an early expressed wish on the subject, was\nconcerned at her own neglect; and \"Shall I play to you now?\" and \"What\nwill you have?\" were questions immediately following with the readiest\ngood-humour.\n\nShe played accordingly; happy to have a new listener, and a listener who\nseemed so much obliged, so full of wonder at the performance, and who\nshewed herself not wanting in taste. She played till Fanny's eyes,\nstraying to the window on the weather's being evidently fair, spoke what\nshe felt must be done.\n\n\"Another quarter of an hour,\" said Miss Crawford, \"and we shall see how\nit will be. Do not run away the first moment of its holding up. Those\nclouds look alarming.\"\n\n\"But they are passed over,\" said Fanny. \"I have been watching them. This\nweather is all from the south.\"\n\n\"South or north, I know a black cloud when I see it; and you must not\nset forward while it is so threatening. And besides, I want to play\nsomething more to you--a very pretty piece--and your cousin Edmund's\nprime favourite. You must stay and hear your cousin's favourite.\"\n\nFanny felt that she must; and though she had not waited for that\nsentence to be thinking of Edmund, such a memento made her particularly\nawake to his idea, and she fancied him sitting in that room again\nand again, perhaps in the very spot where she sat now, listening with\nconstant delight to the favourite air, played, as it appeared to her,\nwith superior tone and expression; and though pleased with it herself,\nand glad to like whatever was liked by him, she was more sincerely\nimpatient to go away at the conclusion of it than she had been before;\nand on this being evident, she was so kindly asked to call again, to\ntake them in her walk whenever she could, to come and hear more of the\nharp, that she felt it necessary to be done, if no objection arose at\nhome.\n\nSuch was the origin of the sort of intimacy which took place between\nthem within the first fortnight after the Miss Bertrams' going away--an\nintimacy resulting principally from Miss Crawford's desire of something\nnew, and which had little reality in Fanny's feelings. Fanny went to her\nevery two or three days: it seemed a kind of fascination: she could not\nbe easy without going, and yet it was without loving her, without ever\nthinking like her, without any sense of obligation for being sought\nafter now when nobody else was to be had; and deriving no higher\npleasure from her conversation than occasional amusement, and _that_\noften at the expense of her judgment, when it was raised by pleasantry\non people or subjects which she wished to be respected. She went,\nhowever, and they sauntered about together many an half-hour in Mrs.\nGrant's shrubbery, the weather being unusually mild for the time of\nyear, and venturing sometimes even to sit down on one of the benches now\ncomparatively unsheltered, remaining there perhaps till, in the midst\nof some tender ejaculation of Fanny's on the sweets of so protracted\nan autumn, they were forced, by the sudden swell of a cold gust shaking\ndown the last few yellow leaves about them, to jump up and walk for\nwarmth.\n\n\"This is pretty, very pretty,\" said Fanny, looking around her as\nthey were thus sitting together one day; \"every time I come into this\nshrubbery I am more struck with its growth and beauty. Three years ago,\nthis was nothing but a rough hedgerow along the upper side of the field,\nnever thought of as anything, or capable of becoming anything; and now\nit is converted into a walk, and it would be difficult to say whether\nmost valuable as a convenience or an ornament; and perhaps, in another\nthree years, we may be forgetting--almost forgetting what it was before.\nHow wonderful, how very wonderful the operations of time, and the\nchanges of the human mind!\" And following the latter train of thought,\nshe soon afterwards added: \"If any one faculty of our nature may be\ncalled _more_ wonderful than the rest, I do think it is memory. There\nseems something more speakingly incomprehensible in the powers,\nthe failures, the inequalities of memory, than in any other of our\nintelligences. The memory is sometimes so retentive, so serviceable, so\nobedient; at others, so bewildered and so weak; and at others again, so\ntyrannic, so beyond control! We are, to be sure, a miracle every way;\nbut our powers of recollecting and of forgetting do seem peculiarly past\nfinding out.\"\n\nMiss Crawford, untouched and inattentive, had nothing to say; and\nFanny, perceiving it, brought back her own mind to what she thought must\ninterest.\n\n\"It may seem impertinent in _me_ to praise, but I must admire the taste\nMrs. Grant has shewn in all this. There is such a quiet simplicity in\nthe plan of the walk! Not too much attempted!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replied Miss Crawford carelessly, \"it does very well for a\nplace of this sort. One does not think of extent _here_; and between\nourselves, till I came to Mansfield, I had not imagined a country parson\never aspired to a shrubbery, or anything of the kind.\"\n\n\"I am so glad to see the evergreens thrive!\" said Fanny, in reply. \"My\nuncle's gardener always says the soil here is better than his own, and\nso it appears from the growth of the laurels and evergreens in general.\nThe evergreen! How beautiful, how welcome, how wonderful the evergreen!\nWhen one thinks of it, how astonishing a variety of nature! In some\ncountries we know the tree that sheds its leaf is the variety, but that\ndoes not make it less amazing that the same soil and the same sun should\nnurture plants differing in the first rule and law of their existence.\nYou will think me rhapsodising; but when I am out of doors, especially\nwhen I am sitting out of doors, I am very apt to get into this sort of\nwondering strain. One cannot fix one's eyes on the commonest natural\nproduction without finding food for a rambling fancy.\"\n\n\"To say the truth,\" replied Miss Crawford, \"I am something like the\nfamous Doge at the court of Lewis XIV.; and may declare that I see no\nwonder in this shrubbery equal to seeing myself in it. If anybody had\ntold me a year ago that this place would be my home, that I should be\nspending month after month here, as I have done, I certainly should\nnot have believed them. I have now been here nearly five months; and,\nmoreover, the quietest five months I ever passed.\"\n\n\"_Too_ quiet for you, I believe.\"\n\n\"I should have thought so _theoretically_ myself, but,\" and her eyes\nbrightened as she spoke, \"take it all and all, I never spent so happy a\nsummer. But then,\" with a more thoughtful air and lowered voice, \"there\nis no saying what it may lead to.\"\n\nFanny's heart beat quick, and she felt quite unequal to surmising\nor soliciting anything more. Miss Crawford, however, with renewed\nanimation, soon went on--\n\n\"I am conscious of being far better reconciled to a country residence\nthan I had ever expected to be. I can even suppose it pleasant to\nspend _half_ the year in the country, under certain circumstances,\nvery pleasant. An elegant, moderate-sized house in the centre of family\nconnexions; continual engagements among them; commanding the first\nsociety in the neighbourhood; looked up to, perhaps, as leading it even\nmore than those of larger fortune, and turning from the cheerful round\nof such amusements to nothing worse than a _tete-a-tete_ with the person\none feels most agreeable in the world. There is nothing frightful in\nsuch a picture, is there, Miss Price? One need not envy the new Mrs.\nRushworth with such a home as _that_.\"\n\n\"Envy Mrs. Rushworth!\" was all that Fanny attempted to say. \"Come, come,\nit would be very un-handsome in us to be severe on Mrs. Rushworth, for I\nlook forward to our owing her a great many gay, brilliant, happy hours.\nI expect we shall be all very much at Sotherton another year. Such\na match as Miss Bertram has made is a public blessing; for the first\npleasures of Mr. Rushworth's wife must be to fill her house, and give\nthe best balls in the country.\"\n\nFanny was silent, and Miss Crawford relapsed into thoughtfulness, till\nsuddenly looking up at the end of a few minutes, she exclaimed, \"Ah!\nhere he is.\" It was not Mr. Rushworth, however, but Edmund, who then\nappeared walking towards them with Mrs. Grant. \"My sister and Mr.\nBertram. I am so glad your eldest cousin is gone, that he may be Mr.\nBertram again. There is something in the sound of Mr. _Edmund_ Bertram\nso formal, so pitiful, so younger-brother-like, that I detest it.\"\n\n\"How differently we feel!\" cried Fanny. \"To me, the sound of _Mr._\nBertram is so cold and nothing-meaning, so entirely without warmth or\ncharacter! It just stands for a gentleman, and that's all. But there is\nnobleness in the name of Edmund. It is a name of heroism and renown; of\nkings, princes, and knights; and seems to breathe the spirit of chivalry\nand warm affections.\"\n\n\"I grant you the name is good in itself, and _Lord_ Edmund or _Sir_\nEdmund sound delightfully; but sink it under the chill, the annihilation\nof a Mr., and Mr. Edmund is no more than Mr. John or Mr. Thomas. Well,\nshall we join and disappoint them of half their lecture upon sitting\ndown out of doors at this time of year, by being up before they can\nbegin?\"\n\nEdmund met them with particular pleasure. It was the first time of his\nseeing them together since the beginning of that better acquaintance\nwhich he had been hearing of with great satisfaction. A friendship\nbetween two so very dear to him was exactly what he could have wished:\nand to the credit of the lover's understanding, be it stated, that he\ndid not by any means consider Fanny as the only, or even as the greater\ngainer by such a friendship.\n\n\"Well,\" said Miss Crawford, \"and do you not scold us for our imprudence?\nWhat do you think we have been sitting down for but to be talked to\nabout it, and entreated and supplicated never to do so again?\"\n\n\"Perhaps I might have scolded,\" said Edmund, \"if either of you had been\nsitting down alone; but while you do wrong together, I can overlook a\ngreat deal.\"\n\n\"They cannot have been sitting long,\" cried Mrs. Grant, \"for when I went\nup for my shawl I saw them from the staircase window, and then they were\nwalking.\"\n\n\"And really,\" added Edmund, \"the day is so mild, that your sitting down\nfor a few minutes can be hardly thought imprudent. Our weather must\nnot always be judged by the calendar. We may sometimes take greater\nliberties in November than in May.\"\n\n\"Upon my word,\" cried Miss Crawford, \"you are two of the most\ndisappointing and unfeeling kind friends I ever met with! There is no\ngiving you a moment's uneasiness. You do not know how much we have been\nsuffering, nor what chills we have felt! But I have long thought Mr.\nBertram one of the worst subjects to work on, in any little manoeuvre\nagainst common sense, that a woman could be plagued with. I had very\nlittle hope of _him_ from the first; but you, Mrs. Grant, my sister, my\nown sister, I think I had a right to alarm you a little.\"\n\n\"Do not flatter yourself, my dearest Mary. You have not the smallest\nchance of moving me. I have my alarms, but they are quite in a different\nquarter; and if I could have altered the weather, you would have had a\ngood sharp east wind blowing on you the whole time--for here are some of\nmy plants which Robert _will_ leave out because the nights are so mild,\nand I know the end of it will be, that we shall have a sudden change of\nweather, a hard frost setting in all at once, taking everybody (at least\nRobert) by surprise, and I shall lose every one; and what is worse, cook\nhas just been telling me that the turkey, which I particularly wished\nnot to be dressed till Sunday, because I know how much more Dr. Grant\nwould enjoy it on Sunday after the fatigues of the day, will not keep\nbeyond to-morrow. These are something like grievances, and make me think\nthe weather most unseasonably close.\"\n\n\"The sweets of housekeeping in a country village!\" said Miss Crawford\narchly. \"Commend me to the nurseryman and the poulterer.\"\n\n\"My dear child, commend Dr. Grant to the deanery of Westminster or St.\nPaul's, and I should be as glad of your nurseryman and poulterer as you\ncould be. But we have no such people in Mansfield. What would you have\nme do?\"\n\n\"Oh! you can do nothing but what you do already: be plagued very often,\nand never lose your temper.\"\n\n\"Thank you; but there is no escaping these little vexations, Mary, live\nwhere we may; and when you are settled in town and I come to see you, I\ndare say I shall find you with yours, in spite of the nurseryman and\nthe poulterer, perhaps on their very account. Their remoteness and\nunpunctuality, or their exorbitant charges and frauds, will be drawing\nforth bitter lamentations.\"\n\n\"I mean to be too rich to lament or to feel anything of the sort.\nA large income is the best recipe for happiness I ever heard of. It\ncertainly may secure all the myrtle and turkey part of it.\"\n\n\"You intend to be very rich?\" said Edmund, with a look which, to Fanny's\neye, had a great deal of serious meaning.\n\n\"To be sure. Do not you? Do not we all?\"\n\n\"I cannot intend anything which it must be so completely beyond my power\nto command. Miss Crawford may chuse her degree of wealth. She has only\nto fix on her number of thousands a year, and there can be no doubt of\ntheir coming. My intentions are only not to be poor.\"\n\n\"By moderation and economy, and bringing down your wants to your income,\nand all that. I understand you--and a very proper plan it is for a\nperson at your time of life, with such limited means and indifferent\nconnexions. What can _you_ want but a decent maintenance? You have\nnot much time before you; and your relations are in no situation to do\nanything for you, or to mortify you by the contrast of their own wealth\nand consequence. Be honest and poor, by all means--but I shall not envy\nyou; I do not much think I shall even respect you. I have a much greater\nrespect for those that are honest and rich.\"\n\n\"Your degree of respect for honesty, rich or poor, is precisely what\nI have no manner of concern with. I do not mean to be poor. Poverty\nis exactly what I have determined against. Honesty, in the something\nbetween, in the middle state of worldly circumstances, is all that I am\nanxious for your not looking down on.\"\n\n\"But I do look down upon it, if it might have been higher. I must\nlook down upon anything contented with obscurity when it might rise to\ndistinction.\"\n\n\"But how may it rise? How may my honesty at least rise to any\ndistinction?\"\n\nThis was not so very easy a question to answer, and occasioned an \"Oh!\"\nof some length from the fair lady before she could add, \"You ought to be\nin parliament, or you should have gone into the army ten years ago.\"\n\n\"_That_ is not much to the purpose now; and as to my being in\nparliament, I believe I must wait till there is an especial assembly for\nthe representation of younger sons who have little to live on. No, Miss\nCrawford,\" he added, in a more serious tone, \"there _are_ distinctions\nwhich I should be miserable if I thought myself without any\nchance--absolutely without chance or possibility of obtaining--but they\nare of a different character.\"\n\nA look of consciousness as he spoke, and what seemed a consciousness\nof manner on Miss Crawford's side as she made some laughing answer,\nwas sorrowfull food for Fanny's observation; and finding herself quite\nunable to attend as she ought to Mrs. Grant, by whose side she was now\nfollowing the others, she had nearly resolved on going home immediately,\nand only waited for courage to say so, when the sound of the great clock\nat Mansfield Park, striking three, made her feel that she had\nreally been much longer absent than usual, and brought the previous\nself-inquiry of whether she should take leave or not just then, and how,\nto a very speedy issue. With undoubting decision she directly began her\nadieus; and Edmund began at the same time to recollect that his mother\nhad been inquiring for her, and that he had walked down to the Parsonage\non purpose to bring her back.\n\nFanny's hurry increased; and without in the least expecting Edmund's\nattendance, she would have hastened away alone; but the general pace was\nquickened, and they all accompanied her into the house, through which it\nwas necessary to pass. Dr. Grant was in the vestibule, and as they stopt\nto speak to him she found, from Edmund's manner, that he _did_ mean to\ngo with her. He too was taking leave. She could not but be thankful. In\nthe moment of parting, Edmund was invited by Dr. Grant to eat his mutton\nwith him the next day; and Fanny had barely time for an unpleasant\nfeeling on the occasion, when Mrs. Grant, with sudden recollection,\nturned to her and asked for the pleasure of her company too. This was\nso new an attention, so perfectly new a circumstance in the events of\nFanny's life, that she was all surprise and embarrassment; and while\nstammering out her great obligation, and her \"but she did not suppose it\nwould be in her power,\" was looking at Edmund for his opinion and help.\nBut Edmund, delighted with her having such an happiness offered, and\nascertaining with half a look, and half a sentence, that she had no\nobjection but on her aunt's account, could not imagine that his mother\nwould make any difficulty of sparing her, and therefore gave his decided\nopen advice that the invitation should be accepted; and though Fanny\nwould not venture, even on his encouragement, to such a flight of\naudacious independence, it was soon settled, that if nothing were heard\nto the contrary, Mrs. Grant might expect her.\n\n\"And you know what your dinner will be,\" said Mrs. Grant, smiling--\"the\nturkey, and I assure you a very fine one; for, my dear,\" turning to her\nhusband, \"cook insists upon the turkey's being dressed to-morrow.\"\n\n\"Very well, very well,\" cried Dr. Grant, \"all the better; I am glad\nto hear you have anything so good in the house. But Miss Price and Mr.\nEdmund Bertram, I dare say, would take their chance. We none of us want\nto hear the bill of fare. A friendly meeting, and not a fine dinner,\nis all we have in view. A turkey, or a goose, or a leg of mutton, or\nwhatever you and your cook chuse to give us.\"\n\nThe two cousins walked home together; and, except in the immediate\ndiscussion of this engagement, which Edmund spoke of with the warmest\nsatisfaction, as so particularly desirable for her in the intimacy which\nhe saw with so much pleasure established, it was a silent walk; for\nhaving finished that subject, he grew thoughtful and indisposed for any\nother.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\n\n\"But why should Mrs. Grant ask Fanny?\" said Lady Bertram. \"How came she\nto think of asking Fanny? Fanny never dines there, you know, in this\nsort of way. I cannot spare her, and I am sure she does not want to go.\nFanny, you do not want to go, do you?\"\n\n\"If you put such a question to her,\" cried Edmund, preventing his\ncousin's speaking, \"Fanny will immediately say No; but I am sure, my\ndear mother, she would like to go; and I can see no reason why she\nshould not.\"\n\n\"I cannot imagine why Mrs. Grant should think of asking her? She never\ndid before. She used to ask your sisters now and then, but she never\nasked Fanny.\"\n\n\"If you cannot do without me, ma'am--\" said Fanny, in a self-denying\ntone.\n\n\"But my mother will have my father with her all the evening.\"\n\n\"To be sure, so I shall.\"\n\n\"Suppose you take my father's opinion, ma'am.\"\n\n\"That's well thought of. So I will, Edmund. I will ask Sir Thomas, as\nsoon as he comes in, whether I can do without her.\"\n\n\"As you please, ma'am, on that head; but I meant my father's opinion\nas to the _propriety_ of the invitation's being accepted or not; and\nI think he will consider it a right thing by Mrs. Grant, as well as by\nFanny, that being the _first_ invitation it should be accepted.\"\n\n\"I do not know. We will ask him. But he will be very much surprised that\nMrs. Grant should ask Fanny at all.\"\n\nThere was nothing more to be said, or that could be said to any purpose,\ntill Sir Thomas were present; but the subject involving, as it did,\nher own evening's comfort for the morrow, was so much uppermost in Lady\nBertram's mind, that half an hour afterwards, on his looking in for a\nminute in his way from his plantation to his dressing-room, she called\nhim back again, when he had almost closed the door, with \"Sir Thomas,\nstop a moment--I have something to say to you.\"\n\nHer tone of calm languor, for she never took the trouble of raising her\nvoice, was always heard and attended to; and Sir Thomas came back. Her\nstory began; and Fanny immediately slipped out of the room; for to hear\nherself the subject of any discussion with her uncle was more than her\nnerves could bear. She was anxious, she knew--more anxious perhaps than\nshe ought to be--for what was it after all whether she went or staid?\nbut if her uncle were to be a great while considering and deciding, and\nwith very grave looks, and those grave looks directed to her, and\nat last decide against her, she might not be able to appear properly\nsubmissive and indifferent. Her cause, meanwhile, went on well. It\nbegan, on Lady Bertram's part, with--\"I have something to tell you that\nwill surprise you. Mrs. Grant has asked Fanny to dinner.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Sir Thomas, as if waiting more to accomplish the surprise.\n\n\"Edmund wants her to go. But how can I spare her?\"\n\n\"She will be late,\" said Sir Thomas, taking out his watch; \"but what is\nyour difficulty?\"\n\nEdmund found himself obliged to speak and fill up the blanks in his\nmother's story. He told the whole; and she had only to add, \"So strange!\nfor Mrs. Grant never used to ask her.\"\n\n\"But is it not very natural,\" observed Edmund, \"that Mrs. Grant should\nwish to procure so agreeable a visitor for her sister?\"\n\n\"Nothing can be more natural,\" said Sir Thomas, after a short\ndeliberation; \"nor, were there no sister in the case, could anything,\nin my opinion, be more natural. Mrs. Grant's shewing civility to Miss\nPrice, to Lady Bertram's niece, could never want explanation. The only\nsurprise I can feel is, that this should be the _first_ time of its\nbeing paid. Fanny was perfectly right in giving only a conditional\nanswer. She appears to feel as she ought. But as I conclude that she\nmust wish to go, since all young people like to be together, I can see\nno reason why she should be denied the indulgence.\"\n\n\"But can I do without her, Sir Thomas?\"\n\n\"Indeed I think you may.\"\n\n\"She always makes tea, you know, when my sister is not here.\"\n\n\"Your sister, perhaps, may be prevailed on to spend the day with us, and\nI shall certainly be at home.\"\n\n\"Very well, then, Fanny may go, Edmund.\"\n\nThe good news soon followed her. Edmund knocked at her door in his way\nto his own.\n\n\"Well, Fanny, it is all happily settled, and without the smallest\nhesitation on your uncle's side. He had but one opinion. You are to go.\"\n\n\"Thank you, I am _so_ glad,\" was Fanny's instinctive reply; though when\nshe had turned from him and shut the door, she could not help feeling,\n\"And yet why should I be glad? for am I not certain of seeing or hearing\nsomething there to pain me?\"\n\nIn spite of this conviction, however, she was glad. Simple as such an\nengagement might appear in other eyes, it had novelty and importance in\nhers, for excepting the day at Sotherton, she had scarcely ever dined\nout before; and though now going only half a mile, and only to three\npeople, still it was dining out, and all the little interests of\npreparation were enjoyments in themselves. She had neither sympathy nor\nassistance from those who ought to have entered into her feelings and\ndirected her taste; for Lady Bertram never thought of being useful to\nanybody, and Mrs. Norris, when she came on the morrow, in consequence of\nan early call and invitation from Sir Thomas, was in a very ill humour,\nand seemed intent only on lessening her niece's pleasure, both present\nand future, as much as possible.\n\n\"Upon my word, Fanny, you are in high luck to meet with such attention\nand indulgence! You ought to be very much obliged to Mrs. Grant for\nthinking of you, and to your aunt for letting you go, and you ought to\nlook upon it as something extraordinary; for I hope you are aware that\nthere is no real occasion for your going into company in this sort of\nway, or ever dining out at all; and it is what you must not depend upon\never being repeated. Nor must you be fancying that the invitation is\nmeant as any particular compliment to _you_; the compliment is intended\nto your uncle and aunt and me. Mrs. Grant thinks it a civility due to\n_us_ to take a little notice of you, or else it would never have come\ninto her head, and you may be very certain that, if your cousin Julia\nhad been at home, you would not have been asked at all.\"\n\nMrs. Norris had now so ingeniously done away all Mrs. Grant's part of\nthe favour, that Fanny, who found herself expected to speak, could only\nsay that she was very much obliged to her aunt Bertram for sparing her,\nand that she was endeavouring to put her aunt's evening work in such a\nstate as to prevent her being missed.\n\n\"Oh! depend upon it, your aunt can do very well without you, or you\nwould not be allowed to go. _I_ shall be here, so you may be quite easy\nabout your aunt. And I hope you will have a very _agreeable_ day, and\nfind it all mighty _delightful_. But I must observe that five is the\nvery awkwardest of all possible numbers to sit down to table; and I\ncannot but be surprised that such an _elegant_ lady as Mrs. Grant should\nnot contrive better! And round their enormous great wide table, too,\nwhich fills up the room so dreadfully! Had the doctor been contented to\ntake my dining-table when I came away, as anybody in their senses would\nhave done, instead of having that absurd new one of his own, which is\nwider, literally wider than the dinner-table here, how infinitely better\nit would have been! and how much more he would have been respected! for\npeople are never respected when they step out of their proper sphere.\nRemember that, Fanny. Five--only five to be sitting round that table.\nHowever, you will have dinner enough on it for ten, I dare say.\"\n\nMrs. Norris fetched breath, and went on again.\n\n\"The nonsense and folly of people's stepping out of their rank and\ntrying to appear above themselves, makes me think it right to give _you_\na hint, Fanny, now that you are going into company without any of us;\nand I do beseech and entreat you not to be putting yourself forward, and\ntalking and giving your opinion as if you were one of your cousins--as\nif you were dear Mrs. Rushworth or Julia. _That_ will never do, believe\nme. Remember, wherever you are, you must be the lowest and last; and\nthough Miss Crawford is in a manner at home at the Parsonage, you are\nnot to be taking place of her. And as to coming away at night, you are\nto stay just as long as Edmund chuses. Leave him to settle _that_.\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am, I should not think of anything else.\"\n\n\"And if it should rain, which I think exceedingly likely, for I never\nsaw it more threatening for a wet evening in my life, you must manage as\nwell as you can, and not be expecting the carriage to be sent for you. I\ncertainly do not go home to-night, and, therefore, the carriage will not\nbe out on my account; so you must make up your mind to what may happen,\nand take your things accordingly.\"\n\nHer niece thought it perfectly reasonable. She rated her own claims\nto comfort as low even as Mrs. Norris could; and when Sir Thomas soon\nafterwards, just opening the door, said, \"Fanny, at what time would you\nhave the carriage come round?\" she felt a degree of astonishment which\nmade it impossible for her to speak.\n\n\"My dear Sir Thomas!\" cried Mrs. Norris, red with anger, \"Fanny can\nwalk.\"\n\n\"Walk!\" repeated Sir Thomas, in a tone of most unanswerable dignity, and\ncoming farther into the room. \"My niece walk to a dinner engagement at\nthis time of the year! Will twenty minutes after four suit you?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" was Fanny's humble answer, given with the feelings almost\nof a criminal towards Mrs. Norris; and not bearing to remain with her\nin what might seem a state of triumph, she followed her uncle out of\nthe room, having staid behind him only long enough to hear these words\nspoken in angry agitation--\n\n\"Quite unnecessary! a great deal too kind! But Edmund goes; true, it is\nupon Edmund's account. I observed he was hoarse on Thursday night.\"\n\nBut this could not impose on Fanny. She felt that the carriage was for\nherself, and herself alone: and her uncle's consideration of her, coming\nimmediately after such representations from her aunt, cost her some\ntears of gratitude when she was alone.\n\nThe coachman drove round to a minute; another minute brought down the\ngentleman; and as the lady had, with a most scrupulous fear of being\nlate, been many minutes seated in the drawing-room, Sir Thomas saw them\noff in as good time as his own correctly punctual habits required.\n\n\"Now I must look at you, Fanny,\" said Edmund, with the kind smile of an\naffectionate brother, \"and tell you how I like you; and as well as I can\njudge by this light, you look very nicely indeed. What have you got on?\"\n\n\"The new dress that my uncle was so good as to give me on my cousin's\nmarriage. I hope it is not too fine; but I thought I ought to wear it as\nsoon as I could, and that I might not have such another opportunity all\nthe winter. I hope you do not think me too fine.\"\n\n\"A woman can never be too fine while she is all in white. No, I see no\nfinery about you; nothing but what is perfectly proper. Your gown seems\nvery pretty. I like these glossy spots. Has not Miss Crawford a gown\nsomething the same?\"\n\nIn approaching the Parsonage they passed close by the stable-yard and\ncoach-house.\n\n\"Heyday!\" said Edmund, \"here's company, here's a carriage! who have they\ngot to meet us?\" And letting down the side-glass to distinguish, \"'Tis\nCrawford's, Crawford's barouche, I protest! There are his own two men\npushing it back into its old quarters. He is here, of course. This is\nquite a surprise, Fanny. I shall be very glad to see him.\"\n\nThere was no occasion, there was no time for Fanny to say how very\ndifferently she felt; but the idea of having such another to observe\nher was a great increase of the trepidation with which she performed the\nvery awful ceremony of walking into the drawing-room.\n\nIn the drawing-room Mr. Crawford certainly was, having been just long\nenough arrived to be ready for dinner; and the smiles and pleased looks\nof the three others standing round him, shewed how welcome was his\nsudden resolution of coming to them for a few days on leaving Bath.\nA very cordial meeting passed between him and Edmund; and with the\nexception of Fanny, the pleasure was general; and even to _her_ there\nmight be some advantage in his presence, since every addition to the\nparty must rather forward her favourite indulgence of being suffered to\nsit silent and unattended to. She was soon aware of this herself; for\nthough she must submit, as her own propriety of mind directed, in spite\nof her aunt Norris's opinion, to being the principal lady in company,\nand to all the little distinctions consequent thereon, she found, while\nthey were at table, such a happy flow of conversation prevailing, in\nwhich she was not required to take any part--there was so much to be\nsaid between the brother and sister about Bath, so much between the two\nyoung men about hunting, so much of politics between Mr. Crawford and\nDr. Grant, and of everything and all together between Mr. Crawford\nand Mrs. Grant, as to leave her the fairest prospect of having only\nto listen in quiet, and of passing a very agreeable day. She could not\ncompliment the newly arrived gentleman, however, with any appearance of\ninterest, in a scheme for extending his stay at Mansfield, and sending\nfor his hunters from Norfolk, which, suggested by Dr. Grant, advised by\nEdmund, and warmly urged by the two sisters, was soon in possession of\nhis mind, and which he seemed to want to be encouraged even by her to\nresolve on. Her opinion was sought as to the probable continuance of the\nopen weather, but her answers were as short and indifferent as civility\nallowed. She could not wish him to stay, and would much rather not have\nhim speak to her.\n\nHer two absent cousins, especially Maria, were much in her thoughts on\nseeing him; but no embarrassing remembrance affected _his_ spirits.\nHere he was again on the same ground where all had passed before, and\napparently as willing to stay and be happy without the Miss Bertrams,\nas if he had never known Mansfield in any other state. She heard them\nspoken of by him only in a general way, till they were all re-assembled\nin the drawing-room, when Edmund, being engaged apart in some matter of\nbusiness with Dr. Grant, which seemed entirely to engross them, and\nMrs. Grant occupied at the tea-table, he began talking of them with more\nparticularity to his other sister. With a significant smile, which made\nFanny quite hate him, he said, \"So! Rushworth and his fair bride are at\nBrighton, I understand; happy man!\"\n\n\"Yes, they have been there about a fortnight, Miss Price, have they not?\nAnd Julia is with them.\"\n\n\"And Mr. Yates, I presume, is not far off.\"\n\n\"Mr. Yates! Oh! we hear nothing of Mr. Yates. I do not imagine he\nfigures much in the letters to Mansfield Park; do you, Miss Price? I\nthink my friend Julia knows better than to entertain her father with Mr.\nYates.\"\n\n\"Poor Rushworth and his two-and-forty speeches!\" continued Crawford.\n\"Nobody can ever forget them. Poor fellow! I see him now--his toil and\nhis despair. Well, I am much mistaken if his lovely Maria will ever want\nhim to make two-and-forty speeches to her\"; adding, with a momentary\nseriousness, \"She is too good for him--much too good.\" And then changing\nhis tone again to one of gentle gallantry, and addressing Fanny, he\nsaid, \"You were Mr. Rushworth's best friend. Your kindness and patience\ncan never be forgotten, your indefatigable patience in trying to make it\npossible for him to learn his part--in trying to give him a brain\nwhich nature had denied--to mix up an understanding for him out of the\nsuperfluity of your own! _He_ might not have sense enough himself to\nestimate your kindness, but I may venture to say that it had honour from\nall the rest of the party.\"\n\nFanny coloured, and said nothing.\n\n\"It is as a dream, a pleasant dream!\" he exclaimed, breaking forth\nagain, after a few minutes' musing. \"I shall always look back on our\ntheatricals with exquisite pleasure. There was such an interest, such an\nanimation, such a spirit diffused. Everybody felt it. We were all alive.\nThere was employment, hope, solicitude, bustle, for every hour of\nthe day. Always some little objection, some little doubt, some little\nanxiety to be got over. I never was happier.\"\n\nWith silent indignation Fanny repeated to herself, \"Never\nhappier!--never happier than when doing what you must know was not\njustifiable!--never happier than when behaving so dishonourably and\nunfeelingly! Oh! what a corrupted mind!\"\n\n\"We were unlucky, Miss Price,\" he continued, in a lower tone, to avoid\nthe possibility of being heard by Edmund, and not at all aware of her\nfeelings, \"we certainly were very unlucky. Another week, only one other\nweek, would have been enough for us. I think if we had had the disposal\nof events--if Mansfield Park had had the government of the winds\njust for a week or two, about the equinox, there would have been\na difference. Not that we would have endangered his safety by any\ntremendous weather--but only by a steady contrary wind, or a calm. I\nthink, Miss Price, we would have indulged ourselves with a week's calm\nin the Atlantic at that season.\"\n\nHe seemed determined to be answered; and Fanny, averting her face, said,\nwith a firmer tone than usual, \"As far as _I_ am concerned, sir, I would\nnot have delayed his return for a day. My uncle disapproved it all so\nentirely when he did arrive, that in my opinion everything had gone\nquite far enough.\"\n\nShe had never spoken so much at once to him in her life before, and\nnever so angrily to any one; and when her speech was over, she trembled\nand blushed at her own daring. He was surprised; but after a few\nmoments' silent consideration of her, replied in a calmer, graver tone,\nand as if the candid result of conviction, \"I believe you are right.\nIt was more pleasant than prudent. We were getting too noisy.\" And\nthen turning the conversation, he would have engaged her on some other\nsubject, but her answers were so shy and reluctant that he could not\nadvance in any.\n\nMiss Crawford, who had been repeatedly eyeing Dr. Grant and Edmund,\nnow observed, \"Those gentlemen must have some very interesting point to\ndiscuss.\"\n\n\"The most interesting in the world,\" replied her brother--\"how to make\nmoney; how to turn a good income into a better. Dr. Grant is giving\nBertram instructions about the living he is to step into so soon. I find\nhe takes orders in a few weeks. They were at it in the dining-parlour. I\nam glad to hear Bertram will be so well off. He will have a very pretty\nincome to make ducks and drakes with, and earned without much trouble. I\napprehend he will not have less than seven hundred a year. Seven hundred\na year is a fine thing for a younger brother; and as of course he will\nstill live at home, it will be all for his _menus_ _plaisirs_; and a\nsermon at Christmas and Easter, I suppose, will be the sum total of\nsacrifice.\"\n\nHis sister tried to laugh off her feelings by saying, \"Nothing amuses me\nmore than the easy manner with which everybody settles the abundance of\nthose who have a great deal less than themselves. You would look rather\nblank, Henry, if your _menus_ _plaisirs_ were to be limited to seven\nhundred a year.\"\n\n\"Perhaps I might; but all _that_ you know is entirely comparative.\nBirthright and habit must settle the business. Bertram is certainly well\noff for a cadet of even a baronet's family. By the time he is four or\nfive and twenty he will have seven hundred a year, and nothing to do for\nit.\"\n\nMiss Crawford _could_ have said that there would be a something to do\nand to suffer for it, which she could not think lightly of; but she\nchecked herself and let it pass; and tried to look calm and unconcerned\nwhen the two gentlemen shortly afterwards joined them.\n\n\"Bertram,\" said Henry Crawford, \"I shall make a point of coming to\nMansfield to hear you preach your first sermon. I shall come on purpose\nto encourage a young beginner. When is it to be? Miss Price, will not\nyou join me in encouraging your cousin? Will not you engage to attend\nwith your eyes steadily fixed on him the whole time--as I shall do--not\nto lose a word; or only looking off just to note down any sentence\npreeminently beautiful? We will provide ourselves with tablets and a\npencil. When will it be? You must preach at Mansfield, you know, that\nSir Thomas and Lady Bertram may hear you.\"\n\n\"I shall keep clear of you, Crawford, as long as I can,\" said Edmund;\n\"for you would be more likely to disconcert me, and I should be more\nsorry to see you trying at it than almost any other man.\"\n\n\"Will he not feel this?\" thought Fanny. \"No, he can feel nothing as he\nought.\"\n\nThe party being now all united, and the chief talkers attracting each\nother, she remained in tranquillity; and as a whist-table was formed\nafter tea--formed really for the amusement of Dr. Grant, by his\nattentive wife, though it was not to be supposed so--and Miss Crawford\ntook her harp, she had nothing to do but to listen; and her tranquillity\nremained undisturbed the rest of the evening, except when Mr. Crawford\nnow and then addressed to her a question or observation, which she could\nnot avoid answering. Miss Crawford was too much vexed by what had passed\nto be in a humour for anything but music. With that she soothed herself\nand amused her friend.\n\nThe assurance of Edmund's being so soon to take orders, coming upon her\nlike a blow that had been suspended, and still hoped uncertain and at a\ndistance, was felt with resentment and mortification. She was very angry\nwith him. She had thought her influence more. She _had_ begun to think\nof him; she felt that she had, with great regard, with almost decided\nintentions; but she would now meet him with his own cool feelings. It\nwas plain that he could have no serious views, no true attachment, by\nfixing himself in a situation which he must know she would never\nstoop to. She would learn to match him in his indifference. She would\nhenceforth admit his attentions without any idea beyond immediate\namusement. If _he_ could so command his affections, _hers_ should do her\nno harm.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV\n\nHenry Crawford had quite made up his mind by the next morning to give\nanother fortnight to Mansfield, and having sent for his hunters, and\nwritten a few lines of explanation to the Admiral, he looked round at\nhis sister as he sealed and threw the letter from him, and seeing the\ncoast clear of the rest of the family, said, with a smile, \"And how do\nyou think I mean to amuse myself, Mary, on the days that I do not hunt?\nI am grown too old to go out more than three times a week; but I have a\nplan for the intermediate days, and what do you think it is?\"\n\n\"To walk and ride with me, to be sure.\"\n\n\"Not exactly, though I shall be happy to do both, but _that_ would be\nexercise only to my body, and I must take care of my mind. Besides,\n_that_ would be all recreation and indulgence, without the wholesome\nalloy of labour, and I do not like to eat the bread of idleness. No, my\nplan is to make Fanny Price in love with me.\"\n\n\"Fanny Price! Nonsense! No, no. You ought to be satisfied with her two\ncousins.\"\n\n\"But I cannot be satisfied without Fanny Price, without making a small\nhole in Fanny Price's heart. You do not seem properly aware of her\nclaims to notice. When we talked of her last night, you none of you\nseemed sensible of the wonderful improvement that has taken place in her\nlooks within the last six weeks. You see her every day, and therefore do\nnot notice it; but I assure you she is quite a different creature from\nwhat she was in the autumn. She was then merely a quiet, modest, not\nplain-looking girl, but she is now absolutely pretty. I used to think\nshe had neither complexion nor countenance; but in that soft skin of\nhers, so frequently tinged with a blush as it was yesterday, there is\ndecided beauty; and from what I observed of her eyes and mouth, I do\nnot despair of their being capable of expression enough when she\nhas anything to express. And then, her air, her manner, her _tout_\n_ensemble_, is so indescribably improved! She must be grown two inches,\nat least, since October.\"\n\n\"Phoo! phoo! This is only because there were no tall women to compare\nher with, and because she has got a new gown, and you never saw her so\nwell dressed before. She is just what she was in October, believe me.\nThe truth is, that she was the only girl in company for you to notice,\nand you must have a somebody. I have always thought her pretty--not\nstrikingly pretty--but 'pretty enough,' as people say; a sort of beauty\nthat grows on one. Her eyes should be darker, but she has a sweet smile;\nbut as for this wonderful degree of improvement, I am sure it may all\nbe resolved into a better style of dress, and your having nobody else to\nlook at; and therefore, if you do set about a flirtation with her, you\nnever will persuade me that it is in compliment to her beauty, or that\nit proceeds from anything but your own idleness and folly.\"\n\nHer brother gave only a smile to this accusation, and soon afterwards\nsaid, \"I do not quite know what to make of Miss Fanny. I do not\nunderstand her. I could not tell what she would be at yesterday. What is\nher character? Is she solemn? Is she queer? Is she prudish? Why did she\ndraw back and look so grave at me? I could hardly get her to speak. I\nnever was so long in company with a girl in my life, trying to entertain\nher, and succeed so ill! Never met with a girl who looked so grave on\nme! I must try to get the better of this. Her looks say, 'I will not\nlike you, I am determined not to like you'; and I say she shall.\"\n\n\"Foolish fellow! And so this is her attraction after all! This it is,\nher not caring about you, which gives her such a soft skin, and makes\nher so much taller, and produces all these charms and graces! I do\ndesire that you will not be making her really unhappy; a _little_ love,\nperhaps, may animate and do her good, but I will not have you plunge\nher deep, for she is as good a little creature as ever lived, and has a\ngreat deal of feeling.\"\n\n\"It can be but for a fortnight,\" said Henry; \"and if a fortnight can\nkill her, she must have a constitution which nothing could save. No, I\nwill not do her any harm, dear little soul! only want her to look kindly\non me, to give me smiles as well as blushes, to keep a chair for me by\nherself wherever we are, and be all animation when I take it and talk\nto her; to think as I think, be interested in all my possessions and\npleasures, try to keep me longer at Mansfield, and feel when I go away\nthat she shall be never happy again. I want nothing more.\"\n\n\"Moderation itself!\" said Mary. \"I can have no scruples now. Well, you\nwill have opportunities enough of endeavouring to recommend yourself,\nfor we are a great deal together.\"\n\nAnd without attempting any farther remonstrance, she left Fanny to\nher fate, a fate which, had not Fanny's heart been guarded in a way\nunsuspected by Miss Crawford, might have been a little harder than she\ndeserved; for although there doubtless are such unconquerable young\nladies of eighteen (or one should not read about them) as are never\nto be persuaded into love against their judgment by all that talent,\nmanner, attention, and flattery can do, I have no inclination to\nbelieve Fanny one of them, or to think that with so much tenderness\nof disposition, and so much taste as belonged to her, she could have\nescaped heart-whole from the courtship (though the courtship only of\na fortnight) of such a man as Crawford, in spite of there being some\nprevious ill opinion of him to be overcome, had not her affection been\nengaged elsewhere. With all the security which love of another and\ndisesteem of him could give to the peace of mind he was attacking,\nhis continued attentions--continued, but not obtrusive, and adapting\nthemselves more and more to the gentleness and delicacy of her\ncharacter--obliged her very soon to dislike him less than formerly. She\nhad by no means forgotten the past, and she thought as ill of him as\never; but she felt his powers: he was entertaining; and his manners were\nso improved, so polite, so seriously and blamelessly polite, that it was\nimpossible not to be civil to him in return.\n\nA very few days were enough to effect this; and at the end of those few\ndays, circumstances arose which had a tendency rather to forward his\nviews of pleasing her, inasmuch as they gave her a degree of happiness\nwhich must dispose her to be pleased with everybody. William, her\nbrother, the so long absent and dearly loved brother, was in England\nagain. She had a letter from him herself, a few hurried happy lines,\nwritten as the ship came up Channel, and sent into Portsmouth with\nthe first boat that left the Antwerp at anchor in Spithead; and when\nCrawford walked up with the newspaper in his hand, which he had hoped\nwould bring the first tidings, he found her trembling with joy over this\nletter, and listening with a glowing, grateful countenance to the kind\ninvitation which her uncle was most collectedly dictating in reply.\n\nIt was but the day before that Crawford had made himself thoroughly\nmaster of the subject, or had in fact become at all aware of her having\nsuch a brother, or his being in such a ship, but the interest then\nexcited had been very properly lively, determining him on his return to\ntown to apply for information as to the probable period of the Antwerp's\nreturn from the Mediterranean, etc.; and the good luck which attended\nhis early examination of ship news the next morning seemed the reward of\nhis ingenuity in finding out such a method of pleasing her, as well as\nof his dutiful attention to the Admiral, in having for many years\ntaken in the paper esteemed to have the earliest naval intelligence. He\nproved, however, to be too late. All those fine first feelings, of which\nhe had hoped to be the exciter, were already given. But his intention,\nthe kindness of his intention, was thankfully acknowledged: quite\nthankfully and warmly, for she was elevated beyond the common timidity\nof her mind by the flow of her love for William.\n\nThis dear William would soon be amongst them. There could be no doubt\nof his obtaining leave of absence immediately, for he was still only a\nmidshipman; and as his parents, from living on the spot, must already\nhave seen him, and be seeing him perhaps daily, his direct holidays\nmight with justice be instantly given to the sister, who had been his\nbest correspondent through a period of seven years, and the uncle who\nhad done most for his support and advancement; and accordingly the reply\nto her reply, fixing a very early day for his arrival, came as soon as\npossible; and scarcely ten days had passed since Fanny had been in\nthe agitation of her first dinner-visit, when she found herself in an\nagitation of a higher nature, watching in the hall, in the lobby, on\nthe stairs, for the first sound of the carriage which was to bring her a\nbrother.\n\nIt came happily while she was thus waiting; and there being neither\nceremony nor fearfulness to delay the moment of meeting, she was with\nhim as he entered the house, and the first minutes of exquisite feeling\nhad no interruption and no witnesses, unless the servants chiefly intent\nupon opening the proper doors could be called such. This was exactly\nwhat Sir Thomas and Edmund had been separately conniving at, as each\nproved to the other by the sympathetic alacrity with which they both\nadvised Mrs. Norris's continuing where she was, instead of rushing out\ninto the hall as soon as the noises of the arrival reached them.\n\nWilliam and Fanny soon shewed themselves; and Sir Thomas had the\npleasure of receiving, in his protege, certainly a very different person\nfrom the one he had equipped seven years ago, but a young man of an\nopen, pleasant countenance, and frank, unstudied, but feeling and\nrespectful manners, and such as confirmed him his friend.\n\nIt was long before Fanny could recover from the agitating happiness of\nsuch an hour as was formed by the last thirty minutes of expectation,\nand the first of fruition; it was some time even before her happiness\ncould be said to make her happy, before the disappointment inseparable\nfrom the alteration of person had vanished, and she could see in him the\nsame William as before, and talk to him, as her heart had been yearning\nto do through many a past year. That time, however, did gradually come,\nforwarded by an affection on his side as warm as her own, and much less\nencumbered by refinement or self-distrust. She was the first object\nof his love, but it was a love which his stronger spirits, and bolder\ntemper, made it as natural for him to express as to feel. On the\nmorrow they were walking about together with true enjoyment, and every\nsucceeding morrow renewed a _tete-a-tete_ which Sir Thomas could not but\nobserve with complacency, even before Edmund had pointed it out to him.\n\nExcepting the moments of peculiar delight, which any marked or\nunlooked-for instance of Edmund's consideration of her in the last few\nmonths had excited, Fanny had never known so much felicity in her life,\nas in this unchecked, equal, fearless intercourse with the brother and\nfriend who was opening all his heart to her, telling her all his hopes\nand fears, plans, and solicitudes respecting that long thought of,\ndearly earned, and justly valued blessing of promotion; who could give\nher direct and minute information of the father and mother, brothers and\nsisters, of whom she very seldom heard; who was interested in all the\ncomforts and all the little hardships of her home at Mansfield; ready to\nthink of every member of that home as she directed, or differing only\nby a less scrupulous opinion, and more noisy abuse of their aunt Norris,\nand with whom (perhaps the dearest indulgence of the whole) all the evil\nand good of their earliest years could be gone over again, and every\nformer united pain and pleasure retraced with the fondest recollection.\nAn advantage this, a strengthener of love, in which even the conjugal\ntie is beneath the fraternal. Children of the same family, the same\nblood, with the same first associations and habits, have some means of\nenjoyment in their power, which no subsequent connexions can supply; and\nit must be by a long and unnatural estrangement, by a divorce which\nno subsequent connexion can justify, if such precious remains of the\nearliest attachments are ever entirely outlived. Too often, alas! it is\nso. Fraternal love, sometimes almost everything, is at others worse than\nnothing. But with William and Fanny Price it was still a sentiment\nin all its prime and freshness, wounded by no opposition of interest,\ncooled by no separate attachment, and feeling the influence of time and\nabsence only in its increase.\n\nAn affection so amiable was advancing each in the opinion of all who had\nhearts to value anything good. Henry Crawford was as much struck with\nit as any. He honoured the warm-hearted, blunt fondness of the young\nsailor, which led him to say, with his hands stretched towards Fanny's\nhead, \"Do you know, I begin to like that queer fashion already, though\nwhen I first heard of such things being done in England, I could\nnot believe it; and when Mrs. Brown, and the other women at the\nCommissioner's at Gibraltar, appeared in the same trim, I thought they\nwere mad; but Fanny can reconcile me to anything\"; and saw, with lively\nadmiration, the glow of Fanny's cheek, the brightness of her eye, the\ndeep interest, the absorbed attention, while her brother was describing\nany of the imminent hazards, or terrific scenes, which such a period at\nsea must supply.\n\nIt was a picture which Henry Crawford had moral taste enough to value.\nFanny's attractions increased--increased twofold; for the sensibility\nwhich beautified her complexion and illumined her countenance was an\nattraction in itself. He was no longer in doubt of the capabilities of\nher heart. She had feeling, genuine feeling. It would be something to\nbe loved by such a girl, to excite the first ardours of her young\nunsophisticated mind! She interested him more than he had foreseen. A\nfortnight was not enough. His stay became indefinite.\n\nWilliam was often called on by his uncle to be the talker. His recitals\nwere amusing in themselves to Sir Thomas, but the chief object in\nseeking them was to understand the reciter, to know the young man by his\nhistories; and he listened to his clear, simple, spirited details\nwith full satisfaction, seeing in them the proof of good principles,\nprofessional knowledge, energy, courage, and cheerfulness, everything\nthat could deserve or promise well. Young as he was, William had already\nseen a great deal. He had been in the Mediterranean; in the West Indies;\nin the Mediterranean again; had been often taken on shore by the favour\nof his captain, and in the course of seven years had known every variety\nof danger which sea and war together could offer. With such means in\nhis power he had a right to be listened to; and though Mrs. Norris could\nfidget about the room, and disturb everybody in quest of two needlefuls\nof thread or a second-hand shirt button, in the midst of her nephew's\naccount of a shipwreck or an engagement, everybody else was attentive;\nand even Lady Bertram could not hear of such horrors unmoved, or\nwithout sometimes lifting her eyes from her work to say, \"Dear me! how\ndisagreeable! I wonder anybody can ever go to sea.\"\n\nTo Henry Crawford they gave a different feeling. He longed to have been\nat sea, and seen and done and suffered as much. His heart was warmed,\nhis fancy fired, and he felt the highest respect for a lad who, before\nhe was twenty, had gone through such bodily hardships and given such\nproofs of mind. The glory of heroism, of usefulness, of exertion, of\nendurance, made his own habits of selfish indulgence appear in shameful\ncontrast; and he wished he had been a William Price, distinguishing\nhimself and working his way to fortune and consequence with so much\nself-respect and happy ardour, instead of what he was!\n\nThe wish was rather eager than lasting. He was roused from the reverie\nof retrospection and regret produced by it, by some inquiry from Edmund\nas to his plans for the next day's hunting; and he found it was as well\nto be a man of fortune at once with horses and grooms at his command.\nIn one respect it was better, as it gave him the means of conferring a\nkindness where he wished to oblige. With spirits, courage, and curiosity\nup to anything, William expressed an inclination to hunt; and Crawford\ncould mount him without the slightest inconvenience to himself, and with\nonly some scruples to obviate in Sir Thomas, who knew better than his\nnephew the value of such a loan, and some alarms to reason away in\nFanny. She feared for William; by no means convinced by all that he\ncould relate of his own horsemanship in various countries, of the\nscrambling parties in which he had been engaged, the rough horses and\nmules he had ridden, or his many narrow escapes from dreadful falls,\nthat he was at all equal to the management of a high-fed hunter in an\nEnglish fox-chase; nor till he returned safe and well, without accident\nor discredit, could she be reconciled to the risk, or feel any of that\nobligation to Mr. Crawford for lending the horse which he had fully\nintended it should produce. When it was proved, however, to have done\nWilliam no harm, she could allow it to be a kindness, and even reward\nthe owner with a smile when the animal was one minute tendered to his\nuse again; and the next, with the greatest cordiality, and in a manner\nnot to be resisted, made over to his use entirely so long as he remained\nin Northamptonshire.\n\n                        [End volume one of this edition.\n                        Printed by T. and A. Constable,\n                        Printers to Her Majesty at\n                        the Edinburgh University Press]\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV\n\nThe intercourse of the two families was at this period more nearly\nrestored to what it had been in the autumn, than any member of the\nold intimacy had thought ever likely to be again. The return of Henry\nCrawford, and the arrival of William Price, had much to do with it,\nbut much was still owing to Sir Thomas's more than toleration of the\nneighbourly attempts at the Parsonage. His mind, now disengaged from\nthe cares which had pressed on him at first, was at leisure to find\nthe Grants and their young inmates really worth visiting; and though\ninfinitely above scheming or contriving for any the most advantageous\nmatrimonial establishment that could be among the apparent possibilities\nof any one most dear to him, and disdaining even as a littleness the\nbeing quick-sighted on such points, he could not avoid perceiving, in\na grand and careless way, that Mr. Crawford was somewhat distinguishing\nhis niece--nor perhaps refrain (though unconsciously) from giving a more\nwilling assent to invitations on that account.\n\nHis readiness, however, in agreeing to dine at the Parsonage, when the\ngeneral invitation was at last hazarded, after many debates and many\ndoubts as to whether it were worth while, \"because Sir Thomas seemed\nso ill inclined, and Lady Bertram was so indolent!\" proceeded from\ngood-breeding and goodwill alone, and had nothing to do with Mr.\nCrawford, but as being one in an agreeable group: for it was in the\ncourse of that very visit that he first began to think that any one in\nthe habit of such idle observations _would_ _have_ _thought_ that Mr.\nCrawford was the admirer of Fanny Price.\n\nThe meeting was generally felt to be a pleasant one, being composed in a\ngood proportion of those who would talk and those who would listen;\nand the dinner itself was elegant and plentiful, according to the usual\nstyle of the Grants, and too much according to the usual habits of\nall to raise any emotion except in Mrs. Norris, who could never behold\neither the wide table or the number of dishes on it with patience, and\nwho did always contrive to experience some evil from the passing of the\nservants behind her chair, and to bring away some fresh conviction of\nits being impossible among so many dishes but that some must be cold.\n\nIn the evening it was found, according to the predetermination of Mrs.\nGrant and her sister, that after making up the whist-table there would\nremain sufficient for a round game, and everybody being as perfectly\ncomplying and without a choice as on such occasions they always are,\nspeculation was decided on almost as soon as whist; and Lady Bertram\nsoon found herself in the critical situation of being applied to for her\nown choice between the games, and being required either to draw a card\nfor whist or not. She hesitated. Luckily Sir Thomas was at hand.\n\n\"What shall I do, Sir Thomas? Whist and speculation; which will amuse me\nmost?\"\n\nSir Thomas, after a moment's thought, recommended speculation. He was\na whist player himself, and perhaps might feel that it would not much\namuse him to have her for a partner.\n\n\"Very well,\" was her ladyship's contented answer; \"then speculation, if\nyou please, Mrs. Grant. I know nothing about it, but Fanny must teach\nme.\"\n\nHere Fanny interposed, however, with anxious protestations of her own\nequal ignorance; she had never played the game nor seen it played in\nher life; and Lady Bertram felt a moment's indecision again; but upon\neverybody's assuring her that nothing could be so easy, that it was the\neasiest game on the cards, and Henry Crawford's stepping forward with a\nmost earnest request to be allowed to sit between her ladyship and Miss\nPrice, and teach them both, it was so settled; and Sir Thomas, Mrs.\nNorris, and Dr. and Mrs. Grant being seated at the table of prime\nintellectual state and dignity, the remaining six, under Miss Crawford's\ndirection, were arranged round the other. It was a fine arrangement\nfor Henry Crawford, who was close to Fanny, and with his hands full of\nbusiness, having two persons' cards to manage as well as his own; for\nthough it was impossible for Fanny not to feel herself mistress of the\nrules of the game in three minutes, he had yet to inspirit her play,\nsharpen her avarice, and harden her heart, which, especially in any\ncompetition with William, was a work of some difficulty; and as for Lady\nBertram, he must continue in charge of all her fame and fortune through\nthe whole evening; and if quick enough to keep her from looking at her\ncards when the deal began, must direct her in whatever was to be done\nwith them to the end of it.\n\nHe was in high spirits, doing everything with happy ease, and preeminent\nin all the lively turns, quick resources, and playful impudence that\ncould do honour to the game; and the round table was altogether a very\ncomfortable contrast to the steady sobriety and orderly silence of the\nother.\n\nTwice had Sir Thomas inquired into the enjoyment and success of his\nlady, but in vain; no pause was long enough for the time his measured\nmanner needed; and very little of her state could be known till Mrs.\nGrant was able, at the end of the first rubber, to go to her and pay her\ncompliments.\n\n\"I hope your ladyship is pleased with the game.\"\n\n\"Oh dear, yes! very entertaining indeed. A very odd game. I do not know\nwhat it is all about. I am never to see my cards; and Mr. Crawford does\nall the rest.\"\n\n\"Bertram,\" said Crawford, some time afterwards, taking the opportunity\nof a little languor in the game, \"I have never told you what happened to\nme yesterday in my ride home.\" They had been hunting together, and were\nin the midst of a good run, and at some distance from Mansfield, when\nhis horse being found to have flung a shoe, Henry Crawford had been\nobliged to give up, and make the best of his way back. \"I told you I\nlost my way after passing that old farmhouse with the yew-trees, because\nI can never bear to ask; but I have not told you that, with my usual\nluck--for I never do wrong without gaining by it--I found myself in due\ntime in the very place which I had a curiosity to see. I was suddenly,\nupon turning the corner of a steepish downy field, in the midst of\na retired little village between gently rising hills; a small stream\nbefore me to be forded, a church standing on a sort of knoll to my\nright--which church was strikingly large and handsome for the place, and\nnot a gentleman or half a gentleman's house to be seen excepting one--to\nbe presumed the Parsonage--within a stone's throw of the said knoll and\nchurch. I found myself, in short, in Thornton Lacey.\"\n\n\"It sounds like it,\" said Edmund; \"but which way did you turn after\npassing Sewell's farm?\"\n\n\"I answer no such irrelevant and insidious questions; though were I to\nanswer all that you could put in the course of an hour, you would never\nbe able to prove that it was _not_ Thornton Lacey--for such it certainly\nwas.\"\n\n\"You inquired, then?\"\n\n\"No, I never inquire. But I _told_ a man mending a hedge that it was\nThornton Lacey, and he agreed to it.\"\n\n\"You have a good memory. I had forgotten having ever told you half so\nmuch of the place.\"\n\nThornton Lacey was the name of his impending living, as Miss Crawford\nwell knew; and her interest in a negotiation for William Price's knave\nincreased.\n\n\"Well,\" continued Edmund, \"and how did you like what you saw?\"\n\n\"Very much indeed. You are a lucky fellow. There will be work for five\nsummers at least before the place is liveable.\"\n\n\"No, no, not so bad as that. The farmyard must be moved, I grant you;\nbut I am not aware of anything else. The house is by no means bad, and\nwhen the yard is removed, there may be a very tolerable approach to it.\"\n\n\"The farmyard must be cleared away entirely, and planted up to shut\nout the blacksmith's shop. The house must be turned to front the east\ninstead of the north--the entrance and principal rooms, I mean, must be\non that side, where the view is really very pretty; I am sure it may be\ndone. And _there_ must be your approach, through what is at present the\ngarden. You must make a new garden at what is now the back of the house;\nwhich will be giving it the best aspect in the world, sloping to the\nsouth-east. The ground seems precisely formed for it. I rode fifty yards\nup the lane, between the church and the house, in order to look about\nme; and saw how it might all be. Nothing can be easier. The meadows\nbeyond what _will_ _be_ the garden, as well as what now _is_, sweeping\nround from the lane I stood in to the north-east, that is, to the\nprincipal road through the village, must be all laid together, of\ncourse; very pretty meadows they are, finely sprinkled with timber. They\nbelong to the living, I suppose; if not, you must purchase them. Then\nthe stream--something must be done with the stream; but I could not\nquite determine what. I had two or three ideas.\"\n\n\"And I have two or three ideas also,\" said Edmund, \"and one of them is,\nthat very little of your plan for Thornton Lacey will ever be put in\npractice. I must be satisfied with rather less ornament and beauty. I\nthink the house and premises may be made comfortable, and given the air\nof a gentleman's residence, without any very heavy expense, and that\nmust suffice me; and, I hope, may suffice all who care about me.\"\n\nMiss Crawford, a little suspicious and resentful of a certain tone of\nvoice, and a certain half-look attending the last expression of his\nhope, made a hasty finish of her dealings with William Price; and\nsecuring his knave at an exorbitant rate, exclaimed, \"There, I will\nstake my last like a woman of spirit. No cold prudence for me. I am not\nborn to sit still and do nothing. If I lose the game, it shall not be\nfrom not striving for it.\"\n\nThe game was hers, and only did not pay her for what she had given\nto secure it. Another deal proceeded, and Crawford began again about\nThornton Lacey.\n\n\"My plan may not be the best possible: I had not many minutes to form\nit in; but you must do a good deal. The place deserves it, and you\nwill find yourself not satisfied with much less than it is capable of.\n(Excuse me, your ladyship must not see your cards. There, let them lie\njust before you.) The place deserves it, Bertram. You talk of giving it\nthe air of a gentleman's residence. _That_ will be done by the removal\nof the farmyard; for, independent of that terrible nuisance, I never saw\na house of the kind which had in itself so much the air of a\ngentleman's residence, so much the look of a something above a mere\nparsonage-house--above the expenditure of a few hundreds a year. It is\nnot a scrambling collection of low single rooms, with as many roofs\nas windows; it is not cramped into the vulgar compactness of a square\nfarmhouse: it is a solid, roomy, mansion-like looking house, such as\none might suppose a respectable old country family had lived in from\ngeneration to generation, through two centuries at least, and were now\nspending from two to three thousand a year in.\" Miss Crawford listened,\nand Edmund agreed to this. \"The air of a gentleman's residence,\ntherefore, you cannot but give it, if you do anything. But it is capable\nof much more. (Let me see, Mary; Lady Bertram bids a dozen for that\nqueen; no, no, a dozen is more than it is worth. Lady Bertram does not\nbid a dozen. She will have nothing to say to it. Go on, go on.) By some\nsuch improvements as I have suggested (I do not really require you to\nproceed upon my plan, though, by the bye, I doubt anybody's striking out\na better) you may give it a higher character. You may raise it into\na _place_. From being the mere gentleman's residence, it becomes, by\njudicious improvement, the residence of a man of education, taste,\nmodern manners, good connexions. All this may be stamped on it; and that\nhouse receive such an air as to make its owner be set down as the\ngreat landholder of the parish by every creature travelling the road;\nespecially as there is no real squire's house to dispute the point--a\ncircumstance, between ourselves, to enhance the value of such a\nsituation in point of privilege and independence beyond all calculation.\n_You_ think with me, I hope\" (turning with a softened voice to Fanny).\n\"Have you ever seen the place?\"\n\nFanny gave a quick negative, and tried to hide her interest in the\nsubject by an eager attention to her brother, who was driving as hard a\nbargain, and imposing on her as much as he could; but Crawford pursued\nwith \"No, no, you must not part with the queen. You have bought her too\ndearly, and your brother does not offer half her value. No, no, sir,\nhands off, hands off. Your sister does not part with the queen. She is\nquite determined. The game will be yours,\" turning to her again; \"it\nwill certainly be yours.\"\n\n\"And Fanny had much rather it were William's,\" said Edmund, smiling at\nher. \"Poor Fanny! not allowed to cheat herself as she wishes!\"\n\n\"Mr. Bertram,\" said Miss Crawford, a few minutes afterwards, \"you know\nHenry to be such a capital improver, that you cannot possibly engage in\nanything of the sort at Thornton Lacey without accepting his help. Only\nthink how useful he was at Sotherton! Only think what grand things were\nproduced there by our all going with him one hot day in August to drive\nabout the grounds, and see his genius take fire. There we went, and\nthere we came home again; and what was done there is not to be told!\"\n\nFanny's eyes were turned on Crawford for a moment with an expression\nmore than grave--even reproachful; but on catching his, were instantly\nwithdrawn. With something of consciousness he shook his head at his\nsister, and laughingly replied, \"I cannot say there was much done at\nSotherton; but it was a hot day, and we were all walking after each\nother, and bewildered.\" As soon as a general buzz gave him shelter, he\nadded, in a low voice, directed solely at Fanny, \"I should be sorry to\nhave my powers of _planning_ judged of by the day at Sotherton. I see\nthings very differently now. Do not think of me as I appeared then.\"\n\nSotherton was a word to catch Mrs. Norris, and being just then in the\nhappy leisure which followed securing the odd trick by Sir Thomas's\ncapital play and her own against Dr. and Mrs. Grant's great hands,\nshe called out, in high good-humour, \"Sotherton! Yes, that is a place,\nindeed, and we had a charming day there. William, you are quite out of\nluck; but the next time you come, I hope dear Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth\nwill be at home, and I am sure I can answer for your being kindly\nreceived by both. Your cousins are not of a sort to forget their\nrelations, and Mr. Rushworth is a most amiable man. They are at Brighton\nnow, you know; in one of the best houses there, as Mr. Rushworth's fine\nfortune gives them a right to be. I do not exactly know the distance,\nbut when you get back to Portsmouth, if it is not very far off, you\nought to go over and pay your respects to them; and I could send a\nlittle parcel by you that I want to get conveyed to your cousins.\"\n\n\"I should be very happy, aunt; but Brighton is almost by Beachey Head;\nand if I could get so far, I could not expect to be welcome in such a\nsmart place as that--poor scrubby midshipman as I am.\"\n\nMrs. Norris was beginning an eager assurance of the affability he might\ndepend on, when she was stopped by Sir Thomas's saying with authority,\n\"I do not advise your going to Brighton, William, as I trust you may\nsoon have more convenient opportunities of meeting; but my daughters\nwould be happy to see their cousins anywhere; and you will find Mr.\nRushworth most sincerely disposed to regard all the connexions of our\nfamily as his own.\"\n\n\"I would rather find him private secretary to the First Lord than\nanything else,\" was William's only answer, in an undervoice, not meant\nto reach far, and the subject dropped.\n\nAs yet Sir Thomas had seen nothing to remark in Mr. Crawford's\nbehaviour; but when the whist-table broke up at the end of the second\nrubber, and leaving Dr. Grant and Mrs. Norris to dispute over their last\nplay, he became a looker-on at the other, he found his niece the\nobject of attentions, or rather of professions, of a somewhat pointed\ncharacter.\n\nHenry Crawford was in the first glow of another scheme about Thornton\nLacey; and not being able to catch Edmund's ear, was detailing it to his\nfair neighbour with a look of considerable earnestness. His scheme was\nto rent the house himself the following winter, that he might have a\nhome of his own in that neighbourhood; and it was not merely for the use\nof it in the hunting-season (as he was then telling her), though _that_\nconsideration had certainly some weight, feeling as he did that, in\nspite of all Dr. Grant's very great kindness, it was impossible for him\nand his horses to be accommodated where they now were without material\ninconvenience; but his attachment to that neighbourhood did not depend\nupon one amusement or one season of the year: he had set his heart upon\nhaving a something there that he could come to at any time, a little\nhomestall at his command, where all the holidays of his year might be\nspent, and he might find himself continuing, improving, and _perfecting_\nthat friendship and intimacy with the Mansfield Park family which was\nincreasing in value to him every day. Sir Thomas heard and was not\noffended. There was no want of respect in the young man's address;\nand Fanny's reception of it was so proper and modest, so calm and\nuninviting, that he had nothing to censure in her. She said little,\nassented only here and there, and betrayed no inclination either of\nappropriating any part of the compliment to herself, or of strengthening\nhis views in favour of Northamptonshire. Finding by whom he was\nobserved, Henry Crawford addressed himself on the same subject to Sir\nThomas, in a more everyday tone, but still with feeling.\n\n\"I want to be your neighbour, Sir Thomas, as you have, perhaps, heard me\ntelling Miss Price. May I hope for your acquiescence, and for your not\ninfluencing your son against such a tenant?\"\n\nSir Thomas, politely bowing, replied, \"It is the only way, sir, in which\nI could _not_ wish you established as a permanent neighbour; but I hope,\nand believe, that Edmund will occupy his own house at Thornton Lacey.\nEdmund, am I saying too much?\"\n\nEdmund, on this appeal, had first to hear what was going on; but, on\nunderstanding the question, was at no loss for an answer.\n\n\"Certainly, sir, I have no idea but of residence. But, Crawford, though\nI refuse you as a tenant, come to me as a friend. Consider the house as\nhalf your own every winter, and we will add to the stables on your own\nimproved plan, and with all the improvements of your improved plan that\nmay occur to you this spring.\"\n\n\"We shall be the losers,\" continued Sir Thomas. \"His going, though only\neight miles, will be an unwelcome contraction of our family circle; but\nI should have been deeply mortified if any son of mine could reconcile\nhimself to doing less. It is perfectly natural that you should not have\nthought much on the subject, Mr. Crawford. But a parish has wants and\nclaims which can be known only by a clergyman constantly resident, and\nwhich no proxy can be capable of satisfying to the same extent. Edmund\nmight, in the common phrase, do the duty of Thornton, that is, he might\nread prayers and preach, without giving up Mansfield Park: he might ride\nover every Sunday, to a house nominally inhabited, and go through divine\nservice; he might be the clergyman of Thornton Lacey every seventh day,\nfor three or four hours, if that would content him. But it will not.\nHe knows that human nature needs more lessons than a weekly sermon can\nconvey; and that if he does not live among his parishioners, and prove\nhimself, by constant attention, their well-wisher and friend, he does\nvery little either for their good or his own.\"\n\nMr. Crawford bowed his acquiescence.\n\n\"I repeat again,\" added Sir Thomas, \"that Thornton Lacey is the only\nhouse in the neighbourhood in which I should _not_ be happy to wait on\nMr. Crawford as occupier.\"\n\nMr. Crawford bowed his thanks.\n\n\"Sir Thomas,\" said Edmund, \"undoubtedly understands the duty of a parish\npriest. We must hope his son may prove that _he_ knows it too.\"\n\nWhatever effect Sir Thomas's little harangue might really produce on Mr.\nCrawford, it raised some awkward sensations in two of the others, two\nof his most attentive listeners--Miss Crawford and Fanny. One of\nwhom, having never before understood that Thornton was so soon and so\ncompletely to be his home, was pondering with downcast eyes on what it\nwould be _not_ to see Edmund every day; and the other, startled from the\nagreeable fancies she had been previously indulging on the strength of\nher brother's description, no longer able, in the picture she had\nbeen forming of a future Thornton, to shut out the church, sink the\nclergyman, and see only the respectable, elegant, modernised, and\noccasional residence of a man of independent fortune, was considering\nSir Thomas, with decided ill-will, as the destroyer of all this, and\nsuffering the more from that involuntary forbearance which his character\nand manner commanded, and from not daring to relieve herself by a single\nattempt at throwing ridicule on his cause.\n\nAll the agreeable of _her_ speculation was over for that hour. It was\ntime to have done with cards, if sermons prevailed; and she was glad to\nfind it necessary to come to a conclusion, and be able to refresh her\nspirits by a change of place and neighbour.\n\nThe chief of the party were now collected irregularly round the\nfire, and waiting the final break-up. William and Fanny were the most\ndetached. They remained together at the otherwise deserted card-table,\ntalking very comfortably, and not thinking of the rest, till some of the\nrest began to think of them. Henry Crawford's chair was the first to be\ngiven a direction towards them, and he sat silently observing them for a\nfew minutes; himself, in the meanwhile, observed by Sir Thomas, who was\nstanding in chat with Dr. Grant.\n\n\"This is the assembly night,\" said William. \"If I were at Portsmouth I\nshould be at it, perhaps.\"\n\n\"But you do not wish yourself at Portsmouth, William?\"\n\n\"No, Fanny, that I do not. I shall have enough of Portsmouth and of\ndancing too, when I cannot have you. And I do not know that there would\nbe any good in going to the assembly, for I might not get a partner.\nThe Portsmouth girls turn up their noses at anybody who has not a\ncommission. One might as well be nothing as a midshipman. One _is_\nnothing, indeed. You remember the Gregorys; they are grown up amazing\nfine girls, but they will hardly speak to _me_, because Lucy is courted\nby a lieutenant.\"\n\n\"Oh! shame, shame! But never mind it, William\" (her own cheeks in a\nglow of indignation as she spoke). \"It is not worth minding. It is no\nreflection on _you_; it is no more than what the greatest admirals have\nall experienced, more or less, in their time. You must think of that,\nyou must try to make up your mind to it as one of the hardships which\nfall to every sailor's share, like bad weather and hard living, only\nwith this advantage, that there will be an end to it, that there will\ncome a time when you will have nothing of that sort to endure. When you\nare a lieutenant! only think, William, when you are a lieutenant, how\nlittle you will care for any nonsense of this kind.\"\n\n\"I begin to think I shall never be a lieutenant, Fanny. Everybody gets\nmade but me.\"\n\n\"Oh! my dear William, do not talk so; do not be so desponding. My uncle\nsays nothing, but I am sure he will do everything in his power to get\nyou made. He knows, as well as you do, of what consequence it is.\"\n\nShe was checked by the sight of her uncle much nearer to them than she\nhad any suspicion of, and each found it necessary to talk of something\nelse.\n\n\"Are you fond of dancing, Fanny?\"\n\n\"Yes, very; only I am soon tired.\"\n\n\"I should like to go to a ball with you and see you dance. Have you\nnever any balls at Northampton? I should like to see you dance, and I'd\ndance with you if you _would_, for nobody would know who I was here,\nand I should like to be your partner once more. We used to jump about\ntogether many a time, did not we? when the hand-organ was in the street?\nI am a pretty good dancer in my way, but I dare say you are a better.\"\nAnd turning to his uncle, who was now close to them, \"Is not Fanny a\nvery good dancer, sir?\"\n\nFanny, in dismay at such an unprecedented question, did not know which\nway to look, or how to be prepared for the answer. Some very grave\nreproof, or at least the coldest expression of indifference, must be\ncoming to distress her brother, and sink her to the ground. But, on the\ncontrary, it was no worse than, \"I am sorry to say that I am unable\nto answer your question. I have never seen Fanny dance since she was a\nlittle girl; but I trust we shall both think she acquits herself like\na gentlewoman when we do see her, which, perhaps, we may have an\nopportunity of doing ere long.\"\n\n\"I have had the pleasure of seeing your sister dance, Mr. Price,\"\nsaid Henry Crawford, leaning forward, \"and will engage to answer every\ninquiry which you can make on the subject, to your entire satisfaction.\nBut I believe\" (seeing Fanny looked distressed) \"it must be at some\nother time. There is _one_ person in company who does not like to have\nMiss Price spoken of.\"\n\nTrue enough, he had once seen Fanny dance; and it was equally true\nthat he would now have answered for her gliding about with quiet, light\nelegance, and in admirable time; but, in fact, he could not for the life\nof him recall what her dancing had been, and rather took it for granted\nthat she had been present than remembered anything about her.\n\nHe passed, however, for an admirer of her dancing; and Sir Thomas, by no\nmeans displeased, prolonged the conversation on dancing in general, and\nwas so well engaged in describing the balls of Antigua, and listening to\nwhat his nephew could relate of the different modes of dancing which\nhad fallen within his observation, that he had not heard his carriage\nannounced, and was first called to the knowledge of it by the bustle of\nMrs. Norris.\n\n\"Come, Fanny, Fanny, what are you about? We are going. Do not you see\nyour aunt is going? Quick, quick! I cannot bear to keep good old Wilcox\nwaiting. You should always remember the coachman and horses. My dear Sir\nThomas, we have settled it that the carriage should come back for you,\nand Edmund and William.\"\n\nSir Thomas could not dissent, as it had been his own arrangement,\npreviously communicated to his wife and sister; but _that_ seemed\nforgotten by Mrs. Norris, who must fancy that she settled it all\nherself.\n\nFanny's last feeling in the visit was disappointment: for the shawl\nwhich Edmund was quietly taking from the servant to bring and put round\nher shoulders was seized by Mr. Crawford's quicker hand, and she was\nobliged to be indebted to his more prominent attention.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI\n\nWilliam's desire of seeing Fanny dance made more than a momentary\nimpression on his uncle. The hope of an opportunity, which Sir Thomas\nhad then given, was not given to be thought of no more. He remained\nsteadily inclined to gratify so amiable a feeling; to gratify anybody\nelse who might wish to see Fanny dance, and to give pleasure to the\nyoung people in general; and having thought the matter over, and taken\nhis resolution in quiet independence, the result of it appeared the\nnext morning at breakfast, when, after recalling and commending what\nhis nephew had said, he added, \"I do not like, William, that you\nshould leave Northamptonshire without this indulgence. It would give me\npleasure to see you both dance. You spoke of the balls at Northampton.\nYour cousins have occasionally attended them; but they would not\naltogether suit us now. The fatigue would be too much for your aunt. I\nbelieve we must not think of a Northampton ball. A dance at home would\nbe more eligible; and if--\"\n\n\"Ah, my dear Sir Thomas!\" interrupted Mrs. Norris, \"I knew what was\ncoming. I knew what you were going to say. If dear Julia were at home,\nor dearest Mrs. Rushworth at Sotherton, to afford a reason, an occasion\nfor such a thing, you would be tempted to give the young people a dance\nat Mansfield. I know you would. If _they_ were at home to grace the\nball, a ball you would have this very Christmas. Thank your uncle,\nWilliam, thank your uncle!\"\n\n\"My daughters,\" replied Sir Thomas, gravely interposing, \"have their\npleasures at Brighton, and I hope are very happy; but the dance which I\nthink of giving at Mansfield will be for their cousins. Could we be all\nassembled, our satisfaction would undoubtedly be more complete, but the\nabsence of some is not to debar the others of amusement.\"\n\nMrs. Norris had not another word to say. She saw decision in his looks,\nand her surprise and vexation required some minutes' silence to be\nsettled into composure. A ball at such a time! His daughters absent and\nherself not consulted! There was comfort, however, soon at hand. _She_\nmust be the doer of everything: Lady Bertram would of course be spared\nall thought and exertion, and it would all fall upon _her_. She should\nhave to do the honours of the evening; and this reflection quickly\nrestored so much of her good-humour as enabled her to join in with the\nothers, before their happiness and thanks were all expressed.\n\nEdmund, William, and Fanny did, in their different ways, look and speak\nas much grateful pleasure in the promised ball as Sir Thomas could\ndesire. Edmund's feelings were for the other two. His father had never\nconferred a favour or shewn a kindness more to his satisfaction.\n\nLady Bertram was perfectly quiescent and contented, and had no\nobjections to make. Sir Thomas engaged for its giving her very little\ntrouble; and she assured him \"that she was not at all afraid of the\ntrouble; indeed, she could not imagine there would be any.\"\n\nMrs. Norris was ready with her suggestions as to the rooms he would\nthink fittest to be used, but found it all prearranged; and when she\nwould have conjectured and hinted about the day, it appeared that the\nday was settled too. Sir Thomas had been amusing himself with shaping a\nvery complete outline of the business; and as soon as she would listen\nquietly, could read his list of the families to be invited, from whom\nhe calculated, with all necessary allowance for the shortness of the\nnotice, to collect young people enough to form twelve or fourteen\ncouple: and could detail the considerations which had induced him to\nfix on the 22nd as the most eligible day. William was required to be at\nPortsmouth on the 24th; the 22nd would therefore be the last day of his\nvisit; but where the days were so few it would be unwise to fix on any\nearlier. Mrs. Norris was obliged to be satisfied with thinking just the\nsame, and with having been on the point of proposing the 22nd herself,\nas by far the best day for the purpose.\n\nThe ball was now a settled thing, and before the evening a proclaimed\nthing to all whom it concerned. Invitations were sent with despatch,\nand many a young lady went to bed that night with her head full of happy\ncares as well as Fanny. To her the cares were sometimes almost beyond\nthe happiness; for young and inexperienced, with small means of choice\nand no confidence in her own taste, the \"how she should be dressed\" was\na point of painful solicitude; and the almost solitary ornament in her\npossession, a very pretty amber cross which William had brought her from\nSicily, was the greatest distress of all, for she had nothing but a bit\nof ribbon to fasten it to; and though she had worn it in that manner\nonce, would it be allowable at such a time in the midst of all the rich\nornaments which she supposed all the other young ladies would appear in?\nAnd yet not to wear it! William had wanted to buy her a gold chain too,\nbut the purchase had been beyond his means, and therefore not to wear\nthe cross might be mortifying him. These were anxious considerations;\nenough to sober her spirits even under the prospect of a ball given\nprincipally for her gratification.\n\nThe preparations meanwhile went on, and Lady Bertram continued to sit on\nher sofa without any inconvenience from them. She had some extra visits\nfrom the housekeeper, and her maid was rather hurried in making up a new\ndress for her: Sir Thomas gave orders, and Mrs. Norris ran about; but\nall this gave _her_ no trouble, and as she had foreseen, \"there was, in\nfact, no trouble in the business.\"\n\nEdmund was at this time particularly full of cares: his mind being\ndeeply occupied in the consideration of two important events now\nat hand, which were to fix his fate in life--ordination and\nmatrimony--events of such a serious character as to make the ball, which\nwould be very quickly followed by one of them, appear of less moment in\nhis eyes than in those of any other person in the house. On the 23rd\nhe was going to a friend near Peterborough, in the same situation\nas himself, and they were to receive ordination in the course of the\nChristmas week. Half his destiny would then be determined, but the\nother half might not be so very smoothly wooed. His duties would be\nestablished, but the wife who was to share, and animate, and reward\nthose duties, might yet be unattainable. He knew his own mind, but he\nwas not always perfectly assured of knowing Miss Crawford's. There were\npoints on which they did not quite agree; there were moments in which\nshe did not seem propitious; and though trusting altogether to her\naffection, so far as to be resolved--almost resolved--on bringing it to\na decision within a very short time, as soon as the variety of business\nbefore him were arranged, and he knew what he had to offer her, he\nhad many anxious feelings, many doubting hours as to the result. His\nconviction of her regard for him was sometimes very strong; he could\nlook back on a long course of encouragement, and she was as perfect in\ndisinterested attachment as in everything else. But at other times\ndoubt and alarm intermingled with his hopes; and when he thought of\nher acknowledged disinclination for privacy and retirement, her decided\npreference of a London life, what could he expect but a determined\nrejection? unless it were an acceptance even more to be deprecated,\ndemanding such sacrifices of situation and employment on his side as\nconscience must forbid.\n\nThe issue of all depended on one question. Did she love him well enough\nto forego what had used to be essential points? Did she love him well\nenough to make them no longer essential? And this question, which he was\ncontinually repeating to himself, though oftenest answered with a \"Yes,\"\nhad sometimes its \"No.\"\n\nMiss Crawford was soon to leave Mansfield, and on this circumstance the\n\"no\" and the \"yes\" had been very recently in alternation. He had seen\nher eyes sparkle as she spoke of the dear friend's letter, which claimed\na long visit from her in London, and of the kindness of Henry, in\nengaging to remain where he was till January, that he might convey her\nthither; he had heard her speak of the pleasure of such a journey with\nan animation which had \"no\" in every tone. But this had occurred on the\nfirst day of its being settled, within the first hour of the burst of\nsuch enjoyment, when nothing but the friends she was to visit was before\nher. He had since heard her express herself differently, with other\nfeelings, more chequered feelings: he had heard her tell Mrs. Grant that\nshe should leave her with regret; that she began to believe neither the\nfriends nor the pleasures she was going to were worth those she left\nbehind; and that though she felt she must go, and knew she should enjoy\nherself when once away, she was already looking forward to being at\nMansfield again. Was there not a \"yes\" in all this?\n\nWith such matters to ponder over, and arrange, and re-arrange, Edmund\ncould not, on his own account, think very much of the evening which the\nrest of the family were looking forward to with a more equal degree of\nstrong interest. Independent of his two cousins' enjoyment in it, the\nevening was to him of no higher value than any other appointed meeting\nof the two families might be. In every meeting there was a hope of\nreceiving farther confirmation of Miss Crawford's attachment; but the\nwhirl of a ballroom, perhaps, was not particularly favourable to the\nexcitement or expression of serious feelings. To engage her early for\nthe two first dances was all the command of individual happiness which\nhe felt in his power, and the only preparation for the ball which he\ncould enter into, in spite of all that was passing around him on the\nsubject, from morning till night.\n\nThursday was the day of the ball; and on Wednesday morning Fanny, still\nunable to satisfy herself as to what she ought to wear, determined to\nseek the counsel of the more enlightened, and apply to Mrs. Grant and\nher sister, whose acknowledged taste would certainly bear her blameless;\nand as Edmund and William were gone to Northampton, and she had reason\nto think Mr. Crawford likewise out, she walked down to the Parsonage\nwithout much fear of wanting an opportunity for private discussion;\nand the privacy of such a discussion was a most important part of it to\nFanny, being more than half-ashamed of her own solicitude.\n\nShe met Miss Crawford within a few yards of the Parsonage, just setting\nout to call on her, and as it seemed to her that her friend, though\nobliged to insist on turning back, was unwilling to lose her walk, she\nexplained her business at once, and observed, that if she would be so\nkind as to give her opinion, it might be all talked over as well without\ndoors as within. Miss Crawford appeared gratified by the application,\nand after a moment's thought, urged Fanny's returning with her in a much\nmore cordial manner than before, and proposed their going up into her\nroom, where they might have a comfortable coze, without disturbing Dr.\nand Mrs. Grant, who were together in the drawing-room. It was just the\nplan to suit Fanny; and with a great deal of gratitude on her side for\nsuch ready and kind attention, they proceeded indoors, and upstairs, and\nwere soon deep in the interesting subject. Miss Crawford, pleased with\nthe appeal, gave her all her best judgment and taste, made everything\neasy by her suggestions, and tried to make everything agreeable by her\nencouragement. The dress being settled in all its grander parts--\"But\nwhat shall you have by way of necklace?\" said Miss Crawford. \"Shall not\nyou wear your brother's cross?\" And as she spoke she was undoing a\nsmall parcel, which Fanny had observed in her hand when they met. Fanny\nacknowledged her wishes and doubts on this point: she did not know\nhow either to wear the cross, or to refrain from wearing it. She was\nanswered by having a small trinket-box placed before her, and being\nrequested to chuse from among several gold chains and necklaces. Such\nhad been the parcel with which Miss Crawford was provided, and such the\nobject of her intended visit: and in the kindest manner she now urged\nFanny's taking one for the cross and to keep for her sake, saying\neverything she could think of to obviate the scruples which were making\nFanny start back at first with a look of horror at the proposal.\n\n\"You see what a collection I have,\" said she; \"more by half than I ever\nuse or think of. I do not offer them as new. I offer nothing but an old\nnecklace. You must forgive the liberty, and oblige me.\"\n\nFanny still resisted, and from her heart. The gift was too valuable. But\nMiss Crawford persevered, and argued the case with so much affectionate\nearnestness through all the heads of William and the cross, and the\nball, and herself, as to be finally successful. Fanny found\nherself obliged to yield, that she might not be accused of pride\nor indifference, or some other littleness; and having with modest\nreluctance given her consent, proceeded to make the selection. She\nlooked and looked, longing to know which might be least valuable; and\nwas determined in her choice at last, by fancying there was one necklace\nmore frequently placed before her eyes than the rest. It was of gold,\nprettily worked; and though Fanny would have preferred a longer and a\nplainer chain as more adapted for her purpose, she hoped, in fixing\non this, to be chusing what Miss Crawford least wished to keep. Miss\nCrawford smiled her perfect approbation; and hastened to complete the\ngift by putting the necklace round her, and making her see how well\nit looked. Fanny had not a word to say against its becomingness, and,\nexcepting what remained of her scruples, was exceedingly pleased with\nan acquisition so very apropos. She would rather, perhaps, have been\nobliged to some other person. But this was an unworthy feeling. Miss\nCrawford had anticipated her wants with a kindness which proved her a\nreal friend. \"When I wear this necklace I shall always think of you,\"\nsaid she, \"and feel how very kind you were.\"\n\n\"You must think of somebody else too, when you wear that necklace,\"\nreplied Miss Crawford. \"You must think of Henry, for it was his choice\nin the first place. He gave it to me, and with the necklace I make over\nto you all the duty of remembering the original giver. It is to be\na family remembrancer. The sister is not to be in your mind without\nbringing the brother too.\"\n\nFanny, in great astonishment and confusion, would have returned the\npresent instantly. To take what had been the gift of another person,\nof a brother too, impossible! it must not be! and with an eagerness\nand embarrassment quite diverting to her companion, she laid down the\nnecklace again on its cotton, and seemed resolved either to take another\nor none at all. Miss Crawford thought she had never seen a prettier\nconsciousness. \"My dear child,\" said she, laughing, \"what are you afraid\nof? Do you think Henry will claim the necklace as mine, and fancy you\ndid not come honestly by it? or are you imagining he would be too much\nflattered by seeing round your lovely throat an ornament which his money\npurchased three years ago, before he knew there was such a throat in the\nworld? or perhaps\"--looking archly--\"you suspect a confederacy between\nus, and that what I am now doing is with his knowledge and at his\ndesire?\"\n\nWith the deepest blushes Fanny protested against such a thought.\n\n\"Well, then,\" replied Miss Crawford more seriously, but without at all\nbelieving her, \"to convince me that you suspect no trick, and are as\nunsuspicious of compliment as I have always found you, take the necklace\nand say no more about it. Its being a gift of my brother's need not make\nthe smallest difference in your accepting it, as I assure you it makes\nnone in my willingness to part with it. He is always giving me something\nor other. I have such innumerable presents from him that it is quite\nimpossible for me to value or for him to remember half. And as for this\nnecklace, I do not suppose I have worn it six times: it is very pretty,\nbut I never think of it; and though you would be most heartily welcome\nto any other in my trinket-box, you have happened to fix on the very\none which, if I have a choice, I would rather part with and see in your\npossession than any other. Say no more against it, I entreat you. Such a\ntrifle is not worth half so many words.\"\n\nFanny dared not make any farther opposition; and with renewed but less\nhappy thanks accepted the necklace again, for there was an expression in\nMiss Crawford's eyes which she could not be satisfied with.\n\nIt was impossible for her to be insensible of Mr. Crawford's change of\nmanners. She had long seen it. He evidently tried to please her: he was\ngallant, he was attentive, he was something like what he had been to her\ncousins: he wanted, she supposed, to cheat her of her tranquillity as\nhe had cheated them; and whether he might not have some concern in this\nnecklace--she could not be convinced that he had not, for Miss Crawford,\ncomplaisant as a sister, was careless as a woman and a friend.\n\nReflecting and doubting, and feeling that the possession of what she had\nso much wished for did not bring much satisfaction, she now walked\nhome again, with a change rather than a diminution of cares since her\ntreading that path before.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII\n\nOn reaching home Fanny went immediately upstairs to deposit this\nunexpected acquisition, this doubtful good of a necklace, in some\nfavourite box in the East room, which held all her smaller treasures;\nbut on opening the door, what was her surprise to find her cousin Edmund\nthere writing at the table! Such a sight having never occurred before,\nwas almost as wonderful as it was welcome.\n\n\"Fanny,\" said he directly, leaving his seat and his pen, and meeting her\nwith something in his hand, \"I beg your pardon for being here. I came\nto look for you, and after waiting a little while in hope of your coming\nin, was making use of your inkstand to explain my errand. You will find\nthe beginning of a note to yourself; but I can now speak my business,\nwhich is merely to beg your acceptance of this little trifle--a chain\nfor William's cross. You ought to have had it a week ago, but there has\nbeen a delay from my brother's not being in town by several days so soon\nas I expected; and I have only just now received it at Northampton. I\nhope you will like the chain itself, Fanny. I endeavoured to consult the\nsimplicity of your taste; but, at any rate, I know you will be kind to\nmy intentions, and consider it, as it really is, a token of the love of\none of your oldest friends.\"\n\nAnd so saying, he was hurrying away, before Fanny, overpowered by a\nthousand feelings of pain and pleasure, could attempt to speak; but\nquickened by one sovereign wish, she then called out, \"Oh! cousin, stop\na moment, pray stop!\"\n\nHe turned back.\n\n\"I cannot attempt to thank you,\" she continued, in a very agitated\nmanner; \"thanks are out of the question. I feel much more than I can\npossibly express. Your goodness in thinking of me in such a way is\nbeyond--\"\n\n\"If that is all you have to say, Fanny\" smiling and turning away again.\n\n\"No, no, it is not. I want to consult you.\"\n\nAlmost unconsciously she had now undone the parcel he had just put\ninto her hand, and seeing before her, in all the niceness of jewellers'\npacking, a plain gold chain, perfectly simple and neat, she could not\nhelp bursting forth again, \"Oh, this is beautiful indeed! This is the\nvery thing, precisely what I wished for! This is the only ornament I\nhave ever had a desire to possess. It will exactly suit my cross. They\nmust and shall be worn together. It comes, too, in such an acceptable\nmoment. Oh, cousin, you do not know how acceptable it is.\"\n\n\"My dear Fanny, you feel these things a great deal too much. I am most\nhappy that you like the chain, and that it should be here in time for\nto-morrow; but your thanks are far beyond the occasion. Believe me, I\nhave no pleasure in the world superior to that of contributing to yours.\nNo, I can safely say, I have no pleasure so complete, so unalloyed. It\nis without a drawback.\"\n\nUpon such expressions of affection Fanny could have lived an hour\nwithout saying another word; but Edmund, after waiting a moment, obliged\nher to bring down her mind from its heavenly flight by saying, \"But what\nis it that you want to consult me about?\"\n\nIt was about the necklace, which she was now most earnestly longing to\nreturn, and hoped to obtain his approbation of her doing. She gave the\nhistory of her recent visit, and now her raptures might well be over;\nfor Edmund was so struck with the circumstance, so delighted with what\nMiss Crawford had done, so gratified by such a coincidence of conduct\nbetween them, that Fanny could not but admit the superior power of one\npleasure over his own mind, though it might have its drawback. It was\nsome time before she could get his attention to her plan, or any answer\nto her demand of his opinion: he was in a reverie of fond reflection,\nuttering only now and then a few half-sentences of praise; but when\nhe did awake and understand, he was very decided in opposing what she\nwished.\n\n\"Return the necklace! No, my dear Fanny, upon no account. It would be\nmortifying her severely. There can hardly be a more unpleasant sensation\nthan the having anything returned on our hands which we have given with\na reasonable hope of its contributing to the comfort of a friend. Why\nshould she lose a pleasure which she has shewn herself so deserving of?\"\n\n\"If it had been given to me in the first instance,\" said Fanny, \"I\nshould not have thought of returning it; but being her brother's\npresent, is not it fair to suppose that she would rather not part with\nit, when it is not wanted?\"\n\n\"She must not suppose it not wanted, not acceptable, at least: and its\nhaving been originally her brother's gift makes no difference; for as\nshe was not prevented from offering, nor you from taking it on that\naccount, it ought not to prevent you from keeping it. No doubt it is\nhandsomer than mine, and fitter for a ballroom.\"\n\n\"No, it is not handsomer, not at all handsomer in its way, and, for\nmy purpose, not half so fit. The chain will agree with William's cross\nbeyond all comparison better than the necklace.\"\n\n\"For one night, Fanny, for only one night, if it _be_ a sacrifice; I am\nsure you will, upon consideration, make that sacrifice rather than give\npain to one who has been so studious of your comfort. Miss Crawford's\nattentions to you have been--not more than you were justly entitled\nto--I am the last person to think that _could_ _be_, but they have been\ninvariable; and to be returning them with what must have something the\n_air_ of ingratitude, though I know it could never have the _meaning_,\nis not in your nature, I am sure. Wear the necklace, as you are engaged\nto do, to-morrow evening, and let the chain, which was not ordered with\nany reference to the ball, be kept for commoner occasions. This is my\nadvice. I would not have the shadow of a coolness between the two whose\nintimacy I have been observing with the greatest pleasure, and in whose\ncharacters there is so much general resemblance in true generosity\nand natural delicacy as to make the few slight differences, resulting\nprincipally from situation, no reasonable hindrance to a perfect\nfriendship. I would not have the shadow of a coolness arise,\" he\nrepeated, his voice sinking a little, \"between the two dearest objects I\nhave on earth.\"\n\nHe was gone as he spoke; and Fanny remained to tranquillise herself as\nshe could. She was one of his two dearest--that must support her. But\nthe other: the first! She had never heard him speak so openly before,\nand though it told her no more than what she had long perceived, it was\na stab, for it told of his own convictions and views. They were\ndecided. He would marry Miss Crawford. It was a stab, in spite of every\nlong-standing expectation; and she was obliged to repeat again and\nagain, that she was one of his two dearest, before the words gave her\nany sensation. Could she believe Miss Crawford to deserve him, it would\nbe--oh, how different would it be--how far more tolerable! But he was\ndeceived in her: he gave her merits which she had not; her faults were\nwhat they had ever been, but he saw them no longer. Till she had shed\nmany tears over this deception, Fanny could not subdue her agitation;\nand the dejection which followed could only be relieved by the influence\nof fervent prayers for his happiness.\n\nIt was her intention, as she felt it to be her duty, to try to overcome\nall that was excessive, all that bordered on selfishness, in her\naffection for Edmund. To call or to fancy it a loss, a disappointment,\nwould be a presumption for which she had not words strong enough to\nsatisfy her own humility. To think of him as Miss Crawford might be\njustified in thinking, would in her be insanity. To her he could be\nnothing under any circumstances; nothing dearer than a friend. Why did\nsuch an idea occur to her even enough to be reprobated and forbidden? It\nought not to have touched on the confines of her imagination. She would\nendeavour to be rational, and to deserve the right of judging of Miss\nCrawford's character, and the privilege of true solicitude for him by a\nsound intellect and an honest heart.\n\nShe had all the heroism of principle, and was determined to do her duty;\nbut having also many of the feelings of youth and nature, let her not\nbe much wondered at, if, after making all these good resolutions on the\nside of self-government, she seized the scrap of paper on which Edmund\nhad begun writing to her, as a treasure beyond all her hopes, and\nreading with the tenderest emotion these words, \"My very dear Fanny,\nyou must do me the favour to accept\" locked it up with the chain, as the\ndearest part of the gift. It was the only thing approaching to a letter\nwhich she had ever received from him; she might never receive another;\nit was impossible that she ever should receive another so perfectly\ngratifying in the occasion and the style. Two lines more prized had\nnever fallen from the pen of the most distinguished author--never\nmore completely blessed the researches of the fondest biographer. The\nenthusiasm of a woman's love is even beyond the biographer's. To her,\nthe handwriting itself, independent of anything it may convey, is a\nblessedness. Never were such characters cut by any other human being as\nEdmund's commonest handwriting gave! This specimen, written in haste\nas it was, had not a fault; and there was a felicity in the flow of the\nfirst four words, in the arrangement of \"My very dear Fanny,\" which she\ncould have looked at for ever.\n\nHaving regulated her thoughts and comforted her feelings by this happy\nmixture of reason and weakness, she was able in due time to go down\nand resume her usual employments near her aunt Bertram, and pay her the\nusual observances without any apparent want of spirits.\n\nThursday, predestined to hope and enjoyment, came; and opened with\nmore kindness to Fanny than such self-willed, unmanageable days often\nvolunteer, for soon after breakfast a very friendly note was brought\nfrom Mr. Crawford to William, stating that as he found himself obliged\nto go to London on the morrow for a few days, he could not help trying\nto procure a companion; and therefore hoped that if William could\nmake up his mind to leave Mansfield half a day earlier than had been\nproposed, he would accept a place in his carriage. Mr. Crawford meant to\nbe in town by his uncle's accustomary late dinner-hour, and William\nwas invited to dine with him at the Admiral's. The proposal was a very\npleasant one to William himself, who enjoyed the idea of travelling post\nwith four horses, and such a good-humoured, agreeable friend; and, in\nlikening it to going up with despatches, was saying at once everything\nin favour of its happiness and dignity which his imagination could\nsuggest; and Fanny, from a different motive, was exceedingly pleased;\nfor the original plan was that William should go up by the mail from\nNorthampton the following night, which would not have allowed him an\nhour's rest before he must have got into a Portsmouth coach; and though\nthis offer of Mr. Crawford's would rob her of many hours of his company,\nshe was too happy in having William spared from the fatigue of such\na journey, to think of anything else. Sir Thomas approved of it for\nanother reason. His nephew's introduction to Admiral Crawford might be\nof service. The Admiral, he believed, had interest. Upon the whole, it\nwas a very joyous note. Fanny's spirits lived on it half the morning,\nderiving some accession of pleasure from its writer being himself to go\naway.\n\nAs for the ball, so near at hand, she had too many agitations and fears\nto have half the enjoyment in anticipation which she ought to have had,\nor must have been supposed to have by the many young ladies looking\nforward to the same event in situations more at ease, but under\ncircumstances of less novelty, less interest, less peculiar\ngratification, than would be attributed to her. Miss Price, known\nonly by name to half the people invited, was now to make her first\nappearance, and must be regarded as the queen of the evening. Who could\nbe happier than Miss Price? But Miss Price had not been brought up to\nthe trade of _coming_ _out_; and had she known in what light this ball\nwas, in general, considered respecting her, it would very much have\nlessened her comfort by increasing the fears she already had of doing\nwrong and being looked at. To dance without much observation or any\nextraordinary fatigue, to have strength and partners for about half the\nevening, to dance a little with Edmund, and not a great deal with Mr.\nCrawford, to see William enjoy himself, and be able to keep away\nfrom her aunt Norris, was the height of her ambition, and seemed to\ncomprehend her greatest possibility of happiness. As these were the best\nof her hopes, they could not always prevail; and in the course of a long\nmorning, spent principally with her two aunts, she was often under the\ninfluence of much less sanguine views. William, determined to make this\nlast day a day of thorough enjoyment, was out snipe-shooting; Edmund,\nshe had too much reason to suppose, was at the Parsonage; and left\nalone to bear the worrying of Mrs. Norris, who was cross because the\nhousekeeper would have her own way with the supper, and whom _she_ could\nnot avoid though the housekeeper might, Fanny was worn down at last to\nthink everything an evil belonging to the ball, and when sent off with\na parting worry to dress, moved as languidly towards her own room, and\nfelt as incapable of happiness as if she had been allowed no share in\nit.\n\nAs she walked slowly upstairs she thought of yesterday; it had been\nabout the same hour that she had returned from the Parsonage, and\nfound Edmund in the East room. \"Suppose I were to find him there again\nto-day!\" said she to herself, in a fond indulgence of fancy.\n\n\"Fanny,\" said a voice at that moment near her. Starting and looking up,\nshe saw, across the lobby she had just reached, Edmund himself, standing\nat the head of a different staircase. He came towards her. \"You look\ntired and fagged, Fanny. You have been walking too far.\"\n\n\"No, I have not been out at all.\"\n\n\"Then you have had fatigues within doors, which are worse. You had\nbetter have gone out.\"\n\nFanny, not liking to complain, found it easiest to make no answer; and\nthough he looked at her with his usual kindness, she believed he had\nsoon ceased to think of her countenance. He did not appear in spirits:\nsomething unconnected with her was probably amiss. They proceeded\nupstairs together, their rooms being on the same floor above.\n\n\"I come from Dr. Grant's,\" said Edmund presently. \"You may guess my\nerrand there, Fanny.\" And he looked so conscious, that Fanny could think\nbut of one errand, which turned her too sick for speech. \"I wished to\nengage Miss Crawford for the two first dances,\" was the explanation that\nfollowed, and brought Fanny to life again, enabling her, as she found\nshe was expected to speak, to utter something like an inquiry as to the\nresult.\n\n\"Yes,\" he answered, \"she is engaged to me; but\" (with a smile that did\nnot sit easy) \"she says it is to be the last time that she ever will\ndance with me. She is not serious. I think, I hope, I am sure she is\nnot serious; but I would rather not hear it. She never has danced with a\nclergyman, she says, and she never _will_. For my own sake, I could wish\nthere had been no ball just at--I mean not this very week, this very\nday; to-morrow I leave home.\"\n\nFanny struggled for speech, and said, \"I am very sorry that anything has\noccurred to distress you. This ought to be a day of pleasure. My uncle\nmeant it so.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, yes! and it will be a day of pleasure. It will all end right. I\nam only vexed for a moment. In fact, it is not that I consider the ball\nas ill-timed; what does it signify? But, Fanny,\" stopping her, by taking\nher hand, and speaking low and seriously, \"you know what all this means.\nYou see how it is; and could tell me, perhaps better than I could tell\nyou, how and why I am vexed. Let me talk to you a little. You are a\nkind, kind listener. I have been pained by her manner this morning, and\ncannot get the better of it. I know her disposition to be as sweet and\nfaultless as your own, but the influence of her former companions\nmakes her seem--gives to her conversation, to her professed opinions,\nsometimes a tinge of wrong. She does not _think_ evil, but she speaks\nit, speaks it in playfulness; and though I know it to be playfulness, it\ngrieves me to the soul.\"\n\n\"The effect of education,\" said Fanny gently.\n\nEdmund could not but agree to it. \"Yes, that uncle and aunt! They have\ninjured the finest mind; for sometimes, Fanny, I own to you, it does\nappear more than manner: it appears as if the mind itself was tainted.\"\n\nFanny imagined this to be an appeal to her judgment, and therefore,\nafter a moment's consideration, said, \"If you only want me as a\nlistener, cousin, I will be as useful as I can; but I am not qualified\nfor an adviser. Do not ask advice of _me_. I am not competent.\"\n\n\"You are right, Fanny, to protest against such an office, but you need\nnot be afraid. It is a subject on which I should never ask advice; it\nis the sort of subject on which it had better never be asked; and few,\nI imagine, do ask it, but when they want to be influenced against their\nconscience. I only want to talk to you.\"\n\n\"One thing more. Excuse the liberty; but take care _how_ you talk to me.\nDo not tell me anything now, which hereafter you may be sorry for. The\ntime may come--\"\n\nThe colour rushed into her cheeks as she spoke.\n\n\"Dearest Fanny!\" cried Edmund, pressing her hand to his lips with\nalmost as much warmth as if it had been Miss Crawford's, \"you are all\nconsiderate thought! But it is unnecessary here. The time will never\ncome. No such time as you allude to will ever come. I begin to think it\nmost improbable: the chances grow less and less; and even if it should,\nthere will be nothing to be remembered by either you or me that we need\nbe afraid of, for I can never be ashamed of my own scruples; and if they\nare removed, it must be by changes that will only raise her character\nthe more by the recollection of the faults she once had. You are the\nonly being upon earth to whom I should say what I have said; but you\nhave always known my opinion of her; you can bear me witness, Fanny,\nthat I have never been blinded. How many a time have we talked over\nher little errors! You need not fear me; I have almost given up every\nserious idea of her; but I must be a blockhead indeed, if, whatever\nbefell me, I could think of your kindness and sympathy without the\nsincerest gratitude.\"\n\nHe had said enough to shake the experience of eighteen. He had said\nenough to give Fanny some happier feelings than she had lately known,\nand with a brighter look, she answered, \"Yes, cousin, I am convinced\nthat _you_ would be incapable of anything else, though perhaps some\nmight not. I cannot be afraid of hearing anything you wish to say. Do\nnot check yourself. Tell me whatever you like.\"\n\nThey were now on the second floor, and the appearance of a housemaid\nprevented any farther conversation. For Fanny's present comfort it was\nconcluded, perhaps, at the happiest moment: had he been able to talk\nanother five minutes, there is no saying that he might not have talked\naway all Miss Crawford's faults and his own despondence. But as it was,\nthey parted with looks on his side of grateful affection, and with\nsome very precious sensations on hers. She had felt nothing like it for\nhours. Since the first joy from Mr. Crawford's note to William had worn\naway, she had been in a state absolutely the reverse; there had been\nno comfort around, no hope within her. Now everything was smiling.\nWilliam's good fortune returned again upon her mind, and seemed of\ngreater value than at first. The ball, too--such an evening of pleasure\nbefore her! It was now a real animation; and she began to dress for it\nwith much of the happy flutter which belongs to a ball. All went well:\nshe did not dislike her own looks; and when she came to the necklaces\nagain, her good fortune seemed complete, for upon trial the one given\nher by Miss Crawford would by no means go through the ring of the cross.\nShe had, to oblige Edmund, resolved to wear it; but it was too large for\nthe purpose. His, therefore, must be worn; and having, with delightful\nfeelings, joined the chain and the cross--those memorials of the two\nmost beloved of her heart, those dearest tokens so formed for each other\nby everything real and imaginary--and put them round her neck, and seen\nand felt how full of William and Edmund they were, she was able, without\nan effort, to resolve on wearing Miss Crawford's necklace too. She\nacknowledged it to be right. Miss Crawford had a claim; and when it was\nno longer to encroach on, to interfere with the stronger claims, the\ntruer kindness of another, she could do her justice even with pleasure\nto herself. The necklace really looked very well; and Fanny left her\nroom at last, comfortably satisfied with herself and all about her.\n\nHer aunt Bertram had recollected her on this occasion with an unusual\ndegree of wakefulness. It had really occurred to her, unprompted, that\nFanny, preparing for a ball, might be glad of better help than the upper\nhousemaid's, and when dressed herself, she actually sent her own maid to\nassist her; too late, of course, to be of any use. Mrs. Chapman had just\nreached the attic floor, when Miss Price came out of her room completely\ndressed, and only civilities were necessary; but Fanny felt her aunt's\nattention almost as much as Lady Bertram or Mrs. Chapman could do\nthemselves.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII\n\nHer uncle and both her aunts were in the drawing-room when Fanny went\ndown. To the former she was an interesting object, and he saw with\npleasure the general elegance of her appearance, and her being in\nremarkably good looks. The neatness and propriety of her dress was all\nthat he would allow himself to commend in her presence, but upon her\nleaving the room again soon afterwards, he spoke of her beauty with very\ndecided praise.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Lady Bertram, \"she looks very well. I sent Chapman to her.\"\n\n\"Look well! Oh, yes!\" cried Mrs. Norris, \"she has good reason to look\nwell with all her advantages: brought up in this family as she has been,\nwith all the benefit of her cousins' manners before her. Only think, my\ndear Sir Thomas, what extraordinary advantages you and I have been the\nmeans of giving her. The very gown you have been taking notice of is\nyour own generous present to her when dear Mrs. Rushworth married. What\nwould she have been if we had not taken her by the hand?\"\n\nSir Thomas said no more; but when they sat down to table the eyes of\nthe two young men assured him that the subject might be gently touched\nagain, when the ladies withdrew, with more success. Fanny saw that she\nwas approved; and the consciousness of looking well made her look still\nbetter. From a variety of causes she was happy, and she was soon made\nstill happier; for in following her aunts out of the room, Edmund, who\nwas holding open the door, said, as she passed him, \"You must dance\nwith me, Fanny; you must keep two dances for me; any two that you like,\nexcept the first.\" She had nothing more to wish for. She had hardly\never been in a state so nearly approaching high spirits in her life. Her\ncousins' former gaiety on the day of a ball was no longer surprising to\nher; she felt it to be indeed very charming, and was actually practising\nher steps about the drawing-room as long as she could be safe from the\nnotice of her aunt Norris, who was entirely taken up at first in fresh\narranging and injuring the noble fire which the butler had prepared.\n\nHalf an hour followed that would have been at least languid under any\nother circumstances, but Fanny's happiness still prevailed. It was but\nto think of her conversation with Edmund, and what was the restlessness\nof Mrs. Norris? What were the yawns of Lady Bertram?\n\nThe gentlemen joined them; and soon after began the sweet expectation of\na carriage, when a general spirit of ease and enjoyment seemed diffused,\nand they all stood about and talked and laughed, and every moment had\nits pleasure and its hope. Fanny felt that there must be a struggle\nin Edmund's cheerfulness, but it was delightful to see the effort so\nsuccessfully made.\n\nWhen the carriages were really heard, when the guests began really to\nassemble, her own gaiety of heart was much subdued: the sight of so\nmany strangers threw her back into herself; and besides the gravity and\nformality of the first great circle, which the manners of neither Sir\nThomas nor Lady Bertram were of a kind to do away, she found herself\noccasionally called on to endure something worse. She was introduced\nhere and there by her uncle, and forced to be spoken to, and to curtsey,\nand speak again. This was a hard duty, and she was never summoned to\nit without looking at William, as he walked about at his ease in the\nbackground of the scene, and longing to be with him.\n\nThe entrance of the Grants and Crawfords was a favourable epoch. The\nstiffness of the meeting soon gave way before their popular manners and\nmore diffused intimacies: little groups were formed, and everybody grew\ncomfortable. Fanny felt the advantage; and, drawing back from the toils\nof civility, would have been again most happy, could she have kept her\neyes from wandering between Edmund and Mary Crawford. _She_ looked all\nloveliness--and what might not be the end of it? Her own musings\nwere brought to an end on perceiving Mr. Crawford before her, and\nher thoughts were put into another channel by his engaging her almost\ninstantly for the first two dances. Her happiness on this occasion was\nvery much _a_ _la_ _mortal_, finely chequered. To be secure of a partner\nat first was a most essential good--for the moment of beginning was now\ngrowing seriously near; and she so little understood her own claims as\nto think that if Mr. Crawford had not asked her, she must have been the\nlast to be sought after, and should have received a partner only through\na series of inquiry, and bustle, and interference, which would have been\nterrible; but at the same time there was a pointedness in his manner of\nasking her which she did not like, and she saw his eye glancing for\na moment at her necklace, with a smile--she thought there was a\nsmile--which made her blush and feel wretched. And though there was no\nsecond glance to disturb her, though his object seemed then to be only\nquietly agreeable, she could not get the better of her embarrassment,\nheightened as it was by the idea of his perceiving it, and had no\ncomposure till he turned away to some one else. Then she could gradually\nrise up to the genuine satisfaction of having a partner, a voluntary\npartner, secured against the dancing began.\n\nWhen the company were moving into the ballroom, she found herself\nfor the first time near Miss Crawford, whose eyes and smiles were\nimmediately and more unequivocally directed as her brother's had been,\nand who was beginning to speak on the subject, when Fanny, anxious\nto get the story over, hastened to give the explanation of the second\nnecklace: the real chain. Miss Crawford listened; and all her intended\ncompliments and insinuations to Fanny were forgotten: she felt only one\nthing; and her eyes, bright as they had been before, shewing they could\nyet be brighter, she exclaimed with eager pleasure, \"Did he? Did Edmund?\nThat was like himself. No other man would have thought of it. I honour\nhim beyond expression.\" And she looked around as if longing to tell him\nso. He was not near, he was attending a party of ladies out of the room;\nand Mrs. Grant coming up to the two girls, and taking an arm of each,\nthey followed with the rest.\n\nFanny's heart sunk, but there was no leisure for thinking long even of\nMiss Crawford's feelings. They were in the ballroom, the violins were\nplaying, and her mind was in a flutter that forbade its fixing on\nanything serious. She must watch the general arrangements, and see how\neverything was done.\n\nIn a few minutes Sir Thomas came to her, and asked if she were engaged;\nand the \"Yes, sir; to Mr. Crawford,\" was exactly what he had intended\nto hear. Mr. Crawford was not far off; Sir Thomas brought him to her,\nsaying something which discovered to Fanny, that _she_ was to lead the\nway and open the ball; an idea that had never occurred to her before.\nWhenever she had thought of the minutiae of the evening, it had been as\na matter of course that Edmund would begin with Miss Crawford; and the\nimpression was so strong, that though _her_ _uncle_ spoke the contrary,\nshe could not help an exclamation of surprise, a hint of her unfitness,\nan entreaty even to be excused. To be urging her opinion against Sir\nThomas's was a proof of the extremity of the case; but such was her\nhorror at the first suggestion, that she could actually look him in\nthe face and say that she hoped it might be settled otherwise; in vain,\nhowever: Sir Thomas smiled, tried to encourage her, and then looked too\nserious, and said too decidedly, \"It must be so, my dear,\" for her to\nhazard another word; and she found herself the next moment conducted by\nMr. Crawford to the top of the room, and standing there to be joined by\nthe rest of the dancers, couple after couple, as they were formed.\n\nShe could hardly believe it. To be placed above so many elegant young\nwomen! The distinction was too great. It was treating her like her\ncousins! And her thoughts flew to those absent cousins with most\nunfeigned and truly tender regret, that they were not at home to take\ntheir own place in the room, and have their share of a pleasure which\nwould have been so very delightful to them. So often as she had heard\nthem wish for a ball at home as the greatest of all felicities! And\nto have them away when it was given--and for _her_ to be opening the\nball--and with Mr. Crawford too! She hoped they would not envy her that\ndistinction _now_; but when she looked back to the state of things in\nthe autumn, to what they had all been to each other when once dancing\nin that house before, the present arrangement was almost more than she\ncould understand herself.\n\nThe ball began. It was rather honour than happiness to Fanny, for the\nfirst dance at least: her partner was in excellent spirits, and tried to\nimpart them to her; but she was a great deal too much frightened to have\nany enjoyment till she could suppose herself no longer looked at. Young,\npretty, and gentle, however, she had no awkwardnesses that were not\nas good as graces, and there were few persons present that were not\ndisposed to praise her. She was attractive, she was modest, she was Sir\nThomas's niece, and she was soon said to be admired by Mr. Crawford. It\nwas enough to give her general favour. Sir Thomas himself was watching\nher progress down the dance with much complacency; he was proud of his\nniece; and without attributing all her personal beauty, as Mrs. Norris\nseemed to do, to her transplantation to Mansfield, he was pleased with\nhimself for having supplied everything else: education and manners she\nowed to him.\n\nMiss Crawford saw much of Sir Thomas's thoughts as he stood, and having,\nin spite of all his wrongs towards her, a general prevailing desire of\nrecommending herself to him, took an opportunity of stepping aside to\nsay something agreeable of Fanny. Her praise was warm, and he\nreceived it as she could wish, joining in it as far as discretion, and\npoliteness, and slowness of speech would allow, and certainly appearing\nto greater advantage on the subject than his lady did soon afterwards,\nwhen Mary, perceiving her on a sofa very near, turned round before she\nbegan to dance, to compliment her on Miss Price's looks.\n\n\"Yes, she does look very well,\" was Lady Bertram's placid reply.\n\"Chapman helped her to dress. I sent Chapman to her.\" Not but that\nshe was really pleased to have Fanny admired; but she was so much more\nstruck with her own kindness in sending Chapman to her, that she could\nnot get it out of her head.\n\nMiss Crawford knew Mrs. Norris too well to think of gratifying _her_\nby commendation of Fanny; to her, it was as the occasion offered--\"Ah!\nma'am, how much we want dear Mrs. Rushworth and Julia to-night!\" and\nMrs. Norris paid her with as many smiles and courteous words as she had\ntime for, amid so much occupation as she found for herself in making\nup card-tables, giving hints to Sir Thomas, and trying to move all the\nchaperons to a better part of the room.\n\nMiss Crawford blundered most towards Fanny herself in her intentions\nto please. She meant to be giving her little heart a happy flutter,\nand filling her with sensations of delightful self-consequence; and,\nmisinterpreting Fanny's blushes, still thought she must be doing so when\nshe went to her after the two first dances, and said, with a significant\nlook, \"Perhaps _you_ can tell me why my brother goes to town to-morrow?\nHe says he has business there, but will not tell me what. The first time\nhe ever denied me his confidence! But this is what we all come to.\nAll are supplanted sooner or later. Now, I must apply to you for\ninformation. Pray, what is Henry going for?\"\n\nFanny protested her ignorance as steadily as her embarrassment allowed.\n\n\"Well, then,\" replied Miss Crawford, laughing, \"I must suppose it to be\npurely for the pleasure of conveying your brother, and of talking of you\nby the way.\"\n\nFanny was confused, but it was the confusion of discontent; while Miss\nCrawford wondered she did not smile, and thought her over-anxious,\nor thought her odd, or thought her anything rather than insensible of\npleasure in Henry's attentions. Fanny had a good deal of enjoyment in\nthe course of the evening; but Henry's attentions had very little to\ndo with it. She would much rather _not_ have been asked by him again so\nvery soon, and she wished she had not been obliged to suspect that his\nprevious inquiries of Mrs. Norris, about the supper hour, were all for\nthe sake of securing her at that part of the evening. But it was not to\nbe avoided: he made her feel that she was the object of all; though she\ncould not say that it was unpleasantly done, that there was indelicacy\nor ostentation in his manner; and sometimes, when he talked of William,\nhe was really not unagreeable, and shewed even a warmth of heart\nwhich did him credit. But still his attentions made no part of her\nsatisfaction. She was happy whenever she looked at William, and saw how\nperfectly he was enjoying himself, in every five minutes that she could\nwalk about with him and hear his account of his partners; she was happy\nin knowing herself admired; and she was happy in having the two dances\nwith Edmund still to look forward to, during the greatest part of the\nevening, her hand being so eagerly sought after that her indefinite\nengagement with _him_ was in continual perspective. She was happy even\nwhen they did take place; but not from any flow of spirits on his side,\nor any such expressions of tender gallantry as had blessed the morning.\nHis mind was fagged, and her happiness sprung from being the friend with\nwhom it could find repose. \"I am worn out with civility,\" said he. \"I\nhave been talking incessantly all night, and with nothing to say. But\nwith _you_, Fanny, there may be peace. You will not want to be talked\nto. Let us have the luxury of silence.\" Fanny would hardly even speak\nher agreement. A weariness, arising probably, in great measure, from the\nsame feelings which he had acknowledged in the morning, was peculiarly\nto be respected, and they went down their two dances together with such\nsober tranquillity as might satisfy any looker-on that Sir Thomas had\nbeen bringing up no wife for his younger son.\n\nThe evening had afforded Edmund little pleasure. Miss Crawford had\nbeen in gay spirits when they first danced together, but it was not her\ngaiety that could do him good: it rather sank than raised his comfort;\nand afterwards, for he found himself still impelled to seek her\nagain, she had absolutely pained him by her manner of speaking of the\nprofession to which he was now on the point of belonging. They had\ntalked, and they had been silent; he had reasoned, she had ridiculed;\nand they had parted at last with mutual vexation. Fanny, not able to\nrefrain entirely from observing them, had seen enough to be tolerably\nsatisfied. It was barbarous to be happy when Edmund was suffering. Yet\nsome happiness must and would arise from the very conviction that he did\nsuffer.\n\nWhen her two dances with him were over, her inclination and strength for\nmore were pretty well at an end; and Sir Thomas, having seen her walk\nrather than dance down the shortening set, breathless, and with her hand\nat her side, gave his orders for her sitting down entirely. From that\ntime Mr. Crawford sat down likewise.\n\n\"Poor Fanny!\" cried William, coming for a moment to visit her, and\nworking away his partner's fan as if for life, \"how soon she is knocked\nup! Why, the sport is but just begun. I hope we shall keep it up these\ntwo hours. How can you be tired so soon?\"\n\n\"So soon! my good friend,\" said Sir Thomas, producing his watch with all\nnecessary caution; \"it is three o'clock, and your sister is not used to\nthese sort of hours.\"\n\n\"Well, then, Fanny, you shall not get up to-morrow before I go. Sleep as\nlong as you can, and never mind me.\"\n\n\"Oh! William.\"\n\n\"What! Did she think of being up before you set off?\"\n\n\"Oh! yes, sir,\" cried Fanny, rising eagerly from her seat to be nearer\nher uncle; \"I must get up and breakfast with him. It will be the last\ntime, you know; the last morning.\"\n\n\"You had better not. He is to have breakfasted and be gone by half-past\nnine. Mr. Crawford, I think you call for him at half-past nine?\"\n\nFanny was too urgent, however, and had too many tears in her eyes for\ndenial; and it ended in a gracious \"Well, well!\" which was permission.\n\n\"Yes, half-past nine,\" said Crawford to William as the latter was\nleaving them, \"and I shall be punctual, for there will be no kind sister\nto get up for _me_.\" And in a lower tone to Fanny, \"I shall have only\na desolate house to hurry from. Your brother will find my ideas of time\nand his own very different to-morrow.\"\n\nAfter a short consideration, Sir Thomas asked Crawford to join the early\nbreakfast party in that house instead of eating alone: he should himself\nbe of it; and the readiness with which his invitation was accepted\nconvinced him that the suspicions whence, he must confess to himself,\nthis very ball had in great measure sprung, were well founded. Mr.\nCrawford was in love with Fanny. He had a pleasing anticipation of what\nwould be. His niece, meanwhile, did not thank him for what he had just\ndone. She had hoped to have William all to herself the last morning. It\nwould have been an unspeakable indulgence. But though her wishes\nwere overthrown, there was no spirit of murmuring within her. On the\ncontrary, she was so totally unused to have her pleasure consulted, or\nto have anything take place at all in the way she could desire, that she\nwas more disposed to wonder and rejoice in having carried her point so\nfar, than to repine at the counteraction which followed.\n\nShortly afterward, Sir Thomas was again interfering a little with her\ninclination, by advising her to go immediately to bed. \"Advise\" was his\nword, but it was the advice of absolute power, and she had only to\nrise, and, with Mr. Crawford's very cordial adieus, pass quietly away;\nstopping at the entrance-door, like the Lady of Branxholm Hall, \"one\nmoment and no more,\" to view the happy scene, and take a last look at\nthe five or six determined couple who were still hard at work; and then,\ncreeping slowly up the principal staircase, pursued by the ceaseless\ncountry-dance, feverish with hopes and fears, soup and negus,\nsore-footed and fatigued, restless and agitated, yet feeling, in spite\nof everything, that a ball was indeed delightful.\n\nIn thus sending her away, Sir Thomas perhaps might not be thinking\nmerely of her health. It might occur to him that Mr. Crawford had been\nsitting by her long enough, or he might mean to recommend her as a wife\nby shewing her persuadableness.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX\n\nThe ball was over, and the breakfast was soon over too; the last kiss\nwas given, and William was gone. Mr. Crawford had, as he foretold, been\nvery punctual, and short and pleasant had been the meal.\n\nAfter seeing William to the last moment, Fanny walked back to the\nbreakfast-room with a very saddened heart to grieve over the melancholy\nchange; and there her uncle kindly left her to cry in peace, conceiving,\nperhaps, that the deserted chair of each young man might exercise her\ntender enthusiasm, and that the remaining cold pork bones and mustard in\nWilliam's plate might but divide her feelings with the broken egg-shells\nin Mr. Crawford's. She sat and cried _con_ _amore_ as her uncle\nintended, but it was _con_ _amore_ fraternal and no other. William was\ngone, and she now felt as if she had wasted half his visit in idle cares\nand selfish solicitudes unconnected with him.\n\nFanny's disposition was such that she could never even think of her\naunt Norris in the meagreness and cheerlessness of her own small house,\nwithout reproaching herself for some little want of attention to her\nwhen they had been last together; much less could her feelings acquit\nher of having done and said and thought everything by William that was\ndue to him for a whole fortnight.\n\nIt was a heavy, melancholy day. Soon after the second breakfast, Edmund\nbade them good-bye for a week, and mounted his horse for Peterborough,\nand then all were gone. Nothing remained of last night but remembrances,\nwhich she had nobody to share in. She talked to her aunt Bertram--she\nmust talk to somebody of the ball; but her aunt had seen so little of\nwhat had passed, and had so little curiosity, that it was heavy work.\nLady Bertram was not certain of anybody's dress or anybody's place at\nsupper but her own. \"She could not recollect what it was that she had\nheard about one of the Miss Maddoxes, or what it was that Lady Prescott\nhad noticed in Fanny: she was not sure whether Colonel Harrison had been\ntalking of Mr. Crawford or of William when he said he was the finest\nyoung man in the room--somebody had whispered something to her; she had\nforgot to ask Sir Thomas what it could be.\" And these were her longest\nspeeches and clearest communications: the rest was only a languid \"Yes,\nyes; very well; did you? did he? I did not see _that_; I should not know\none from the other.\" This was very bad. It was only better than Mrs.\nNorris's sharp answers would have been; but she being gone home with\nall the supernumerary jellies to nurse a sick maid, there was peace\nand good-humour in their little party, though it could not boast much\nbeside.\n\nThe evening was heavy like the day. \"I cannot think what is the matter\nwith me,\" said Lady Bertram, when the tea-things were removed. \"I feel\nquite stupid. It must be sitting up so late last night. Fanny, you must\ndo something to keep me awake. I cannot work. Fetch the cards; I feel so\nvery stupid.\"\n\nThe cards were brought, and Fanny played at cribbage with her aunt till\nbedtime; and as Sir Thomas was reading to himself, no sounds were\nheard in the room for the next two hours beyond the reckonings of the\ngame--\"And _that_ makes thirty-one; four in hand and eight in crib. You\nare to deal, ma'am; shall I deal for you?\" Fanny thought and thought\nagain of the difference which twenty-four hours had made in that room,\nand all that part of the house. Last night it had been hope and smiles,\nbustle and motion, noise and brilliancy, in the drawing-room, and out\nof the drawing-room, and everywhere. Now it was languor, and all but\nsolitude.\n\nA good night's rest improved her spirits. She could think of William the\nnext day more cheerfully; and as the morning afforded her an opportunity\nof talking over Thursday night with Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford, in a\nvery handsome style, with all the heightenings of imagination, and\nall the laughs of playfulness which are so essential to the shade of a\ndeparted ball, she could afterwards bring her mind without much effort\ninto its everyday state, and easily conform to the tranquillity of the\npresent quiet week.\n\nThey were indeed a smaller party than she had ever known there for\na whole day together, and _he_ was gone on whom the comfort and\ncheerfulness of every family meeting and every meal chiefly depended.\nBut this must be learned to be endured. He would soon be always gone;\nand she was thankful that she could now sit in the same room with her\nuncle, hear his voice, receive his questions, and even answer them,\nwithout such wretched feelings as she had formerly known.\n\n\"We miss our two young men,\" was Sir Thomas's observation on both the\nfirst and second day, as they formed their very reduced circle after\ndinner; and in consideration of Fanny's swimming eyes, nothing more was\nsaid on the first day than to drink their good health; but on the\nsecond it led to something farther. William was kindly commended and\nhis promotion hoped for. \"And there is no reason to suppose,\" added Sir\nThomas, \"but that his visits to us may now be tolerably frequent. As to\nEdmund, we must learn to do without him. This will be the last winter of\nhis belonging to us, as he has done.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Lady Bertram, \"but I wish he was not going away. They are\nall going away, I think. I wish they would stay at home.\"\n\nThis wish was levelled principally at Julia, who had just applied for\npermission to go to town with Maria; and as Sir Thomas thought it best\nfor each daughter that the permission should be granted, Lady Bertram,\nthough in her own good-nature she would not have prevented it, was\nlamenting the change it made in the prospect of Julia's return, which\nwould otherwise have taken place about this time. A great deal of good\nsense followed on Sir Thomas's side, tending to reconcile his wife to\nthe arrangement. Everything that a considerate parent _ought_ to feel\nwas advanced for her use; and everything that an affectionate mother\n_must_ feel in promoting her children's enjoyment was attributed to her\nnature. Lady Bertram agreed to it all with a calm \"Yes\"; and at the end\nof a quarter of an hour's silent consideration spontaneously observed,\n\"Sir Thomas, I have been thinking--and I am very glad we took Fanny as\nwe did, for now the others are away we feel the good of it.\"\n\nSir Thomas immediately improved this compliment by adding, \"Very true.\nWe shew Fanny what a good girl we think her by praising her to her face,\nshe is now a very valuable companion. If we have been kind to _her_, she\nis now quite as necessary to _us_.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Lady Bertram presently; \"and it is a comfort to think that\nwe shall always have _her_.\"\n\nSir Thomas paused, half smiled, glanced at his niece, and then gravely\nreplied, \"She will never leave us, I hope, till invited to some other\nhome that may reasonably promise her greater happiness than she knows\nhere.\"\n\n\"And _that_ is not very likely to be, Sir Thomas. Who should invite her?\nMaria might be very glad to see her at Sotherton now and then, but she\nwould not think of asking her to live there; and I am sure she is better\noff here; and besides, I cannot do without her.\"\n\nThe week which passed so quietly and peaceably at the great house in\nMansfield had a very different character at the Parsonage. To the young\nlady, at least, in each family, it brought very different feelings. What\nwas tranquillity and comfort to Fanny was tediousness and vexation to\nMary. Something arose from difference of disposition and habit: one so\neasily satisfied, the other so unused to endure; but still more might be\nimputed to difference of circumstances. In some points of interest they\nwere exactly opposed to each other. To Fanny's mind, Edmund's absence\nwas really, in its cause and its tendency, a relief. To Mary it was\nevery way painful. She felt the want of his society every day, almost\nevery hour, and was too much in want of it to derive anything but\nirritation from considering the object for which he went. He could not\nhave devised anything more likely to raise his consequence than this\nweek's absence, occurring as it did at the very time of her brother's\ngoing away, of William Price's going too, and completing the sort of\ngeneral break-up of a party which had been so animated. She felt it\nkeenly. They were now a miserable trio, confined within doors by a\nseries of rain and snow, with nothing to do and no variety to hope for.\nAngry as she was with Edmund for adhering to his own notions, and acting\non them in defiance of her (and she had been so angry that they had\nhardly parted friends at the ball), she could not help thinking of\nhim continually when absent, dwelling on his merit and affection, and\nlonging again for the almost daily meetings they lately had. His absence\nwas unnecessarily long. He should not have planned such an absence--he\nshould not have left home for a week, when her own departure from\nMansfield was so near. Then she began to blame herself. She wished she\nhad not spoken so warmly in their last conversation. She was afraid she\nhad used some strong, some contemptuous expressions in speaking of the\nclergy, and that should not have been. It was ill-bred; it was wrong.\nShe wished such words unsaid with all her heart.\n\nHer vexation did not end with the week. All this was bad, but she had\nstill more to feel when Friday came round again and brought no Edmund;\nwhen Saturday came and still no Edmund; and when, through the slight\ncommunication with the other family which Sunday produced, she learned\nthat he had actually written home to defer his return, having promised\nto remain some days longer with his friend.\n\nIf she had felt impatience and regret before--if she had been sorry for\nwhat she said, and feared its too strong effect on him--she now felt\nand feared it all tenfold more. She had, moreover, to contend with one\ndisagreeable emotion entirely new to her--jealousy. His friend Mr.\nOwen had sisters; he might find them attractive. But, at any rate, his\nstaying away at a time when, according to all preceding plans, she was\nto remove to London, meant something that she could not bear. Had Henry\nreturned, as he talked of doing, at the end of three or four days, she\nshould now have been leaving Mansfield. It became absolutely necessary\nfor her to get to Fanny and try to learn something more. She could not\nlive any longer in such solitary wretchedness; and she made her way\nto the Park, through difficulties of walking which she had deemed\nunconquerable a week before, for the chance of hearing a little in\naddition, for the sake of at least hearing his name.\n\nThe first half-hour was lost, for Fanny and Lady Bertram were together,\nand unless she had Fanny to herself she could hope for nothing. But\nat last Lady Bertram left the room, and then almost immediately Miss\nCrawford thus began, with a voice as well regulated as she could--\"And\nhow do _you_ like your cousin Edmund's staying away so long? Being the\nonly young person at home, I consider _you_ as the greatest sufferer.\nYou must miss him. Does his staying longer surprise you?\"\n\n\"I do not know,\" said Fanny hesitatingly. \"Yes; I had not particularly\nexpected it.\"\n\n\"Perhaps he will always stay longer than he talks of. It is the general\nway all young men do.\"\n\n\"He did not, the only time he went to see Mr. Owen before.\"\n\n\"He finds the house more agreeable _now_. He is a very--a very pleasing\nyoung man himself, and I cannot help being rather concerned at not\nseeing him again before I go to London, as will now undoubtedly be the\ncase. I am looking for Henry every day, and as soon as he comes there\nwill be nothing to detain me at Mansfield. I should like to have seen\nhim once more, I confess. But you must give my compliments to him. Yes;\nI think it must be compliments. Is not there a something wanted,\nMiss Price, in our language--a something between compliments and--and\nlove--to suit the sort of friendly acquaintance we have had together? So\nmany months' acquaintance! But compliments may be sufficient here.\nWas his letter a long one? Does he give you much account of what he is\ndoing? Is it Christmas gaieties that he is staying for?\"\n\n\"I only heard a part of the letter; it was to my uncle; but I believe\nit was very short; indeed I am sure it was but a few lines. All that I\nheard was that his friend had pressed him to stay longer, and that he\nhad agreed to do so. A _few_ days longer, or _some_ days longer; I am\nnot quite sure which.\"\n\n\"Oh! if he wrote to his father; but I thought it might have been to Lady\nBertram or you. But if he wrote to his father, no wonder he was concise.\nWho could write chat to Sir Thomas? If he had written to you, there\nwould have been more particulars. You would have heard of balls\nand parties. He would have sent you a description of everything and\neverybody. How many Miss Owens are there?\"\n\n\"Three grown up.\"\n\n\"Are they musical?\"\n\n\"I do not at all know. I never heard.\"\n\n\"That is the first question, you know,\" said Miss Crawford, trying to\nappear gay and unconcerned, \"which every woman who plays herself is sure\nto ask about another. But it is very foolish to ask questions about\nany young ladies--about any three sisters just grown up; for one knows,\nwithout being told, exactly what they are: all very accomplished and\npleasing, and one very pretty. There is a beauty in every family; it is\na regular thing. Two play on the pianoforte, and one on the harp; and\nall sing, or would sing if they were taught, or sing all the better for\nnot being taught; or something like it.\"\n\n\"I know nothing of the Miss Owens,\" said Fanny calmly.\n\n\"You know nothing and you care less, as people say. Never did tone\nexpress indifference plainer. Indeed, how can one care for those one has\nnever seen? Well, when your cousin comes back, he will find Mansfield\nvery quiet; all the noisy ones gone, your brother and mine and myself. I\ndo not like the idea of leaving Mrs. Grant now the time draws near. She\ndoes not like my going.\"\n\nFanny felt obliged to speak. \"You cannot doubt your being missed by\nmany,\" said she. \"You will be very much missed.\"\n\nMiss Crawford turned her eye on her, as if wanting to hear or see more,\nand then laughingly said, \"Oh yes! missed as every noisy evil is missed\nwhen it is taken away; that is, there is a great difference felt. But I\nam not fishing; don't compliment me. If I _am_ missed, it will appear.\nI may be discovered by those who want to see me. I shall not be in any\ndoubtful, or distant, or unapproachable region.\"\n\nNow Fanny could not bring herself to speak, and Miss Crawford was\ndisappointed; for she had hoped to hear some pleasant assurance of her\npower from one who she thought must know, and her spirits were clouded\nagain.\n\n\"The Miss Owens,\" said she, soon afterwards; \"suppose you were to have\none of the Miss Owens settled at Thornton Lacey; how should you like it?\nStranger things have happened. I dare say they are trying for it. And\nthey are quite in the right, for it would be a very pretty establishment\nfor them. I do not at all wonder or blame them. It is everybody's duty\nto do as well for themselves as they can. Sir Thomas Bertram's son is\nsomebody; and now he is in their own line. Their father is a clergyman,\nand their brother is a clergyman, and they are all clergymen together.\nHe is their lawful property; he fairly belongs to them. You don't speak,\nFanny; Miss Price, you don't speak. But honestly now, do not you rather\nexpect it than otherwise?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Fanny stoutly, \"I do not expect it at all.\"\n\n\"Not at all!\" cried Miss Crawford with alacrity. \"I wonder at that. But\nI dare say you know exactly--I always imagine you are--perhaps you do\nnot think him likely to marry at all--or not at present.\"\n\n\"No, I do not,\" said Fanny softly, hoping she did not err either in the\nbelief or the acknowledgment of it.\n\nHer companion looked at her keenly; and gathering greater spirit from\nthe blush soon produced from such a look, only said, \"He is best off as\nhe is,\" and turned the subject.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX\n\nMiss Crawford's uneasiness was much lightened by this conversation, and\nshe walked home again in spirits which might have defied almost another\nweek of the same small party in the same bad weather, had they been put\nto the proof; but as that very evening brought her brother down from\nLondon again in quite, or more than quite, his usual cheerfulness, she\nhad nothing farther to try her own. His still refusing to tell her what\nhe had gone for was but the promotion of gaiety; a day before it might\nhave irritated, but now it was a pleasant joke--suspected only of\nconcealing something planned as a pleasant surprise to herself. And the\nnext day _did_ bring a surprise to her. Henry had said he should just\ngo and ask the Bertrams how they did, and be back in ten minutes, but\nhe was gone above an hour; and when his sister, who had been waiting for\nhim to walk with her in the garden, met him at last most impatiently in\nthe sweep, and cried out, \"My dear Henry, where can you have been\nall this time?\" he had only to say that he had been sitting with Lady\nBertram and Fanny.\n\n\"Sitting with them an hour and a half!\" exclaimed Mary.\n\nBut this was only the beginning of her surprise.\n\n\"Yes, Mary,\" said he, drawing her arm within his, and walking along\nthe sweep as if not knowing where he was: \"I could not get away sooner;\nFanny looked so lovely! I am quite determined, Mary. My mind is entirely\nmade up. Will it astonish you? No: you must be aware that I am quite\ndetermined to marry Fanny Price.\"\n\nThe surprise was now complete; for, in spite of whatever his\nconsciousness might suggest, a suspicion of his having any such views\nhad never entered his sister's imagination; and she looked so truly the\nastonishment she felt, that he was obliged to repeat what he had said,\nand more fully and more solemnly. The conviction of his determination\nonce admitted, it was not unwelcome. There was even pleasure with the\nsurprise. Mary was in a state of mind to rejoice in a connexion with the\nBertram family, and to be not displeased with her brother's marrying a\nlittle beneath him.\n\n\"Yes, Mary,\" was Henry's concluding assurance. \"I am fairly caught.\nYou know with what idle designs I began; but this is the end of them.\nI have, I flatter myself, made no inconsiderable progress in her\naffections; but my own are entirely fixed.\"\n\n\"Lucky, lucky girl!\" cried Mary, as soon as she could speak; \"what a\nmatch for her! My dearest Henry, this must be my _first_ feeling; but\nmy _second_, which you shall have as sincerely, is, that I approve your\nchoice from my soul, and foresee your happiness as heartily as I wish\nand desire it. You will have a sweet little wife; all gratitude and\ndevotion. Exactly what you deserve. What an amazing match for her! Mrs.\nNorris often talks of her luck; what will she say now? The delight\nof all the family, indeed! And she has some _true_ friends in it! How\n_they_ will rejoice! But tell me all about it! Talk to me for ever. When\ndid you begin to think seriously about her?\"\n\nNothing could be more impossible than to answer such a question, though\nnothing could be more agreeable than to have it asked. \"How the pleasing\nplague had stolen on him\" he could not say; and before he had expressed\nthe same sentiment with a little variation of words three times over,\nhis sister eagerly interrupted him with, \"Ah, my dear Henry, and this\nis what took you to London! This was your business! You chose to consult\nthe Admiral before you made up your mind.\"\n\nBut this he stoutly denied. He knew his uncle too well to consult him on\nany matrimonial scheme. The Admiral hated marriage, and thought it never\npardonable in a young man of independent fortune.\n\n\"When Fanny is known to him,\" continued Henry, \"he will doat on her.\nShe is exactly the woman to do away every prejudice of such a man as\nthe Admiral, for she he would describe, if indeed he has now delicacy\nof language enough to embody his own ideas. But till it is absolutely\nsettled--settled beyond all interference, he shall know nothing of the\nmatter. No, Mary, you are quite mistaken. You have not discovered my\nbusiness yet.\"\n\n\"Well, well, I am satisfied. I know now to whom it must relate, and am\nin no hurry for the rest. Fanny Price! wonderful, quite wonderful! That\nMansfield should have done so much for--that _you_ should have found\nyour fate in Mansfield! But you are quite right; you could not have\nchosen better. There is not a better girl in the world, and you do not\nwant for fortune; and as to her connexions, they are more than good. The\nBertrams are undoubtedly some of the first people in this country. She\nis niece to Sir Thomas Bertram; that will be enough for the world. But\ngo on, go on. Tell me more. What are your plans? Does she know her own\nhappiness?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"What are you waiting for?\"\n\n\"For--for very little more than opportunity. Mary, she is not like her\ncousins; but I think I shall not ask in vain.\"\n\n\"Oh no! you cannot. Were you even less pleasing--supposing her not to\nlove you already (of which, however, I can have little doubt)--you would\nbe safe. The gentleness and gratitude of her disposition would secure\nher all your own immediately. From my soul I do not think she would\nmarry you _without_ love; that is, if there is a girl in the world\ncapable of being uninfluenced by ambition, I can suppose it her; but ask\nher to love you, and she will never have the heart to refuse.\"\n\nAs soon as her eagerness could rest in silence, he was as happy to tell\nas she could be to listen; and a conversation followed almost as deeply\ninteresting to her as to himself, though he had in fact nothing to\nrelate but his own sensations, nothing to dwell on but Fanny's charms.\nFanny's beauty of face and figure, Fanny's graces of manner and goodness\nof heart, were the exhaustless theme. The gentleness, modesty, and\nsweetness of her character were warmly expatiated on; that sweetness\nwhich makes so essential a part of every woman's worth in the judgment\nof man, that though he sometimes loves where it is not, he can never\nbelieve it absent. Her temper he had good reason to depend on and\nto praise. He had often seen it tried. Was there one of the family,\nexcepting Edmund, who had not in some way or other continually exercised\nher patience and forbearance? Her affections were evidently strong. To\nsee her with her brother! What could more delightfully prove that the\nwarmth of her heart was equal to its gentleness? What could be more\nencouraging to a man who had her love in view? Then, her understanding\nwas beyond every suspicion, quick and clear; and her manners were the\nmirror of her own modest and elegant mind. Nor was this all. Henry\nCrawford had too much sense not to feel the worth of good principles\nin a wife, though he was too little accustomed to serious reflection to\nknow them by their proper name; but when he talked of her having such a\nsteadiness and regularity of conduct, such a high notion of honour, and\nsuch an observance of decorum as might warrant any man in the fullest\ndependence on her faith and integrity, he expressed what was inspired by\nthe knowledge of her being well principled and religious.\n\n\"I could so wholly and absolutely confide in her,\" said he; \"and _that_\nis what I want.\"\n\nWell might his sister, believing as she really did that his opinion of\nFanny Price was scarcely beyond her merits, rejoice in her prospects.\n\n\"The more I think of it,\" she cried, \"the more am I convinced that you\nare doing quite right; and though I should never have selected Fanny\nPrice as the girl most likely to attach you, I am now persuaded she is\nthe very one to make you happy. Your wicked project upon her peace turns\nout a clever thought indeed. You will both find your good in it.\"\n\n\"It was bad, very bad in me against such a creature; but I did not know\nher then; and she shall have no reason to lament the hour that first put\nit into my head. I will make her very happy, Mary; happier than she has\never yet been herself, or ever seen anybody else. I will not take her\nfrom Northamptonshire. I shall let Everingham, and rent a place in this\nneighbourhood; perhaps Stanwix Lodge. I shall let a seven years' lease\nof Everingham. I am sure of an excellent tenant at half a word. I could\nname three people now, who would give me my own terms and thank me.\"\n\n\"Ha!\" cried Mary; \"settle in Northamptonshire! That is pleasant! Then we\nshall be all together.\"\n\nWhen she had spoken it, she recollected herself, and wished it unsaid;\nbut there was no need of confusion; for her brother saw her only as the\nsupposed inmate of Mansfield parsonage, and replied but to invite her in\nthe kindest manner to his own house, and to claim the best right in her.\n\n\"You must give us more than half your time,\" said he. \"I cannot admit\nMrs. Grant to have an equal claim with Fanny and myself, for we shall\nboth have a right in you. Fanny will be so truly your sister!\"\n\nMary had only to be grateful and give general assurances; but she was\nnow very fully purposed to be the guest of neither brother nor sister\nmany months longer.\n\n\"You will divide your year between London and Northamptonshire?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"That's right; and in London, of course, a house of your own: no longer\nwith the Admiral. My dearest Henry, the advantage to you of getting away\nfrom the Admiral before your manners are hurt by the contagion of his,\nbefore you have contracted any of his foolish opinions, or learned to\nsit over your dinner as if it were the best blessing of life! _You_ are\nnot sensible of the gain, for your regard for him has blinded you; but,\nin my estimation, your marrying early may be the saving of you. To have\nseen you grow like the Admiral in word or deed, look or gesture, would\nhave broken my heart.\"\n\n\"Well, well, we do not think quite alike here. The Admiral has his\nfaults, but he is a very good man, and has been more than a father to\nme. Few fathers would have let me have my own way half so much. You must\nnot prejudice Fanny against him. I must have them love one another.\"\n\nMary refrained from saying what she felt, that there could not be two\npersons in existence whose characters and manners were less accordant:\ntime would discover it to him; but she could not help _this_ reflection\non the Admiral. \"Henry, I think so highly of Fanny Price, that if I\ncould suppose the next Mrs. Crawford would have half the reason which\nmy poor ill-used aunt had to abhor the very name, I would prevent the\nmarriage, if possible; but I know you: I know that a wife you _loved_\nwould be the happiest of women, and that even when you ceased to\nlove, she would yet find in you the liberality and good-breeding of a\ngentleman.\"\n\nThe impossibility of not doing everything in the world to make Fanny\nPrice happy, or of ceasing to love Fanny Price, was of course the\ngroundwork of his eloquent answer.\n\n\"Had you seen her this morning, Mary,\" he continued, \"attending with\nsuch ineffable sweetness and patience to all the demands of her aunt's\nstupidity, working with her, and for her, her colour beautifully\nheightened as she leant over the work, then returning to her seat to\nfinish a note which she was previously engaged in writing for that\nstupid woman's service, and all this with such unpretending gentleness,\nso much as if it were a matter of course that she was not to have a\nmoment at her own command, her hair arranged as neatly as it always is,\nand one little curl falling forward as she wrote, which she now and then\nshook back, and in the midst of all this, still speaking at intervals to\n_me_, or listening, and as if she liked to listen, to what I said. Had\nyou seen her so, Mary, you would not have implied the possibility of her\npower over my heart ever ceasing.\"\n\n\"My dearest Henry,\" cried Mary, stopping short, and smiling in his face,\n\"how glad I am to see you so much in love! It quite delights me. But\nwhat will Mrs. Rushworth and Julia say?\"\n\n\"I care neither what they say nor what they feel. They will now see what\nsort of woman it is that can attach me, that can attach a man of sense.\nI wish the discovery may do them any good. And they will now see their\ncousin treated as she ought to be, and I wish they may be heartily\nashamed of their own abominable neglect and unkindness. They will be\nangry,\" he added, after a moment's silence, and in a cooler tone; \"Mrs.\nRushworth will be very angry. It will be a bitter pill to her; that is,\nlike other bitter pills, it will have two moments' ill flavour, and then\nbe swallowed and forgotten; for I am not such a coxcomb as to suppose\nher feelings more lasting than other women's, though _I_ was the object\nof them. Yes, Mary, my Fanny will feel a difference indeed: a daily,\nhourly difference, in the behaviour of every being who approaches her;\nand it will be the completion of my happiness to know that I am the doer\nof it, that I am the person to give the consequence so justly her due.\nNow she is dependent, helpless, friendless, neglected, forgotten.\"\n\n\"Nay, Henry, not by all; not forgotten by all; not friendless or\nforgotten. Her cousin Edmund never forgets her.\"\n\n\"Edmund! True, I believe he is, generally speaking, kind to her, and\nso is Sir Thomas in his way; but it is the way of a rich, superior,\nlong-worded, arbitrary uncle. What can Sir Thomas and Edmund together\ndo, what do they _do_ for her happiness, comfort, honour, and dignity in\nthe world, to what I _shall_ do?\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI\n\nHenry Crawford was at Mansfield Park again the next morning, and at an\nearlier hour than common visiting warrants. The two ladies were together\nin the breakfast-room, and, fortunately for him, Lady Bertram was on the\nvery point of quitting it as he entered. She was almost at the door, and\nnot chusing by any means to take so much trouble in vain, she still went\non, after a civil reception, a short sentence about being waited for,\nand a \"Let Sir Thomas know\" to the servant.\n\nHenry, overjoyed to have her go, bowed and watched her off, and without\nlosing another moment, turned instantly to Fanny, and, taking out some\nletters, said, with a most animated look, \"I must acknowledge myself\ninfinitely obliged to any creature who gives me such an opportunity\nof seeing you alone: I have been wishing it more than you can have any\nidea. Knowing as I do what your feelings as a sister are, I could hardly\nhave borne that any one in the house should share with you in the\nfirst knowledge of the news I now bring. He is made. Your brother is a\nlieutenant. I have the infinite satisfaction of congratulating you on\nyour brother's promotion. Here are the letters which announce it, this\nmoment come to hand. You will, perhaps, like to see them.\"\n\nFanny could not speak, but he did not want her to speak. To see the\nexpression of her eyes, the change of her complexion, the progress of\nher feelings, their doubt, confusion, and felicity, was enough. She took\nthe letters as he gave them. The first was from the Admiral to inform\nhis nephew, in a few words, of his having succeeded in the object he had\nundertaken, the promotion of young Price, and enclosing two more, one\nfrom the Secretary of the First Lord to a friend, whom the Admiral had\nset to work in the business, the other from that friend to himself,\nby which it appeared that his lordship had the very great happiness of\nattending to the recommendation of Sir Charles; that Sir Charles was\nmuch delighted in having such an opportunity of proving his regard\nfor Admiral Crawford, and that the circumstance of Mr. William Price's\ncommission as Second Lieutenant of H.M. Sloop Thrush being made out was\nspreading general joy through a wide circle of great people.\n\nWhile her hand was trembling under these letters, her eye running from\none to the other, and her heart swelling with emotion, Crawford thus\ncontinued, with unfeigned eagerness, to express his interest in the\nevent--\n\n\"I will not talk of my own happiness,\" said he, \"great as it is, for I\nthink only of yours. Compared with you, who has a right to be happy? I\nhave almost grudged myself my own prior knowledge of what you ought to\nhave known before all the world. I have not lost a moment, however.\nThe post was late this morning, but there has not been since a moment's\ndelay. How impatient, how anxious, how wild I have been on the subject,\nI will not attempt to describe; how severely mortified, how cruelly\ndisappointed, in not having it finished while I was in London! I was\nkept there from day to day in the hope of it, for nothing less dear\nto me than such an object would have detained me half the time from\nMansfield. But though my uncle entered into my wishes with all the\nwarmth I could desire, and exerted himself immediately, there were\ndifficulties from the absence of one friend, and the engagements of\nanother, which at last I could no longer bear to stay the end of, and\nknowing in what good hands I left the cause, I came away on Monday,\ntrusting that many posts would not pass before I should be followed by\nsuch very letters as these. My uncle, who is the very best man in\nthe world, has exerted himself, as I knew he would, after seeing your\nbrother. He was delighted with him. I would not allow myself yesterday\nto say how delighted, or to repeat half that the Admiral said in his\npraise. I deferred it all till his praise should be proved the praise of\na friend, as this day _does_ prove it. _Now_ I may say that even I could\nnot require William Price to excite a greater interest, or be followed\nby warmer wishes and higher commendation, than were most voluntarily\nbestowed by my uncle after the evening they had passed together.\"\n\n\"Has this been all _your_ doing, then?\" cried Fanny. \"Good heaven! how\nvery, very kind! Have you really--was it by _your_ desire? I beg your\npardon, but I am bewildered. Did Admiral Crawford apply? How was it? I\nam stupefied.\"\n\nHenry was most happy to make it more intelligible, by beginning at an\nearlier stage, and explaining very particularly what he had done. His\nlast journey to London had been undertaken with no other view than that\nof introducing her brother in Hill Street, and prevailing on the Admiral\nto exert whatever interest he might have for getting him on. This had\nbeen his business. He had communicated it to no creature: he had not\nbreathed a syllable of it even to Mary; while uncertain of the issue,\nhe could not have borne any participation of his feelings, but this had\nbeen his business; and he spoke with such a glow of what his solicitude\nhad been, and used such strong expressions, was so abounding in the\n_deepest_ _interest_, in _twofold_ _motives_, in _views_ _and_ _wishes_\n_more_ _than_ _could_ _be_ _told_, that Fanny could not have remained\ninsensible of his drift, had she been able to attend; but her heart was\nso full and her senses still so astonished, that she could listen but\nimperfectly even to what he told her of William, and saying only when\nhe paused, \"How kind! how very kind! Oh, Mr. Crawford, we are infinitely\nobliged to you! Dearest, dearest William!\" She jumped up and moved in\nhaste towards the door, crying out, \"I will go to my uncle. My uncle\nought to know it as soon as possible.\" But this could not be suffered.\nThe opportunity was too fair, and his feelings too impatient. He was\nafter her immediately. \"She must not go, she must allow him five minutes\nlonger,\" and he took her hand and led her back to her seat, and was in\nthe middle of his farther explanation, before she had suspected for what\nshe was detained. When she did understand it, however, and found herself\nexpected to believe that she had created sensations which his heart had\nnever known before, and that everything he had done for William was to\nbe placed to the account of his excessive and unequalled attachment\nto her, she was exceedingly distressed, and for some moments unable\nto speak. She considered it all as nonsense, as mere trifling and\ngallantry, which meant only to deceive for the hour; she could not but\nfeel that it was treating her improperly and unworthily, and in such a\nway as she had not deserved; but it was like himself, and entirely of a\npiece with what she had seen before; and she would not allow herself to\nshew half the displeasure she felt, because he had been conferring an\nobligation, which no want of delicacy on his part could make a trifle\nto her. While her heart was still bounding with joy and gratitude on\nWilliam's behalf, she could not be severely resentful of anything that\ninjured only herself; and after having twice drawn back her hand, and\ntwice attempted in vain to turn away from him, she got up, and said\nonly, with much agitation, \"Don't, Mr. Crawford, pray don't! I beg you\nwould not. This is a sort of talking which is very unpleasant to me. I\nmust go away. I cannot bear it.\" But he was still talking on, describing\nhis affection, soliciting a return, and, finally, in words so plain as\nto bear but one meaning even to her, offering himself, hand, fortune,\neverything, to her acceptance. It was so; he had said it. Her\nastonishment and confusion increased; and though still not knowing\nhow to suppose him serious, she could hardly stand. He pressed for an\nanswer.\n\n\"No, no, no!\" she cried, hiding her face. \"This is all nonsense. Do not\ndistress me. I can hear no more of this. Your kindness to William makes\nme more obliged to you than words can express; but I do not want, I\ncannot bear, I must not listen to such--No, no, don't think of me. But\nyou are _not_ thinking of me. I know it is all nothing.\"\n\nShe had burst away from him, and at that moment Sir Thomas was heard\nspeaking to a servant in his way towards the room they were in. It was\nno time for farther assurances or entreaty, though to part with her at\na moment when her modesty alone seemed, to his sanguine and preassured\nmind, to stand in the way of the happiness he sought, was a cruel\nnecessity. She rushed out at an opposite door from the one her uncle\nwas approaching, and was walking up and down the East room in the\nutmost confusion of contrary feeling, before Sir Thomas's politeness\nor apologies were over, or he had reached the beginning of the joyful\nintelligence which his visitor came to communicate.\n\nShe was feeling, thinking, trembling about everything; agitated, happy,\nmiserable, infinitely obliged, absolutely angry. It was all beyond\nbelief! He was inexcusable, incomprehensible! But such were his habits\nthat he could do nothing without a mixture of evil. He had previously\nmade her the happiest of human beings, and now he had insulted--she knew\nnot what to say, how to class, or how to regard it. She would not have\nhim be serious, and yet what could excuse the use of such words and\noffers, if they meant but to trifle?\n\nBut William was a lieutenant. _That_ was a fact beyond a doubt, and\nwithout an alloy. She would think of it for ever and forget all the\nrest. Mr. Crawford would certainly never address her so again: he must\nhave seen how unwelcome it was to her; and in that case, how gratefully\nshe could esteem him for his friendship to William!\n\nShe would not stir farther from the East room than the head of the great\nstaircase, till she had satisfied herself of Mr. Crawford's having left\nthe house; but when convinced of his being gone, she was eager to go\ndown and be with her uncle, and have all the happiness of his joy\nas well as her own, and all the benefit of his information or his\nconjectures as to what would now be William's destination. Sir Thomas\nwas as joyful as she could desire, and very kind and communicative; and\nshe had so comfortable a talk with him about William as to make her\nfeel as if nothing had occurred to vex her, till she found, towards the\nclose, that Mr. Crawford was engaged to return and dine there that\nvery day. This was a most unwelcome hearing, for though he might think\nnothing of what had passed, it would be quite distressing to her to see\nhim again so soon.\n\nShe tried to get the better of it; tried very hard, as the dinner hour\napproached, to feel and appear as usual; but it was quite impossible for\nher not to look most shy and uncomfortable when their visitor entered\nthe room. She could not have supposed it in the power of any concurrence\nof circumstances to give her so many painful sensations on the first day\nof hearing of William's promotion.\n\nMr. Crawford was not only in the room--he was soon close to her. He\nhad a note to deliver from his sister. Fanny could not look at him, but\nthere was no consciousness of past folly in his voice. She opened her\nnote immediately, glad to have anything to do, and happy, as she read\nit, to feel that the fidgetings of her aunt Norris, who was also to dine\nthere, screened her a little from view.\n\n\"My dear Fanny,--for so I may now always call you, to the infinite\nrelief of a tongue that has been stumbling at _Miss_ _Price_ for at\nleast the last six weeks--I cannot let my brother go without sending you\na few lines of general congratulation, and giving my most joyful consent\nand approval. Go on, my dear Fanny, and without fear; there can be no\ndifficulties worth naming. I chuse to suppose that the assurance of my\nconsent will be something; so you may smile upon him with your sweetest\nsmiles this afternoon, and send him back to me even happier than he\ngoes.--Yours affectionately, M. C.\"\n\nThese were not expressions to do Fanny any good; for though she read\nin too much haste and confusion to form the clearest judgment of Miss\nCrawford's meaning, it was evident that she meant to compliment her on\nher brother's attachment, and even to _appear_ to believe it serious.\nShe did not know what to do, or what to think. There was wretchedness in\nthe idea of its being serious; there was perplexity and agitation every\nway. She was distressed whenever Mr. Crawford spoke to her, and he spoke\nto her much too often; and she was afraid there was a something in his\nvoice and manner in addressing her very different from what they were\nwhen he talked to the others. Her comfort in that day's dinner was\nquite destroyed: she could hardly eat anything; and when Sir Thomas\ngood-humouredly observed that joy had taken away her appetite, she\nwas ready to sink with shame, from the dread of Mr. Crawford's\ninterpretation; for though nothing could have tempted her to turn\nher eyes to the right hand, where he sat, she felt that _his_ were\nimmediately directed towards her.\n\nShe was more silent than ever. She would hardly join even when William\nwas the subject, for his commission came all from the right hand too,\nand there was pain in the connexion.\n\nShe thought Lady Bertram sat longer than ever, and began to be in\ndespair of ever getting away; but at last they were in the drawing-room,\nand she was able to think as she would, while her aunts finished the\nsubject of William's appointment in their own style.\n\nMrs. Norris seemed as much delighted with the saving it would be to\nSir Thomas as with any part of it. \"_Now_ William would be able to keep\nhimself, which would make a vast difference to his uncle, for it was\nunknown how much he had cost his uncle; and, indeed, it would make some\ndifference in _her_ presents too. She was very glad that she had given\nWilliam what she did at parting, very glad, indeed, that it had been in\nher power, without material inconvenience, just at that time to give him\nsomething rather considerable; that is, for _her_, with _her_ limited\nmeans, for now it would all be useful in helping to fit up his cabin.\nShe knew he must be at some expense, that he would have many things to\nbuy, though to be sure his father and mother would be able to put him in\nthe way of getting everything very cheap; but she was very glad she had\ncontributed her mite towards it.\"\n\n\"I am glad you gave him something considerable,\" said Lady Bertram, with\nmost unsuspicious calmness, \"for _I_ gave him only 10 pounds.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\" cried Mrs. Norris, reddening. \"Upon my word, he must have gone\noff with his pockets well lined, and at no expense for his journey to\nLondon either!\"\n\n\"Sir Thomas told me 10 pounds would be enough.\"\n\nMrs. Norris, being not at all inclined to question its sufficiency,\nbegan to take the matter in another point.\n\n\"It is amazing,\" said she, \"how much young people cost their friends,\nwhat with bringing them up and putting them out in the world! They\nlittle think how much it comes to, or what their parents, or their\nuncles and aunts, pay for them in the course of the year. Now, here are\nmy sister Price's children; take them all together, I dare say nobody\nwould believe what a sum they cost Sir Thomas every year, to say nothing\nof what _I_ do for them.\"\n\n\"Very true, sister, as you say. But, poor things! they cannot help\nit; and you know it makes very little difference to Sir Thomas. Fanny,\nWilliam must not forget my shawl if he goes to the East Indies; and I\nshall give him a commission for anything else that is worth having. I\nwish he may go to the East Indies, that I may have my shawl. I think I\nwill have two shawls, Fanny.\"\n\nFanny, meanwhile, speaking only when she could not help it, was very\nearnestly trying to understand what Mr. and Miss Crawford were at. There\nwas everything in the world _against_ their being serious but his words\nand manner. Everything natural, probable, reasonable, was against it;\nall their habits and ways of thinking, and all her own demerits. How\ncould _she_ have excited serious attachment in a man who had seen so\nmany, and been admired by so many, and flirted with so many, infinitely\nher superiors; who seemed so little open to serious impressions, even\nwhere pains had been taken to please him; who thought so slightly, so\ncarelessly, so unfeelingly on all such points; who was everything to\neverybody, and seemed to find no one essential to him? And farther,\nhow could it be supposed that his sister, with all her high and worldly\nnotions of matrimony, would be forwarding anything of a serious nature\nin such a quarter? Nothing could be more unnatural in either. Fanny\nwas ashamed of her own doubts. Everything might be possible rather than\nserious attachment, or serious approbation of it toward her. She had\nquite convinced herself of this before Sir Thomas and Mr. Crawford\njoined them. The difficulty was in maintaining the conviction quite so\nabsolutely after Mr. Crawford was in the room; for once or twice a\nlook seemed forced on her which she did not know how to class among the\ncommon meaning; in any other man, at least, she would have said that\nit meant something very earnest, very pointed. But she still tried to\nbelieve it no more than what he might often have expressed towards her\ncousins and fifty other women.\n\nShe thought he was wishing to speak to her unheard by the rest. She\nfancied he was trying for it the whole evening at intervals, whenever\nSir Thomas was out of the room, or at all engaged with Mrs. Norris, and\nshe carefully refused him every opportunity.\n\nAt last--it seemed an at last to Fanny's nervousness, though not\nremarkably late--he began to talk of going away; but the comfort of the\nsound was impaired by his turning to her the next moment, and saying,\n\"Have you nothing to send to Mary? No answer to her note? She will be\ndisappointed if she receives nothing from you. Pray write to her, if it\nbe only a line.\"\n\n\"Oh yes! certainly,\" cried Fanny, rising in haste, the haste of\nembarrassment and of wanting to get away--\"I will write directly.\"\n\nShe went accordingly to the table, where she was in the habit of writing\nfor her aunt, and prepared her materials without knowing what in the\nworld to say. She had read Miss Crawford's note only once, and how to\nreply to anything so imperfectly understood was most distressing.\nQuite unpractised in such sort of note-writing, had there been time for\nscruples and fears as to style she would have felt them in abundance:\nbut something must be instantly written; and with only one decided\nfeeling, that of wishing not to appear to think anything really\nintended, she wrote thus, in great trembling both of spirits and hand--\n\n\"I am very much obliged to you, my dear Miss Crawford, for your kind\ncongratulations, as far as they relate to my dearest William. The rest\nof your note I know means nothing; but I am so unequal to anything of\nthe sort, that I hope you will excuse my begging you to take no farther\nnotice. I have seen too much of Mr. Crawford not to understand his\nmanners; if he understood me as well, he would, I dare say, behave\ndifferently. I do not know what I write, but it would be a great favour\nof you never to mention the subject again. With thanks for the honour of\nyour note, I remain, dear Miss Crawford, etc., etc.\"\n\nThe conclusion was scarcely intelligible from increasing fright, for\nshe found that Mr. Crawford, under pretence of receiving the note, was\ncoming towards her.\n\n\"You cannot think I mean to hurry you,\" said he, in an undervoice,\nperceiving the amazing trepidation with which she made up the note, \"you\ncannot think I have any such object. Do not hurry yourself, I entreat.\"\n\n\"Oh! I thank you; I have quite done, just done; it will be ready in a\nmoment; I am very much obliged to you; if you will be so good as to give\n_that_ to Miss Crawford.\"\n\nThe note was held out, and must be taken; and as she instantly and with\naverted eyes walked towards the fireplace, where sat the others, he had\nnothing to do but to go in good earnest.\n\nFanny thought she had never known a day of greater agitation, both of\npain and pleasure; but happily the pleasure was not of a sort to die\nwith the day; for every day would restore the knowledge of William's\nadvancement, whereas the pain, she hoped, would return no more. She had\nno doubt that her note must appear excessively ill-written, that\nthe language would disgrace a child, for her distress had allowed no\narrangement; but at least it would assure them both of her being neither\nimposed on nor gratified by Mr. Crawford's attentions.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII\n\nFanny had by no means forgotten Mr. Crawford when she awoke the next\nmorning; but she remembered the purport of her note, and was not less\nsanguine as to its effect than she had been the night before. If Mr.\nCrawford would but go away! That was what she most earnestly desired:\ngo and take his sister with him, as he was to do, and as he returned to\nMansfield on purpose to do. And why it was not done already she could\nnot devise, for Miss Crawford certainly wanted no delay. Fanny had\nhoped, in the course of his yesterday's visit, to hear the day named;\nbut he had only spoken of their journey as what would take place ere\nlong.\n\nHaving so satisfactorily settled the conviction her note would convey,\nshe could not but be astonished to see Mr. Crawford, as she accidentally\ndid, coming up to the house again, and at an hour as early as the day\nbefore. His coming might have nothing to do with her, but she must avoid\nseeing him if possible; and being then on her way upstairs, she resolved\nthere to remain, during the whole of his visit, unless actually sent\nfor; and as Mrs. Norris was still in the house, there seemed little\ndanger of her being wanted.\n\nShe sat some time in a good deal of agitation, listening, trembling, and\nfearing to be sent for every moment; but as no footsteps approached the\nEast room, she grew gradually composed, could sit down, and be able to\nemploy herself, and able to hope that Mr. Crawford had come and would go\nwithout her being obliged to know anything of the matter.\n\nNearly half an hour had passed, and she was growing very comfortable,\nwhen suddenly the sound of a step in regular approach was heard; a heavy\nstep, an unusual step in that part of the house: it was her uncle's; she\nknew it as well as his voice; she had trembled at it as often, and began\nto tremble again, at the idea of his coming up to speak to her, whatever\nmight be the subject. It was indeed Sir Thomas who opened the door and\nasked if she were there, and if he might come in. The terror of his\nformer occasional visits to that room seemed all renewed, and she felt\nas if he were going to examine her again in French and English.\n\nShe was all attention, however, in placing a chair for him, and trying\nto appear honoured; and, in her agitation, had quite overlooked the\ndeficiencies of her apartment, till he, stopping short as he entered,\nsaid, with much surprise, \"Why have you no fire to-day?\"\n\nThere was snow on the ground, and she was sitting in a shawl. She\nhesitated.\n\n\"I am not cold, sir: I never sit here long at this time of year.\"\n\n\"But you have a fire in general?\"\n\n\"No, sir.\"\n\n\"How comes this about? Here must be some mistake. I understood that you\nhad the use of this room by way of making you perfectly comfortable.\nIn your bedchamber I know you _cannot_ have a fire. Here is some great\nmisapprehension which must be rectified. It is highly unfit for you to\nsit, be it only half an hour a day, without a fire. You are not strong.\nYou are chilly. Your aunt cannot be aware of this.\"\n\nFanny would rather have been silent; but being obliged to speak, she\ncould not forbear, in justice to the aunt she loved best, from saying\nsomething in which the words \"my aunt Norris\" were distinguishable.\n\n\"I understand,\" cried her uncle, recollecting himself, and not wanting\nto hear more: \"I understand. Your aunt Norris has always been an\nadvocate, and very judiciously, for young people's being brought up\nwithout unnecessary indulgences; but there should be moderation in\neverything. She is also very hardy herself, which of course will\ninfluence her in her opinion of the wants of others. And on another\naccount, too, I can perfectly comprehend. I know what her sentiments\nhave always been. The principle was good in itself, but it may have\nbeen, and I believe _has_ _been_, carried too far in your case. I\nam aware that there has been sometimes, in some points, a misplaced\ndistinction; but I think too well of you, Fanny, to suppose you will\never harbour resentment on that account. You have an understanding\nwhich will prevent you from receiving things only in part, and judging\npartially by the event. You will take in the whole of the past, you\nwill consider times, persons, and probabilities, and you will feel that\n_they_ were not least your friends who were educating and preparing you\nfor that mediocrity of condition which _seemed_ to be your lot. Though\ntheir caution may prove eventually unnecessary, it was kindly meant; and\nof this you may be assured, that every advantage of affluence will be\ndoubled by the little privations and restrictions that may have been\nimposed. I am sure you will not disappoint my opinion of you, by failing\nat any time to treat your aunt Norris with the respect and attention\nthat are due to her. But enough of this. Sit down, my dear. I must speak\nto you for a few minutes, but I will not detain you long.\"\n\nFanny obeyed, with eyes cast down and colour rising. After a moment's\npause, Sir Thomas, trying to suppress a smile, went on.\n\n\"You are not aware, perhaps, that I have had a visitor this morning. I\nhad not been long in my own room, after breakfast, when Mr. Crawford was\nshewn in. His errand you may probably conjecture.\"\n\nFanny's colour grew deeper and deeper; and her uncle, perceiving that\nshe was embarrassed to a degree that made either speaking or looking\nup quite impossible, turned away his own eyes, and without any farther\npause proceeded in his account of Mr. Crawford's visit.\n\nMr. Crawford's business had been to declare himself the lover of Fanny,\nmake decided proposals for her, and entreat the sanction of the uncle,\nwho seemed to stand in the place of her parents; and he had done it all\nso well, so openly, so liberally, so properly, that Sir Thomas, feeling,\nmoreover, his own replies, and his own remarks to have been very much\nto the purpose, was exceedingly happy to give the particulars of their\nconversation; and little aware of what was passing in his niece's mind,\nconceived that by such details he must be gratifying her far more than\nhimself. He talked, therefore, for several minutes without Fanny's\ndaring to interrupt him. She had hardly even attained the wish to do it.\nHer mind was in too much confusion. She had changed her position; and,\nwith her eyes fixed intently on one of the windows, was listening to her\nuncle in the utmost perturbation and dismay. For a moment he ceased, but\nshe had barely become conscious of it, when, rising from his chair, he\nsaid, \"And now, Fanny, having performed one part of my commission,\nand shewn you everything placed on a basis the most assured and\nsatisfactory, I may execute the remainder by prevailing on you to\naccompany me downstairs, where, though I cannot but presume on having\nbeen no unacceptable companion myself, I must submit to your finding\none still better worth listening to. Mr. Crawford, as you have perhaps\nforeseen, is yet in the house. He is in my room, and hoping to see you\nthere.\"\n\nThere was a look, a start, an exclamation on hearing this, which\nastonished Sir Thomas; but what was his increase of astonishment on\nhearing her exclaim--\"Oh! no, sir, I cannot, indeed I cannot go down to\nhim. Mr. Crawford ought to know--he must know that: I told him enough\nyesterday to convince him; he spoke to me on this subject yesterday,\nand I told him without disguise that it was very disagreeable to me, and\nquite out of my power to return his good opinion.\"\n\n\"I do not catch your meaning,\" said Sir Thomas, sitting down again. \"Out\nof your power to return his good opinion? What is all this? I know he\nspoke to you yesterday, and (as far as I understand) received as much\nencouragement to proceed as a well-judging young woman could permit\nherself to give. I was very much pleased with what I collected to have\nbeen your behaviour on the occasion; it shewed a discretion highly to\nbe commended. But now, when he has made his overtures so properly, and\nhonourably--what are your scruples _now_?\"\n\n\"You are mistaken, sir,\" cried Fanny, forced by the anxiety of the\nmoment even to tell her uncle that he was wrong; \"you are quite\nmistaken. How could Mr. Crawford say such a thing? I gave him no\nencouragement yesterday. On the contrary, I told him, I cannot recollect\nmy exact words, but I am sure I told him that I would not listen to him,\nthat it was very unpleasant to me in every respect, and that I begged\nhim never to talk to me in that manner again. I am sure I said as much\nas that and more; and I should have said still more, if I had been quite\ncertain of his meaning anything seriously; but I did not like to be, I\ncould not bear to be, imputing more than might be intended. I thought it\nmight all pass for nothing with _him_.\"\n\nShe could say no more; her breath was almost gone.\n\n\"Am I to understand,\" said Sir Thomas, after a few moments' silence,\n\"that you mean to _refuse_ Mr. Crawford?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"Refuse him?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"Refuse Mr. Crawford! Upon what plea? For what reason?\"\n\n\"I--I cannot like him, sir, well enough to marry him.\"\n\n\"This is very strange!\" said Sir Thomas, in a voice of calm displeasure.\n\"There is something in this which my comprehension does not reach. Here\nis a young man wishing to pay his addresses to you, with everything to\nrecommend him: not merely situation in life, fortune, and character,\nbut with more than common agreeableness, with address and conversation\npleasing to everybody. And he is not an acquaintance of to-day; you have\nnow known him some time. His sister, moreover, is your intimate friend,\nand he has been doing _that_ for your brother, which I should suppose\nwould have been almost sufficient recommendation to you, had there been\nno other. It is very uncertain when my interest might have got William\non. He has done it already.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Fanny, in a faint voice, and looking down with fresh shame;\nand she did feel almost ashamed of herself, after such a picture as her\nuncle had drawn, for not liking Mr. Crawford.\n\n\"You must have been aware,\" continued Sir Thomas presently, \"you must\nhave been some time aware of a particularity in Mr. Crawford's manners\nto you. This cannot have taken you by surprise. You must have observed\nhis attentions; and though you always received them very properly (I\nhave no accusation to make on that head), I never perceived them to be\nunpleasant to you. I am half inclined to think, Fanny, that you do not\nquite know your own feelings.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, sir! indeed I do. His attentions were always--what I did not\nlike.\"\n\nSir Thomas looked at her with deeper surprise. \"This is beyond me,\"\nsaid he. \"This requires explanation. Young as you are, and having seen\nscarcely any one, it is hardly possible that your affections--\"\n\nHe paused and eyed her fixedly. He saw her lips formed into a _no_,\nthough the sound was inarticulate, but her face was like scarlet. That,\nhowever, in so modest a girl, might be very compatible with innocence;\nand chusing at least to appear satisfied, he quickly added, \"No, no, I\nknow _that_ is quite out of the question; quite impossible. Well, there\nis nothing more to be said.\"\n\nAnd for a few minutes he did say nothing. He was deep in thought. His\nniece was deep in thought likewise, trying to harden and prepare herself\nagainst farther questioning. She would rather die than own the truth;\nand she hoped, by a little reflection, to fortify herself beyond\nbetraying it.\n\n\"Independently of the interest which Mr. Crawford's _choice_ seemed to\njustify\" said Sir Thomas, beginning again, and very composedly, \"his\nwishing to marry at all so early is recommendatory to me. I am an\nadvocate for early marriages, where there are means in proportion, and\nwould have every young man, with a sufficient income, settle as soon\nafter four-and-twenty as he can. This is so much my opinion, that I am\nsorry to think how little likely my own eldest son, your cousin, Mr.\nBertram, is to marry early; but at present, as far as I can judge,\nmatrimony makes no part of his plans or thoughts. I wish he were more\nlikely to fix.\" Here was a glance at Fanny. \"Edmund, I consider, from\nhis dispositions and habits, as much more likely to marry early than\nhis brother. _He_, indeed, I have lately thought, has seen the woman he\ncould love, which, I am convinced, my eldest son has not. Am I right? Do\nyou agree with me, my dear?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\nIt was gently, but it was calmly said, and Sir Thomas was easy on the\nscore of the cousins. But the removal of his alarm did his niece\nno service: as her unaccountableness was confirmed his displeasure\nincreased; and getting up and walking about the room with a frown, which\nFanny could picture to herself, though she dared not lift up her eyes,\nhe shortly afterwards, and in a voice of authority, said, \"Have you any\nreason, child, to think ill of Mr. Crawford's temper?\"\n\n\"No, sir.\"\n\nShe longed to add, \"But of his principles I have\"; but her heart sunk\nunder the appalling prospect of discussion, explanation, and probably\nnon-conviction. Her ill opinion of him was founded chiefly on\nobservations, which, for her cousins' sake, she could scarcely dare\nmention to their father. Maria and Julia, and especially Maria, were so\nclosely implicated in Mr. Crawford's misconduct, that she could not give\nhis character, such as she believed it, without betraying them. She had\nhoped that, to a man like her uncle, so discerning, so honourable, so\ngood, the simple acknowledgment of settled _dislike_ on her side would\nhave been sufficient. To her infinite grief she found it was not.\n\nSir Thomas came towards the table where she sat in trembling\nwretchedness, and with a good deal of cold sternness, said, \"It is of no\nuse, I perceive, to talk to you. We had better put an end to this most\nmortifying conference. Mr. Crawford must not be kept longer waiting. I\nwill, therefore, only add, as thinking it my duty to mark my opinion of\nyour conduct, that you have disappointed every expectation I had formed,\nand proved yourself of a character the very reverse of what I had\nsupposed. For I _had_, Fanny, as I think my behaviour must have shewn,\nformed a very favourable opinion of you from the period of my return to\nEngland. I had thought you peculiarly free from wilfulness of temper,\nself-conceit, and every tendency to that independence of spirit which\nprevails so much in modern days, even in young women, and which in young\nwomen is offensive and disgusting beyond all common offence. But you\nhave now shewn me that you can be wilful and perverse; that you can and\nwill decide for yourself, without any consideration or deference for\nthose who have surely some right to guide you, without even asking their\nadvice. You have shewn yourself very, very different from anything that\nI had imagined. The advantage or disadvantage of your family, of your\nparents, your brothers and sisters, never seems to have had a moment's\nshare in your thoughts on this occasion. How _they_ might be benefited,\nhow _they_ must rejoice in such an establishment for you, is nothing to\n_you_. You think only of yourself, and because you do not feel for Mr.\nCrawford exactly what a young heated fancy imagines to be necessary for\nhappiness, you resolve to refuse him at once, without wishing even for\na little time to consider of it, a little more time for cool\nconsideration, and for really examining your own inclinations; and are,\nin a wild fit of folly, throwing away from you such an opportunity of\nbeing settled in life, eligibly, honourably, nobly settled, as will,\nprobably, never occur to you again. Here is a young man of sense, of\ncharacter, of temper, of manners, and of fortune, exceedingly attached\nto you, and seeking your hand in the most handsome and disinterested\nway; and let me tell you, Fanny, that you may live eighteen years longer\nin the world without being addressed by a man of half Mr. Crawford's\nestate, or a tenth part of his merits. Gladly would I have bestowed\neither of my own daughters on him. Maria is nobly married; but had\nMr. Crawford sought Julia's hand, I should have given it to him with\nsuperior and more heartfelt satisfaction than I gave Maria's to Mr.\nRushworth.\" After half a moment's pause: \"And I should have been very\nmuch surprised had either of my daughters, on receiving a proposal\nof marriage at any time which might carry with it only _half_ the\neligibility of _this_, immediately and peremptorily, and without paying\nmy opinion or my regard the compliment of any consultation, put a\ndecided negative on it. I should have been much surprised and much hurt\nby such a proceeding. I should have thought it a gross violation of duty\nand respect. _You_ are not to be judged by the same rule. You do not\nowe me the duty of a child. But, Fanny, if your heart can acquit you of\n_ingratitude_--\"\n\nHe ceased. Fanny was by this time crying so bitterly that, angry as he\nwas, he would not press that article farther. Her heart was almost broke\nby such a picture of what she appeared to him; by such accusations,\nso heavy, so multiplied, so rising in dreadful gradation! Self-willed,\nobstinate, selfish, and ungrateful. He thought her all this. She had\ndeceived his expectations; she had lost his good opinion. What was to\nbecome of her?\n\n\"I am very sorry,\" said she inarticulately, through her tears, \"I am\nvery sorry indeed.\"\n\n\"Sorry! yes, I hope you are sorry; and you will probably have reason to\nbe long sorry for this day's transactions.\"\n\n\"If it were possible for me to do otherwise\" said she, with another\nstrong effort; \"but I am so perfectly convinced that I could never make\nhim happy, and that I should be miserable myself.\"\n\nAnother burst of tears; but in spite of that burst, and in spite of that\ngreat black word _miserable_, which served to introduce it, Sir Thomas\nbegan to think a little relenting, a little change of inclination, might\nhave something to do with it; and to augur favourably from the personal\nentreaty of the young man himself. He knew her to be very timid, and\nexceedingly nervous; and thought it not improbable that her mind\nmight be in such a state as a little time, a little pressing, a little\npatience, and a little impatience, a judicious mixture of all on the\nlover's side, might work their usual effect on. If the gentleman would\nbut persevere, if he had but love enough to persevere, Sir Thomas began\nto have hopes; and these reflections having passed across his mind and\ncheered it, \"Well,\" said he, in a tone of becoming gravity, but of less\nanger, \"well, child, dry up your tears. There is no use in these tears;\nthey can do no good. You must now come downstairs with me. Mr. Crawford\nhas been kept waiting too long already. You must give him your own\nanswer: we cannot expect him to be satisfied with less; and you only\ncan explain to him the grounds of that misconception of your sentiments,\nwhich, unfortunately for himself, he certainly has imbibed. I am totally\nunequal to it.\"\n\nBut Fanny shewed such reluctance, such misery, at the idea of going down\nto him, that Sir Thomas, after a little consideration, judged it better\nto indulge her. His hopes from both gentleman and lady suffered a small\ndepression in consequence; but when he looked at his niece, and saw the\nstate of feature and complexion which her crying had brought her\ninto, he thought there might be as much lost as gained by an immediate\ninterview. With a few words, therefore, of no particular meaning, he\nwalked off by himself, leaving his poor niece to sit and cry over what\nhad passed, with very wretched feelings.\n\nHer mind was all disorder. The past, present, future, everything was\nterrible. But her uncle's anger gave her the severest pain of all.\nSelfish and ungrateful! to have appeared so to him! She was miserable\nfor ever. She had no one to take her part, to counsel, or speak for her.\nHer only friend was absent. He might have softened his father; but all,\nperhaps all, would think her selfish and ungrateful. She might have to\nendure the reproach again and again; she might hear it, or see it, or\nknow it to exist for ever in every connexion about her. She could not\nbut feel some resentment against Mr. Crawford; yet, if he really loved\nher, and were unhappy too! It was all wretchedness together.\n\nIn about a quarter of an hour her uncle returned; she was almost\nready to faint at the sight of him. He spoke calmly, however, without\nausterity, without reproach, and she revived a little. There was\ncomfort, too, in his words, as well as his manner, for he began with,\n\"Mr. Crawford is gone: he has just left me. I need not repeat what has\npassed. I do not want to add to anything you may now be feeling, by an\naccount of what he has felt. Suffice it, that he has behaved in the\nmost gentlemanlike and generous manner, and has confirmed me in a most\nfavourable opinion of his understanding, heart, and temper. Upon my\nrepresentation of what you were suffering, he immediately, and with the\ngreatest delicacy, ceased to urge to see you for the present.\"\n\nHere Fanny, who had looked up, looked down again. \"Of course,\" continued\nher uncle, \"it cannot be supposed but that he should request to speak\nwith you alone, be it only for five minutes; a request too natural,\na claim too just to be denied. But there is no time fixed; perhaps\nto-morrow, or whenever your spirits are composed enough. For the present\nyou have only to tranquillise yourself. Check these tears; they do but\nexhaust you. If, as I am willing to suppose, you wish to shew me any\nobservance, you will not give way to these emotions, but endeavour to\nreason yourself into a stronger frame of mind. I advise you to go out:\nthe air will do you good; go out for an hour on the gravel; you will\nhave the shrubbery to yourself, and will be the better for air and\nexercise. And, Fanny\" (turning back again for a moment), \"I shall make\nno mention below of what has passed; I shall not even tell your aunt\nBertram. There is no occasion for spreading the disappointment; say\nnothing about it yourself.\"\n\nThis was an order to be most joyfully obeyed; this was an act of\nkindness which Fanny felt at her heart. To be spared from her aunt\nNorris's interminable reproaches! he left her in a glow of gratitude.\nAnything might be bearable rather than such reproaches. Even to see Mr.\nCrawford would be less overpowering.\n\nShe walked out directly, as her uncle recommended, and followed his\nadvice throughout, as far as she could; did check her tears; did\nearnestly try to compose her spirits and strengthen her mind. She wished\nto prove to him that she did desire his comfort, and sought to regain\nhis favour; and he had given her another strong motive for exertion, in\nkeeping the whole affair from the knowledge of her aunts. Not to excite\nsuspicion by her look or manner was now an object worth attaining; and\nshe felt equal to almost anything that might save her from her aunt\nNorris.\n\nShe was struck, quite struck, when, on returning from her walk and going\ninto the East room again, the first thing which caught her eye was a\nfire lighted and burning. A fire! it seemed too much; just at that time\nto be giving her such an indulgence was exciting even painful gratitude.\nShe wondered that Sir Thomas could have leisure to think of such a\ntrifle again; but she soon found, from the voluntary information of the\nhousemaid, who came in to attend it, that so it was to be every day. Sir\nThomas had given orders for it.\n\n\"I must be a brute, indeed, if I can be really ungrateful!\" said she, in\nsoliloquy. \"Heaven defend me from being ungrateful!\"\n\nShe saw nothing more of her uncle, nor of her aunt Norris, till they met\nat dinner. Her uncle's behaviour to her was then as nearly as possible\nwhat it had been before; she was sure he did not mean there should be\nany change, and that it was only her own conscience that could fancy\nany; but her aunt was soon quarrelling with her; and when she found how\nmuch and how unpleasantly her having only walked out without her aunt's\nknowledge could be dwelt on, she felt all the reason she had to bless\nthe kindness which saved her from the same spirit of reproach, exerted\non a more momentous subject.\n\n\"If I had known you were going out, I should have got you just to go\nas far as my house with some orders for Nanny,\" said she, \"which I have\nsince, to my very great inconvenience, been obliged to go and carry\nmyself. I could very ill spare the time, and you might have saved me the\ntrouble, if you would only have been so good as to let us know you were\ngoing out. It would have made no difference to you, I suppose, whether\nyou had walked in the shrubbery or gone to my house.\"\n\n\"I recommended the shrubbery to Fanny as the driest place,\" said Sir\nThomas.\n\n\"Oh!\" said Mrs. Norris, with a moment's check, \"that was very kind of\nyou, Sir Thomas; but you do not know how dry the path is to my house.\nFanny would have had quite as good a walk there, I assure you, with the\nadvantage of being of some use, and obliging her aunt: it is all her\nfault. If she would but have let us know she was going out but there is\na something about Fanny, I have often observed it before--she likes to\ngo her own way to work; she does not like to be dictated to; she takes\nher own independent walk whenever she can; she certainly has a little\nspirit of secrecy, and independence, and nonsense, about her, which I\nwould advise her to get the better of.\"\n\nAs a general reflection on Fanny, Sir Thomas thought nothing could be\nmore unjust, though he had been so lately expressing the same sentiments\nhimself, and he tried to turn the conversation: tried repeatedly\nbefore he could succeed; for Mrs. Norris had not discernment enough to\nperceive, either now, or at any other time, to what degree he thought\nwell of his niece, or how very far he was from wishing to have his own\nchildren's merits set off by the depreciation of hers. She was talking\n_at_ Fanny, and resenting this private walk half through the dinner.\n\nIt was over, however, at last; and the evening set in with more\ncomposure to Fanny, and more cheerfulness of spirits than she could\nhave hoped for after so stormy a morning; but she trusted, in the first\nplace, that she had done right: that her judgment had not misled her.\nFor the purity of her intentions she could answer; and she was willing\nto hope, secondly, that her uncle's displeasure was abating, and would\nabate farther as he considered the matter with more impartiality, and\nfelt, as a good man must feel, how wretched, and how unpardonable, how\nhopeless, and how wicked it was to marry without affection.\n\nWhen the meeting with which she was threatened for the morrow was past,\nshe could not but flatter herself that the subject would be finally\nconcluded, and Mr. Crawford once gone from Mansfield, that everything\nwould soon be as if no such subject had existed. She would not, could\nnot believe, that Mr. Crawford's affection for her could distress him\nlong; his mind was not of that sort. London would soon bring its cure.\nIn London he would soon learn to wonder at his infatuation, and be\nthankful for the right reason in her which had saved him from its evil\nconsequences.\n\nWhile Fanny's mind was engaged in these sort of hopes, her uncle was,\nsoon after tea, called out of the room; an occurrence too common to\nstrike her, and she thought nothing of it till the butler reappeared ten\nminutes afterwards, and advancing decidedly towards herself, said,\n\"Sir Thomas wishes to speak with you, ma'am, in his own room.\" Then it\noccurred to her what might be going on; a suspicion rushed over her mind\nwhich drove the colour from her cheeks; but instantly rising, she was\npreparing to obey, when Mrs. Norris called out, \"Stay, stay, Fanny! what\nare you about? where are you going? don't be in such a hurry. Depend\nupon it, it is not you who are wanted; depend upon it, it is me\"\n(looking at the butler); \"but you are so very eager to put yourself\nforward. What should Sir Thomas want you for? It is me, Baddeley, you\nmean; I am coming this moment. You mean me, Baddeley, I am sure; Sir\nThomas wants me, not Miss Price.\"\n\nBut Baddeley was stout. \"No, ma'am, it is Miss Price; I am certain of\nits being Miss Price.\" And there was a half-smile with the words, which\nmeant, \"I do not think you would answer the purpose at all.\"\n\nMrs. Norris, much discontented, was obliged to compose herself to work\nagain; and Fanny, walking off in agitating consciousness, found herself,\nas she anticipated, in another minute alone with Mr. Crawford.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII\n\nThe conference was neither so short nor so conclusive as the lady had\ndesigned. The gentleman was not so easily satisfied. He had all the\ndisposition to persevere that Sir Thomas could wish him. He had vanity,\nwhich strongly inclined him in the first place to think she did love\nhim, though she might not know it herself; and which, secondly, when\nconstrained at last to admit that she did know her own present feelings,\nconvinced him that he should be able in time to make those feelings what\nhe wished.\n\nHe was in love, very much in love; and it was a love which, operating\non an active, sanguine spirit, of more warmth than delicacy, made her\naffection appear of greater consequence because it was withheld, and\ndetermined him to have the glory, as well as the felicity, of forcing\nher to love him.\n\nHe would not despair: he would not desist. He had every well-grounded\nreason for solid attachment; he knew her to have all the worth that\ncould justify the warmest hopes of lasting happiness with her; her\nconduct at this very time, by speaking the disinterestedness and\ndelicacy of her character (qualities which he believed most rare\nindeed), was of a sort to heighten all his wishes, and confirm all his\nresolutions. He knew not that he had a pre-engaged heart to attack.\nOf _that_ he had no suspicion. He considered her rather as one who\nhad never thought on the subject enough to be in danger; who had been\nguarded by youth, a youth of mind as lovely as of person; whose modesty\nhad prevented her from understanding his attentions, and who was still\noverpowered by the suddenness of addresses so wholly unexpected, and the\nnovelty of a situation which her fancy had never taken into account.\n\nMust it not follow of course, that, when he was understood, he should\nsucceed? He believed it fully. Love such as his, in a man like himself,\nmust with perseverance secure a return, and at no great distance; and\nhe had so much delight in the idea of obliging her to love him in a very\nshort time, that her not loving him now was scarcely regretted. A little\ndifficulty to be overcome was no evil to Henry Crawford. He rather\nderived spirits from it. He had been apt to gain hearts too easily. His\nsituation was new and animating.\n\nTo Fanny, however, who had known too much opposition all her life to\nfind any charm in it, all this was unintelligible. She found that he did\nmean to persevere; but how he could, after such language from her as she\nfelt herself obliged to use, was not to be understood. She told him that\nshe did not love him, could not love him, was sure she never should love\nhim; that such a change was quite impossible; that the subject was most\npainful to her; that she must entreat him never to mention it again, to\nallow her to leave him at once, and let it be considered as concluded\nfor ever. And when farther pressed, had added, that in her opinion their\ndispositions were so totally dissimilar as to make mutual affection\nincompatible; and that they were unfitted for each other by nature,\neducation, and habit. All this she had said, and with the earnestness\nof sincerity; yet this was not enough, for he immediately denied there\nbeing anything uncongenial in their characters, or anything unfriendly\nin their situations; and positively declared, that he would still love,\nand still hope!\n\nFanny knew her own meaning, but was no judge of her own manner. Her\nmanner was incurably gentle; and she was not aware how much it concealed\nthe sternness of her purpose. Her diffidence, gratitude, and softness\nmade every expression of indifference seem almost an effort of\nself-denial; seem, at least, to be giving nearly as much pain to herself\nas to him. Mr. Crawford was no longer the Mr. Crawford who, as the\nclandestine, insidious, treacherous admirer of Maria Bertram, had been\nher abhorrence, whom she had hated to see or to speak to, in whom she\ncould believe no good quality to exist, and whose power, even of being\nagreeable, she had barely acknowledged. He was now the Mr. Crawford who\nwas addressing herself with ardent, disinterested love; whose feelings\nwere apparently become all that was honourable and upright, whose views\nof happiness were all fixed on a marriage of attachment; who was\npouring out his sense of her merits, describing and describing again his\naffection, proving as far as words could prove it, and in the language,\ntone, and spirit of a man of talent too, that he sought her for her\ngentleness and her goodness; and to complete the whole, he was now the\nMr. Crawford who had procured William's promotion!\n\nHere was a change, and here were claims which could not but operate!\nShe might have disdained him in all the dignity of angry virtue, in\nthe grounds of Sotherton, or the theatre at Mansfield Park; but he\napproached her now with rights that demanded different treatment.\nShe must be courteous, and she must be compassionate. She must have\na sensation of being honoured, and whether thinking of herself or her\nbrother, she must have a strong feeling of gratitude. The effect of the\nwhole was a manner so pitying and agitated, and words intermingled with\nher refusal so expressive of obligation and concern, that to a temper of\nvanity and hope like Crawford's, the truth, or at least the strength\nof her indifference, might well be questionable; and he was not so\nirrational as Fanny considered him, in the professions of persevering,\nassiduous, and not desponding attachment which closed the interview.\n\nIt was with reluctance that he suffered her to go; but there was no look\nof despair in parting to belie his words, or give her hopes of his being\nless unreasonable than he professed himself.\n\nNow she was angry. Some resentment did arise at a perseverance so\nselfish and ungenerous. Here was again a want of delicacy and regard for\nothers which had formerly so struck and disgusted her. Here was again\na something of the same Mr. Crawford whom she had so reprobated before.\nHow evidently was there a gross want of feeling and humanity where his\nown pleasure was concerned; and alas! how always known no principle to\nsupply as a duty what the heart was deficient in! Had her own affections\nbeen as free as perhaps they ought to have been, he never could have\nengaged them.\n\nSo thought Fanny, in good truth and sober sadness, as she sat musing\nover that too great indulgence and luxury of a fire upstairs: wondering\nat the past and present; wondering at what was yet to come, and in a\nnervous agitation which made nothing clear to her but the persuasion of\nher being never under any circumstances able to love Mr. Crawford, and\nthe felicity of having a fire to sit over and think of it.\n\nSir Thomas was obliged, or obliged himself, to wait till the morrow for\na knowledge of what had passed between the young people. He then saw\nMr. Crawford, and received his account. The first feeling was\ndisappointment: he had hoped better things; he had thought that an\nhour's entreaty from a young man like Crawford could not have worked so\nlittle change on a gentle-tempered girl like Fanny; but there was speedy\ncomfort in the determined views and sanguine perseverance of the lover;\nand when seeing such confidence of success in the principal, Sir Thomas\nwas soon able to depend on it himself.\n\nNothing was omitted, on his side, of civility, compliment, or kindness,\nthat might assist the plan. Mr. Crawford's steadiness was honoured, and\nFanny was praised, and the connexion was still the most desirable in the\nworld. At Mansfield Park Mr. Crawford would always be welcome; he had\nonly to consult his own judgment and feelings as to the frequency of his\nvisits, at present or in future. In all his niece's family and friends,\nthere could be but one opinion, one wish on the subject; the influence\nof all who loved her must incline one way.\n\nEverything was said that could encourage, every encouragement received\nwith grateful joy, and the gentlemen parted the best of friends.\n\nSatisfied that the cause was now on a footing the most proper and\nhopeful, Sir Thomas resolved to abstain from all farther importunity\nwith his niece, and to shew no open interference. Upon her disposition\nhe believed kindness might be the best way of working. Entreaty should\nbe from one quarter only. The forbearance of her family on a point,\nrespecting which she could be in no doubt of their wishes, might be\ntheir surest means of forwarding it. Accordingly, on this principle, Sir\nThomas took the first opportunity of saying to her, with a mild gravity,\nintended to be overcoming, \"Well, Fanny, I have seen Mr. Crawford again,\nand learn from him exactly how matters stand between you. He is a most\nextraordinary young man, and whatever be the event, you must feel that\nyou have created an attachment of no common character; though, young\nas you are, and little acquainted with the transient, varying, unsteady\nnature of love, as it generally exists, you cannot be struck as I\nam with all that is wonderful in a perseverance of this sort against\ndiscouragement. With him it is entirely a matter of feeling: he claims\nno merit in it; perhaps is entitled to none. Yet, having chosen so\nwell, his constancy has a respectable stamp. Had his choice been less\nunexceptionable, I should have condemned his persevering.\"\n\n\"Indeed, sir,\" said Fanny, \"I am very sorry that Mr. Crawford should\ncontinue to know that it is paying me a very great compliment, and I\nfeel most undeservedly honoured; but I am so perfectly convinced, and I\nhave told him so, that it never will be in my power--\"\n\n\"My dear,\" interrupted Sir Thomas, \"there is no occasion for this. Your\nfeelings are as well known to me as my wishes and regrets must be\nto you. There is nothing more to be said or done. From this hour the\nsubject is never to be revived between us. You will have nothing to\nfear, or to be agitated about. You cannot suppose me capable of trying\nto persuade you to marry against your inclinations. Your happiness and\nadvantage are all that I have in view, and nothing is required of you\nbut to bear with Mr. Crawford's endeavours to convince you that they may\nnot be incompatible with his. He proceeds at his own risk. You are on\nsafe ground. I have engaged for your seeing him whenever he calls, as\nyou might have done had nothing of this sort occurred. You will see\nhim with the rest of us, in the same manner, and, as much as you\ncan, dismissing the recollection of everything unpleasant. He leaves\nNorthamptonshire so soon, that even this slight sacrifice cannot be\noften demanded. The future must be very uncertain. And now, my dear\nFanny, this subject is closed between us.\"\n\nThe promised departure was all that Fanny could think of with much\nsatisfaction. Her uncle's kind expressions, however, and forbearing\nmanner, were sensibly felt; and when she considered how much of the\ntruth was unknown to him, she believed she had no right to wonder at\nthe line of conduct he pursued. He, who had married a daughter to Mr.\nRushworth: romantic delicacy was certainly not to be expected from him.\nShe must do her duty, and trust that time might make her duty easier\nthan it now was.\n\nShe could not, though only eighteen, suppose Mr. Crawford's attachment\nwould hold out for ever; she could not but imagine that steady,\nunceasing discouragement from herself would put an end to it in time.\nHow much time she might, in her own fancy, allot for its dominion, is\nanother concern. It would not be fair to inquire into a young lady's\nexact estimate of her own perfections.\n\nIn spite of his intended silence, Sir Thomas found himself once more\nobliged to mention the subject to his niece, to prepare her briefly for\nits being imparted to her aunts; a measure which he would still have\navoided, if possible, but which became necessary from the totally\nopposite feelings of Mr. Crawford as to any secrecy of proceeding. He\nhad no idea of concealment. It was all known at the Parsonage, where\nhe loved to talk over the future with both his sisters, and it would be\nrather gratifying to him to have enlightened witnesses of the progress\nof his success. When Sir Thomas understood this, he felt the necessity\nof making his own wife and sister-in-law acquainted with the business\nwithout delay; though, on Fanny's account, he almost dreaded the\neffect of the communication to Mrs. Norris as much as Fanny herself. He\ndeprecated her mistaken but well-meaning zeal. Sir Thomas, indeed, was,\nby this time, not very far from classing Mrs. Norris as one of those\nwell-meaning people who are always doing mistaken and very disagreeable\nthings.\n\nMrs. Norris, however, relieved him. He pressed for the strictest\nforbearance and silence towards their niece; she not only promised, but\ndid observe it. She only looked her increased ill-will. Angry she was:\nbitterly angry; but she was more angry with Fanny for having received\nsuch an offer than for refusing it. It was an injury and affront to\nJulia, who ought to have been Mr. Crawford's choice; and, independently\nof that, she disliked Fanny, because she had neglected her; and she\nwould have grudged such an elevation to one whom she had been always\ntrying to depress.\n\nSir Thomas gave her more credit for discretion on the occasion than she\ndeserved; and Fanny could have blessed her for allowing her only to see\nher displeasure, and not to hear it.\n\nLady Bertram took it differently. She had been a beauty, and a\nprosperous beauty, all her life; and beauty and wealth were all that\nexcited her respect. To know Fanny to be sought in marriage by a man of\nfortune, raised her, therefore, very much in her opinion. By convincing\nher that Fanny _was_ very pretty, which she had been doubting about\nbefore, and that she would be advantageously married, it made her feel a\nsort of credit in calling her niece.\n\n\"Well, Fanny,\" said she, as soon as they were alone together afterwards,\nand she really had known something like impatience to be alone with her,\nand her countenance, as she spoke, had extraordinary animation; \"Well,\nFanny, I have had a very agreeable surprise this morning. I must just\nspeak of it _once_, I told Sir Thomas I must _once_, and then I\nshall have done. I give you joy, my dear niece.\" And looking at her\ncomplacently, she added, \"Humph, we certainly are a handsome family!\"\n\nFanny coloured, and doubted at first what to say; when, hoping to assail\nher on her vulnerable side, she presently answered--\n\n\"My dear aunt, _you_ cannot wish me to do differently from what I have\ndone, I am sure. _You_ cannot wish me to marry; for you would miss me,\nshould not you? Yes, I am sure you would miss me too much for that.\"\n\n\"No, my dear, I should not think of missing you, when such an offer as\nthis comes in your way. I could do very well without you, if you were\nmarried to a man of such good estate as Mr. Crawford. And you must be\naware, Fanny, that it is every young woman's duty to accept such a very\nunexceptionable offer as this.\"\n\nThis was almost the only rule of conduct, the only piece of advice,\nwhich Fanny had ever received from her aunt in the course of eight years\nand a half. It silenced her. She felt how unprofitable contention would\nbe. If her aunt's feelings were against her, nothing could be hoped from\nattacking her understanding. Lady Bertram was quite talkative.\n\n\"I will tell you what, Fanny,\" said she, \"I am sure he fell in love with\nyou at the ball; I am sure the mischief was done that evening. You did\nlook remarkably well. Everybody said so. Sir Thomas said so. And you\nknow you had Chapman to help you to dress. I am very glad I sent\nChapman to you. I shall tell Sir Thomas that I am sure it was done\nthat evening.\" And still pursuing the same cheerful thoughts, she soon\nafterwards added, \"And will tell you what, Fanny, which is more than I\ndid for Maria: the next time Pug has a litter you shall have a puppy.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV\n\nEdmund had great things to hear on his return. Many surprises were\nawaiting him. The first that occurred was not least in interest: the\nappearance of Henry Crawford and his sister walking together through the\nvillage as he rode into it. He had concluded--he had meant them to be\nfar distant. His absence had been extended beyond a fortnight purposely\nto avoid Miss Crawford. He was returning to Mansfield with spirits ready\nto feed on melancholy remembrances, and tender associations, when her\nown fair self was before him, leaning on her brother's arm, and he found\nhimself receiving a welcome, unquestionably friendly, from the woman\nwhom, two moments before, he had been thinking of as seventy miles off,\nand as farther, much farther, from him in inclination than any distance\ncould express.\n\nHer reception of him was of a sort which he could not have hoped\nfor, had he expected to see her. Coming as he did from such a purport\nfulfilled as had taken him away, he would have expected anything rather\nthan a look of satisfaction, and words of simple, pleasant meaning.\nIt was enough to set his heart in a glow, and to bring him home in the\nproperest state for feeling the full value of the other joyful surprises\nat hand.\n\nWilliam's promotion, with all its particulars, he was soon master of;\nand with such a secret provision of comfort within his own breast to\nhelp the joy, he found in it a source of most gratifying sensation and\nunvarying cheerfulness all dinner-time.\n\nAfter dinner, when he and his father were alone, he had Fanny's history;\nand then all the great events of the last fortnight, and the present\nsituation of matters at Mansfield were known to him.\n\nFanny suspected what was going on. They sat so much longer than usual in\nthe dining-parlour, that she was sure they must be talking of her; and\nwhen tea at last brought them away, and she was to be seen by Edmund\nagain, she felt dreadfully guilty. He came to her, sat down by her, took\nher hand, and pressed it kindly; and at that moment she thought that,\nbut for the occupation and the scene which the tea-things afforded, she\nmust have betrayed her emotion in some unpardonable excess.\n\nHe was not intending, however, by such action, to be conveying to her\nthat unqualified approbation and encouragement which her hopes drew\nfrom it. It was designed only to express his participation in all that\ninterested her, and to tell her that he had been hearing what quickened\nevery feeling of affection. He was, in fact, entirely on his father's\nside of the question. His surprise was not so great as his father's at\nher refusing Crawford, because, so far from supposing her to consider\nhim with anything like a preference, he had always believed it to\nbe rather the reverse, and could imagine her to be taken perfectly\nunprepared, but Sir Thomas could not regard the connexion as more\ndesirable than he did. It had every recommendation to him; and while\nhonouring her for what she had done under the influence of her present\nindifference, honouring her in rather stronger terms than Sir Thomas\ncould quite echo, he was most earnest in hoping, and sanguine in\nbelieving, that it would be a match at last, and that, united by mutual\naffection, it would appear that their dispositions were as exactly\nfitted to make them blessed in each other, as he was now beginning\nseriously to consider them. Crawford had been too precipitate. He had\nnot given her time to attach herself. He had begun at the wrong end.\nWith such powers as his, however, and such a disposition as hers, Edmund\ntrusted that everything would work out a happy conclusion. Meanwhile,\nhe saw enough of Fanny's embarrassment to make him scrupulously guard\nagainst exciting it a second time, by any word, or look, or movement.\n\nCrawford called the next day, and on the score of Edmund's return, Sir\nThomas felt himself more than licensed to ask him to stay dinner; it was\nreally a necessary compliment. He staid of course, and Edmund had then\nample opportunity for observing how he sped with Fanny, and what degree\nof immediate encouragement for him might be extracted from her manners;\nand it was so little, so very, very little--every chance, every\npossibility of it, resting upon her embarrassment only; if there was\nnot hope in her confusion, there was hope in nothing else--that he was\nalmost ready to wonder at his friend's perseverance. Fanny was worth it\nall; he held her to be worth every effort of patience, every exertion of\nmind, but he did not think he could have gone on himself with any woman\nbreathing, without something more to warm his courage than his eyes\ncould discern in hers. He was very willing to hope that Crawford saw\nclearer, and this was the most comfortable conclusion for his friend\nthat he could come to from all that he observed to pass before, and at,\nand after dinner.\n\nIn the evening a few circumstances occurred which he thought more\npromising. When he and Crawford walked into the drawing-room, his mother\nand Fanny were sitting as intently and silently at work as if there\nwere nothing else to care for. Edmund could not help noticing their\napparently deep tranquillity.\n\n\"We have not been so silent all the time,\" replied his mother. \"Fanny\nhas been reading to me, and only put the book down upon hearing you\ncoming.\" And sure enough there was a book on the table which had the air\nof being very recently closed: a volume of Shakespeare. \"She often\nreads to me out of those books; and she was in the middle of a very\nfine speech of that man's--what's his name, Fanny?--when we heard your\nfootsteps.\"\n\nCrawford took the volume. \"Let me have the pleasure of finishing that\nspeech to your ladyship,\" said he. \"I shall find it immediately.\" And by\ncarefully giving way to the inclination of the leaves, he did find it,\nor within a page or two, quite near enough to satisfy Lady Bertram, who\nassured him, as soon as he mentioned the name of Cardinal Wolsey, that\nhe had got the very speech. Not a look or an offer of help had Fanny\ngiven; not a syllable for or against. All her attention was for her\nwork. She seemed determined to be interested by nothing else. But taste\nwas too strong in her. She could not abstract her mind five minutes: she\nwas forced to listen; his reading was capital, and her pleasure in good\nreading extreme. To _good_ reading, however, she had been long used:\nher uncle read well, her cousins all, Edmund very well, but in Mr.\nCrawford's reading there was a variety of excellence beyond what she had\never met with. The King, the Queen, Buckingham, Wolsey, Cromwell, all\nwere given in turn; for with the happiest knack, the happiest power of\njumping and guessing, he could always alight at will on the best scene,\nor the best speeches of each; and whether it were dignity, or pride, or\ntenderness, or remorse, or whatever were to be expressed, he could do\nit with equal beauty. It was truly dramatic. His acting had first taught\nFanny what pleasure a play might give, and his reading brought all his\nacting before her again; nay, perhaps with greater enjoyment, for it\ncame unexpectedly, and with no such drawback as she had been used to\nsuffer in seeing him on the stage with Miss Bertram.\n\nEdmund watched the progress of her attention, and was amused and\ngratified by seeing how she gradually slackened in the needlework, which\nat the beginning seemed to occupy her totally: how it fell from her hand\nwhile she sat motionless over it, and at last, how the eyes which had\nappeared so studiously to avoid him throughout the day were turned and\nfixed on Crawford--fixed on him for minutes, fixed on him, in short,\ntill the attraction drew Crawford's upon her, and the book was closed,\nand the charm was broken. Then she was shrinking again into herself,\nand blushing and working as hard as ever; but it had been enough to give\nEdmund encouragement for his friend, and as he cordially thanked him, he\nhoped to be expressing Fanny's secret feelings too.\n\n\"That play must be a favourite with you,\" said he; \"you read as if you\nknew it well.\"\n\n\"It will be a favourite, I believe, from this hour,\" replied Crawford;\n\"but I do not think I have had a volume of Shakespeare in my hand before\nsince I was fifteen. I once saw Henry the Eighth acted, or I have heard\nof it from somebody who did, I am not certain which. But Shakespeare\none gets acquainted with without knowing how. It is a part of an\nEnglishman's constitution. His thoughts and beauties are so spread\nabroad that one touches them everywhere; one is intimate with him by\ninstinct. No man of any brain can open at a good part of one of his\nplays without falling into the flow of his meaning immediately.\"\n\n\"No doubt one is familiar with Shakespeare in a degree,\" said Edmund,\n\"from one's earliest years. His celebrated passages are quoted\nby everybody; they are in half the books we open, and we all talk\nShakespeare, use his similes, and describe with his descriptions; but\nthis is totally distinct from giving his sense as you gave it. To know\nhim in bits and scraps is common enough; to know him pretty thoroughly\nis, perhaps, not uncommon; but to read him well aloud is no everyday\ntalent.\"\n\n\"Sir, you do me honour,\" was Crawford's answer, with a bow of mock\ngravity.\n\nBoth gentlemen had a glance at Fanny, to see if a word of accordant\npraise could be extorted from her; yet both feeling that it could not\nbe. Her praise had been given in her attention; _that_ must content\nthem.\n\nLady Bertram's admiration was expressed, and strongly too. \"It was\nreally like being at a play,\" said she. \"I wish Sir Thomas had been\nhere.\"\n\nCrawford was excessively pleased. If Lady Bertram, with all her\nincompetency and languor, could feel this, the inference of what her\nniece, alive and enlightened as she was, must feel, was elevating.\n\n\"You have a great turn for acting, I am sure, Mr. Crawford,\" said her\nladyship soon afterwards; \"and I will tell you what, I think you will\nhave a theatre, some time or other, at your house in Norfolk. I mean\nwhen you are settled there. I do indeed. I think you will fit up a\ntheatre at your house in Norfolk.\"\n\n\"Do you, ma'am?\" cried he, with quickness. \"No, no, that will never be.\nYour ladyship is quite mistaken. No theatre at Everingham! Oh no!\" And\nhe looked at Fanny with an expressive smile, which evidently meant,\n\"That lady will never allow a theatre at Everingham.\"\n\nEdmund saw it all, and saw Fanny so determined _not_ to see it, as to\nmake it clear that the voice was enough to convey the full meaning of\nthe protestation; and such a quick consciousness of compliment, such a\nready comprehension of a hint, he thought, was rather favourable than\nnot.\n\nThe subject of reading aloud was farther discussed. The two young men\nwere the only talkers, but they, standing by the fire, talked over the\ntoo common neglect of the qualification, the total inattention to it,\nin the ordinary school-system for boys, the consequently natural, yet in\nsome instances almost unnatural, degree of ignorance and uncouthness\nof men, of sensible and well-informed men, when suddenly called to the\nnecessity of reading aloud, which had fallen within their notice, giving\ninstances of blunders, and failures with their secondary causes, the\nwant of management of the voice, of proper modulation and emphasis, of\nforesight and judgment, all proceeding from the first cause: want of\nearly attention and habit; and Fanny was listening again with great\nentertainment.\n\n\"Even in my profession,\" said Edmund, with a smile, \"how little the\nart of reading has been studied! how little a clear manner, and good\ndelivery, have been attended to! I speak rather of the past, however,\nthan the present. There is now a spirit of improvement abroad; but among\nthose who were ordained twenty, thirty, forty years ago, the larger\nnumber, to judge by their performance, must have thought reading was\nreading, and preaching was preaching. It is different now. The subject\nis more justly considered. It is felt that distinctness and energy may\nhave weight in recommending the most solid truths; and besides, there is\nmore general observation and taste, a more critical knowledge diffused\nthan formerly; in every congregation there is a larger proportion who\nknow a little of the matter, and who can judge and criticise.\"\n\nEdmund had already gone through the service once since his ordination;\nand upon this being understood, he had a variety of questions from\nCrawford as to his feelings and success; questions, which being made,\nthough with the vivacity of friendly interest and quick taste, without\nany touch of that spirit of banter or air of levity which Edmund knew to\nbe most offensive to Fanny, he had true pleasure in satisfying; and\nwhen Crawford proceeded to ask his opinion and give his own as to the\nproperest manner in which particular passages in the service should be\ndelivered, shewing it to be a subject on which he had thought before,\nand thought with judgment, Edmund was still more and more pleased. This\nwould be the way to Fanny's heart. She was not to be won by all that\ngallantry and wit and good-nature together could do; or, at least,\nshe would not be won by them nearly so soon, without the assistance of\nsentiment and feeling, and seriousness on serious subjects.\n\n\"Our liturgy,\" observed Crawford, \"has beauties, which not even a\ncareless, slovenly style of reading can destroy; but it has also\nredundancies and repetitions which require good reading not to be felt.\nFor myself, at least, I must confess being not always so attentive as I\nought to be\" (here was a glance at Fanny); \"that nineteen times out of\ntwenty I am thinking how such a prayer ought to be read, and longing to\nhave it to read myself. Did you speak?\" stepping eagerly to Fanny, and\naddressing her in a softened voice; and upon her saying \"No,\" he added,\n\"Are you sure you did not speak? I saw your lips move. I fancied you\nmight be going to tell me I ought to be more attentive, and not _allow_\nmy thoughts to wander. Are not you going to tell me so?\"\n\n\"No, indeed, you know your duty too well for me to--even supposing--\"\n\nShe stopt, felt herself getting into a puzzle, and could not be\nprevailed on to add another word, not by dint of several minutes of\nsupplication and waiting. He then returned to his former station, and\nwent on as if there had been no such tender interruption.\n\n\"A sermon, well delivered, is more uncommon even than prayers well read.\nA sermon, good in itself, is no rare thing. It is more difficult\nto speak well than to compose well; that is, the rules and trick of\ncomposition are oftener an object of study. A thoroughly good sermon,\nthoroughly well delivered, is a capital gratification. I can never hear\nsuch a one without the greatest admiration and respect, and more than\nhalf a mind to take orders and preach myself. There is something in the\neloquence of the pulpit, when it is really eloquence, which is entitled\nto the highest praise and honour. The preacher who can touch and affect\nsuch an heterogeneous mass of hearers, on subjects limited, and long\nworn threadbare in all common hands; who can say anything new or\nstriking, anything that rouses the attention without offending the\ntaste, or wearing out the feelings of his hearers, is a man whom one\ncould not, in his public capacity, honour enough. I should like to be\nsuch a man.\"\n\nEdmund laughed.\n\n\"I should indeed. I never listened to a distinguished preacher in my\nlife without a sort of envy. But then, I must have a London audience.\nI could not preach but to the educated; to those who were capable of\nestimating my composition. And I do not know that I should be fond of\npreaching often; now and then, perhaps once or twice in the spring,\nafter being anxiously expected for half a dozen Sundays together; but\nnot for a constancy; it would not do for a constancy.\"\n\nHere Fanny, who could not but listen, involuntarily shook her head,\nand Crawford was instantly by her side again, entreating to know her\nmeaning; and as Edmund perceived, by his drawing in a chair, and sitting\ndown close by her, that it was to be a very thorough attack, that looks\nand undertones were to be well tried, he sank as quietly as possible\ninto a corner, turned his back, and took up a newspaper, very sincerely\nwishing that dear little Fanny might be persuaded into explaining away\nthat shake of the head to the satisfaction of her ardent lover; and as\nearnestly trying to bury every sound of the business from himself in\nmurmurs of his own, over the various advertisements of \"A most desirable\nEstate in South Wales\"; \"To Parents and Guardians\"; and a \"Capital\nseason'd Hunter.\"\n\nFanny, meanwhile, vexed with herself for not having been as motionless\nas she was speechless, and grieved to the heart to see Edmund's\narrangements, was trying by everything in the power of her modest,\ngentle nature, to repulse Mr. Crawford, and avoid both his looks and\ninquiries; and he, unrepulsable, was persisting in both.\n\n\"What did that shake of the head mean?\" said he. \"What was it meant to\nexpress? Disapprobation, I fear. But of what? What had I been saying\nto displease you? Did you think me speaking improperly, lightly,\nirreverently on the subject? Only tell me if I was. Only tell me if\nI was wrong. I want to be set right. Nay, nay, I entreat you; for one\nmoment put down your work. What did that shake of the head mean?\"\n\nIn vain was her \"Pray, sir, don't; pray, Mr. Crawford,\" repeated twice\nover; and in vain did she try to move away. In the same low, eager\nvoice, and the same close neighbourhood, he went on, reurging the same\nquestions as before. She grew more agitated and displeased.\n\n\"How can you, sir? You quite astonish me; I wonder how you can--\"\n\n\"Do I astonish you?\" said he. \"Do you wonder? Is there anything in\nmy present entreaty that you do not understand? I will explain to you\ninstantly all that makes me urge you in this manner, all that gives me\nan interest in what you look and do, and excites my present curiosity. I\nwill not leave you to wonder long.\"\n\nIn spite of herself, she could not help half a smile, but she said\nnothing.\n\n\"You shook your head at my acknowledging that I should not like to\nengage in the duties of a clergyman always for a constancy. Yes, that\nwas the word. Constancy: I am not afraid of the word. I would spell it,\nread it, write it with anybody. I see nothing alarming in the word. Did\nyou think I ought?\"\n\n\"Perhaps, sir,\" said Fanny, wearied at last into speaking--\"perhaps,\nsir, I thought it was a pity you did not always know yourself as well as\nyou seemed to do at that moment.\"\n\nCrawford, delighted to get her to speak at any rate, was determined\nto keep it up; and poor Fanny, who had hoped to silence him by such an\nextremity of reproof, found herself sadly mistaken, and that it was only\na change from one object of curiosity and one set of words to another.\nHe had always something to entreat the explanation of. The opportunity\nwas too fair. None such had occurred since his seeing her in her uncle's\nroom, none such might occur again before his leaving Mansfield. Lady\nBertram's being just on the other side of the table was a trifle,\nfor she might always be considered as only half-awake, and Edmund's\nadvertisements were still of the first utility.\n\n\"Well,\" said Crawford, after a course of rapid questions and reluctant\nanswers; \"I am happier than I was, because I now understand more clearly\nyour opinion of me. You think me unsteady: easily swayed by the whim of\nthe moment, easily tempted, easily put aside. With such an opinion, no\nwonder that. But we shall see. It is not by protestations that I shall\nendeavour to convince you I am wronged; it is not by telling you that my\naffections are steady. My conduct shall speak for me; absence, distance,\ntime shall speak for me. _They_ shall prove that, as far as you can be\ndeserved by anybody, I do deserve you. You are infinitely my superior\nin merit; all _that_ I know. You have qualities which I had not before\nsupposed to exist in such a degree in any human creature. You have some\ntouches of the angel in you beyond what--not merely beyond what one\nsees, because one never sees anything like it--but beyond what one\nfancies might be. But still I am not frightened. It is not by equality\nof merit that you can be won. That is out of the question. It is he\nwho sees and worships your merit the strongest, who loves you most\ndevotedly, that has the best right to a return. There I build my\nconfidence. By that right I do and will deserve you; and when once\nconvinced that my attachment is what I declare it, I know you too well\nnot to entertain the warmest hopes. Yes, dearest, sweetest Fanny. Nay\"\n(seeing her draw back displeased), \"forgive me. Perhaps I have as yet\nno right; but by what other name can I call you? Do you suppose you are\never present to my imagination under any other? No, it is 'Fanny' that\nI think of all day, and dream of all night. You have given the name such\nreality of sweetness, that nothing else can now be descriptive of you.\"\n\nFanny could hardly have kept her seat any longer, or have refrained from\nat least trying to get away in spite of all the too public opposition\nshe foresaw to it, had it not been for the sound of approaching relief,\nthe very sound which she had been long watching for, and long thinking\nstrangely delayed.\n\nThe solemn procession, headed by Baddeley, of tea-board, urn, and\ncake-bearers, made its appearance, and delivered her from a grievous\nimprisonment of body and mind. Mr. Crawford was obliged to move. She was\nat liberty, she was busy, she was protected.\n\nEdmund was not sorry to be admitted again among the number of those who\nmight speak and hear. But though the conference had seemed full long to\nhim, and though on looking at Fanny he saw rather a flush of vexation,\nhe inclined to hope that so much could not have been said and listened\nto without some profit to the speaker.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXV\n\nEdmund had determined that it belonged entirely to Fanny to chuse\nwhether her situation with regard to Crawford should be mentioned\nbetween them or not; and that if she did not lead the way, it should\nnever be touched on by him; but after a day or two of mutual reserve, he\nwas induced by his father to change his mind, and try what his influence\nmight do for his friend.\n\nA day, and a very early day, was actually fixed for the Crawfords'\ndeparture; and Sir Thomas thought it might be as well to make one\nmore effort for the young man before he left Mansfield, that all his\nprofessions and vows of unshaken attachment might have as much hope to\nsustain them as possible.\n\nSir Thomas was most cordially anxious for the perfection of Mr.\nCrawford's character in that point. He wished him to be a model of\nconstancy; and fancied the best means of effecting it would be by not\ntrying him too long.\n\nEdmund was not unwilling to be persuaded to engage in the business; he\nwanted to know Fanny's feelings. She had been used to consult him in\nevery difficulty, and he loved her too well to bear to be denied her\nconfidence now; he hoped to be of service to her, he thought he must be\nof service to her; whom else had she to open her heart to? If she did\nnot need counsel, she must need the comfort of communication. Fanny\nestranged from him, silent and reserved, was an unnatural state of\nthings; a state which he must break through, and which he could easily\nlearn to think she was wanting him to break through.\n\n\"I will speak to her, sir: I will take the first opportunity of speaking\nto her alone,\" was the result of such thoughts as these; and upon Sir\nThomas's information of her being at that very time walking alone in the\nshrubbery, he instantly joined her.\n\n\"I am come to walk with you, Fanny,\" said he. \"Shall I?\" Drawing her\narm within his. \"It is a long while since we have had a comfortable walk\ntogether.\"\n\nShe assented to it all rather by look than word. Her spirits were low.\n\n\"But, Fanny,\" he presently added, \"in order to have a comfortable walk,\nsomething more is necessary than merely pacing this gravel together. You\nmust talk to me. I know you have something on your mind. I know what you\nare thinking of. You cannot suppose me uninformed. Am I to hear of it\nfrom everybody but Fanny herself?\"\n\nFanny, at once agitated and dejected, replied, \"If you hear of it from\neverybody, cousin, there can be nothing for me to tell.\"\n\n\"Not of facts, perhaps; but of feelings, Fanny. No one but you can tell\nme them. I do not mean to press you, however. If it is not what you wish\nyourself, I have done. I had thought it might be a relief.\"\n\n\"I am afraid we think too differently for me to find any relief in\ntalking of what I feel.\"\n\n\"Do you suppose that we think differently? I have no idea of it. I dare\nsay that, on a comparison of our opinions, they would be found as much\nalike as they have been used to be: to the point--I consider Crawford's\nproposals as most advantageous and desirable, if you could return his\naffection. I consider it as most natural that all your family should\nwish you could return it; but that, as you cannot, you have done exactly\nas you ought in refusing him. Can there be any disagreement between us\nhere?\"\n\n\"Oh no! But I thought you blamed me. I thought you were against me. This\nis such a comfort!\"\n\n\"This comfort you might have had sooner, Fanny, had you sought it. But\nhow could you possibly suppose me against you? How could you imagine me\nan advocate for marriage without love? Were I even careless in general\non such matters, how could you imagine me so where your happiness was at\nstake?\"\n\n\"My uncle thought me wrong, and I knew he had been talking to you.\"\n\n\"As far as you have gone, Fanny, I think you perfectly right. I may be\nsorry, I may be surprised--though hardly _that_, for you had not had\ntime to attach yourself--but I think you perfectly right. Can it admit\nof a question? It is disgraceful to us if it does. You did not love him;\nnothing could have justified your accepting him.\"\n\nFanny had not felt so comfortable for days and days.\n\n\"So far your conduct has been faultless, and they were quite mistaken\nwho wished you to do otherwise. But the matter does not end here.\nCrawford's is no common attachment; he perseveres, with the hope of\ncreating that regard which had not been created before. This, we know,\nmust be a work of time. But\" (with an affectionate smile) \"let him\nsucceed at last, Fanny, let him succeed at last. You have proved\nyourself upright and disinterested, prove yourself grateful and\ntender-hearted; and then you will be the perfect model of a woman which\nI have always believed you born for.\"\n\n\"Oh! never, never, never! he never will succeed with me.\" And she spoke\nwith a warmth which quite astonished Edmund, and which she blushed at\nthe recollection of herself, when she saw his look, and heard him\nreply, \"Never! Fanny!--so very determined and positive! This is not like\nyourself, your rational self.\"\n\n\"I mean,\" she cried, sorrowfully correcting herself, \"that I _think_ I\nnever shall, as far as the future can be answered for; I think I never\nshall return his regard.\"\n\n\"I must hope better things. I am aware, more aware than Crawford can be,\nthat the man who means to make you love him (you having due notice of\nhis intentions) must have very uphill work, for there are all your early\nattachments and habits in battle array; and before he can get your heart\nfor his own use he has to unfasten it from all the holds upon things\nanimate and inanimate, which so many years' growth have confirmed, and\nwhich are considerably tightened for the moment by the very idea\nof separation. I know that the apprehension of being forced to quit\nMansfield will for a time be arming you against him. I wish he had not\nbeen obliged to tell you what he was trying for. I wish he had known you\nas well as I do, Fanny. Between us, I think we should have won you. My\ntheoretical and his practical knowledge together could not have failed.\nHe should have worked upon my plans. I must hope, however, that time,\nproving him (as I firmly believe it will) to deserve you by his steady\naffection, will give him his reward. I cannot suppose that you have not\nthe _wish_ to love him--the natural wish of gratitude. You must have\nsome feeling of that sort. You must be sorry for your own indifference.\"\n\n\"We are so totally unlike,\" said Fanny, avoiding a direct answer, \"we\nare so very, very different in all our inclinations and ways, that\nI consider it as quite impossible we should ever be tolerably happy\ntogether, even if I _could_ like him. There never were two people more\ndissimilar. We have not one taste in common. We should be miserable.\"\n\n\"You are mistaken, Fanny. The dissimilarity is not so strong. You are\nquite enough alike. You _have_ tastes in common. You have moral and\nliterary tastes in common. You have both warm hearts and benevolent\nfeelings; and, Fanny, who that heard him read, and saw you listen to\nShakespeare the other night, will think you unfitted as companions? You\nforget yourself: there is a decided difference in your tempers, I allow.\nHe is lively, you are serious; but so much the better: his spirits will\nsupport yours. It is your disposition to be easily dejected and to fancy\ndifficulties greater than they are. His cheerfulness will counteract\nthis. He sees difficulties nowhere: and his pleasantness and gaiety will\nbe a constant support to you. Your being so far unlike, Fanny, does not\nin the smallest degree make against the probability of your happiness\ntogether: do not imagine it. I am myself convinced that it is rather a\nfavourable circumstance. I am perfectly persuaded that the tempers\nhad better be unlike: I mean unlike in the flow of the spirits, in\nthe manners, in the inclination for much or little company, in the\npropensity to talk or to be silent, to be grave or to be gay. Some\nopposition here is, I am thoroughly convinced, friendly to matrimonial\nhappiness. I exclude extremes, of course; and a very close resemblance\nin all those points would be the likeliest way to produce an extreme.\nA counteraction, gentle and continual, is the best safeguard of manners\nand conduct.\"\n\nFull well could Fanny guess where his thoughts were now: Miss Crawford's\npower was all returning. He had been speaking of her cheerfully from the\nhour of his coming home. His avoiding her was quite at an end. He had\ndined at the Parsonage only the preceding day.\n\nAfter leaving him to his happier thoughts for some minutes, Fanny,\nfeeling it due to herself, returned to Mr. Crawford, and said, \"It\nis not merely in _temper_ that I consider him as totally unsuited to\nmyself; though, in _that_ respect, I think the difference between us too\ngreat, infinitely too great: his spirits often oppress me; but there is\nsomething in him which I object to still more. I must say, cousin, that\nI cannot approve his character. I have not thought well of him from the\ntime of the play. I then saw him behaving, as it appeared to me, so\nvery improperly and unfeelingly--I may speak of it now because it is all\nover--so improperly by poor Mr. Rushworth, not seeming to care how he\nexposed or hurt him, and paying attentions to my cousin Maria, which--in\nshort, at the time of the play, I received an impression which will\nnever be got over.\"\n\n\"My dear Fanny,\" replied Edmund, scarcely hearing her to the end, \"let\nus not, any of us, be judged by what we appeared at that period of\ngeneral folly. The time of the play is a time which I hate to recollect.\nMaria was wrong, Crawford was wrong, we were all wrong together; but\nnone so wrong as myself. Compared with me, all the rest were blameless.\nI was playing the fool with my eyes open.\"\n\n\"As a bystander,\" said Fanny, \"perhaps I saw more than you did; and I do\nthink that Mr. Rushworth was sometimes very jealous.\"\n\n\"Very possibly. No wonder. Nothing could be more improper than the whole\nbusiness. I am shocked whenever I think that Maria could be capable of\nit; but, if she could undertake the part, we must not be surprised at\nthe rest.\"\n\n\"Before the play, I am much mistaken if _Julia_ did not think he was\npaying her attentions.\"\n\n\"Julia! I have heard before from some one of his being in love with\nJulia; but I could never see anything of it. And, Fanny, though I hope I\ndo justice to my sisters' good qualities, I think it very possible that\nthey might, one or both, be more desirous of being admired by Crawford,\nand might shew that desire rather more unguardedly than was perfectly\nprudent. I can remember that they were evidently fond of his society;\nand with such encouragement, a man like Crawford, lively, and it may\nbe, a little unthinking, might be led on to--there could be nothing very\nstriking, because it is clear that he had no pretensions: his heart was\nreserved for you. And I must say, that its being for you has raised him\ninconceivably in my opinion. It does him the highest honour; it shews\nhis proper estimation of the blessing of domestic happiness and pure\nattachment. It proves him unspoilt by his uncle. It proves him, in\nshort, everything that I had been used to wish to believe him, and\nfeared he was not.\"\n\n\"I am persuaded that he does not think, as he ought, on serious\nsubjects.\"\n\n\"Say, rather, that he has not thought at all upon serious subjects,\nwhich I believe to be a good deal the case. How could it be otherwise,\nwith such an education and adviser? Under the disadvantages, indeed,\nwhich both have had, is it not wonderful that they should be what they\nare? Crawford's _feelings_, I am ready to acknowledge, have hitherto\nbeen too much his guides. Happily, those feelings have generally been\ngood. You will supply the rest; and a most fortunate man he is to attach\nhimself to such a creature--to a woman who, firm as a rock in her own\nprinciples, has a gentleness of character so well adapted to recommend\nthem. He has chosen his partner, indeed, with rare felicity. He will\nmake you happy, Fanny; I know he will make you happy; but you will make\nhim everything.\"\n\n\"I would not engage in such a charge,\" cried Fanny, in a shrinking\naccent; \"in such an office of high responsibility!\"\n\n\"As usual, believing yourself unequal to anything! fancying everything\ntoo much for you! Well, though I may not be able to persuade you into\ndifferent feelings, you will be persuaded into them, I trust. I confess\nmyself sincerely anxious that you may. I have no common interest in\nCrawford's well-doing. Next to your happiness, Fanny, his has the first\nclaim on me. You are aware of my having no common interest in Crawford.\"\n\nFanny was too well aware of it to have anything to say; and they walked\non together some fifty yards in mutual silence and abstraction. Edmund\nfirst began again--\n\n\"I was very much pleased by her manner of speaking of it yesterday,\nparticularly pleased, because I had not depended upon her seeing\neverything in so just a light. I knew she was very fond of you; but yet\nI was afraid of her not estimating your worth to her brother quite as\nit deserved, and of her regretting that he had not rather fixed on\nsome woman of distinction or fortune. I was afraid of the bias of those\nworldly maxims, which she has been too much used to hear. But it was\nvery different. She spoke of you, Fanny, just as she ought. She desires\nthe connexion as warmly as your uncle or myself. We had a long talk\nabout it. I should not have mentioned the subject, though very anxious\nto know her sentiments; but I had not been in the room five minutes\nbefore she began introducing it with all that openness of heart, and\nsweet peculiarity of manner, that spirit and ingenuousness which are so\nmuch a part of herself. Mrs. Grant laughed at her for her rapidity.\"\n\n\"Was Mrs. Grant in the room, then?\"\n\n\"Yes, when I reached the house I found the two sisters together by\nthemselves; and when once we had begun, we had not done with you, Fanny,\ntill Crawford and Dr. Grant came in.\"\n\n\"It is above a week since I saw Miss Crawford.\"\n\n\"Yes, she laments it; yet owns it may have been best. You will see her,\nhowever, before she goes. She is very angry with you, Fanny; you must be\nprepared for that. She calls herself very angry, but you can imagine her\nanger. It is the regret and disappointment of a sister, who thinks her\nbrother has a right to everything he may wish for, at the first moment.\nShe is hurt, as you would be for William; but she loves and esteems you\nwith all her heart.\"\n\n\"I knew she would be very angry with me.\"\n\n\"My dearest Fanny,\" cried Edmund, pressing her arm closer to him, \"do\nnot let the idea of her anger distress you. It is anger to be talked\nof rather than felt. Her heart is made for love and kindness, not for\nresentment. I wish you could have overheard her tribute of praise;\nI wish you could have seen her countenance, when she said that you\n_should_ be Henry's wife. And I observed that she always spoke of you\nas 'Fanny,' which she was never used to do; and it had a sound of most\nsisterly cordiality.\"\n\n\"And Mrs. Grant, did she say--did she speak; was she there all the\ntime?\"\n\n\"Yes, she was agreeing exactly with her sister. The surprise of your\nrefusal, Fanny, seems to have been unbounded. That you could refuse such\na man as Henry Crawford seems more than they can understand. I said what\nI could for you; but in good truth, as they stated the case--you must\nprove yourself to be in your senses as soon as you can by a different\nconduct; nothing else will satisfy them. But this is teasing you. I have\ndone. Do not turn away from me.\"\n\n\"I _should_ have thought,\" said Fanny, after a pause of recollection and\nexertion, \"that every woman must have felt the possibility of a man's\nnot being approved, not being loved by some one of her sex at least, let\nhim be ever so generally agreeable. Let him have all the perfections\nin the world, I think it ought not to be set down as certain that a man\nmust be acceptable to every woman he may happen to like himself. But,\neven supposing it is so, allowing Mr. Crawford to have all the claims\nwhich his sisters think he has, how was I to be prepared to meet him\nwith any feeling answerable to his own? He took me wholly by surprise.\nI had not an idea that his behaviour to me before had any meaning; and\nsurely I was not to be teaching myself to like him only because he was\ntaking what seemed very idle notice of me. In my situation, it would\nhave been the extreme of vanity to be forming expectations on Mr.\nCrawford. I am sure his sisters, rating him as they do, must have\nthought it so, supposing he had meant nothing. How, then, was I to\nbe--to be in love with him the moment he said he was with me? How was I\nto have an attachment at his service, as soon as it was asked for? His\nsisters should consider me as well as him. The higher his deserts, the\nmore improper for me ever to have thought of him. And, and--we think\nvery differently of the nature of women, if they can imagine a woman so\nvery soon capable of returning an affection as this seems to imply.\"\n\n\"My dear, dear Fanny, now I have the truth. I know this to be the truth;\nand most worthy of you are such feelings. I had attributed them to you\nbefore. I thought I could understand you. You have now given exactly\nthe explanation which I ventured to make for you to your friend and Mrs.\nGrant, and they were both better satisfied, though your warm-hearted\nfriend was still run away with a little by the enthusiasm of her\nfondness for Henry. I told them that you were of all human creatures the\none over whom habit had most power and novelty least; and that the very\ncircumstance of the novelty of Crawford's addresses was against him.\nTheir being so new and so recent was all in their disfavour; that you\ncould tolerate nothing that you were not used to; and a great deal more\nto the same purpose, to give them a knowledge of your character. Miss\nCrawford made us laugh by her plans of encouragement for her brother.\nShe meant to urge him to persevere in the hope of being loved in time,\nand of having his addresses most kindly received at the end of about ten\nyears' happy marriage.\"\n\nFanny could with difficulty give the smile that was here asked for. Her\nfeelings were all in revolt. She feared she had been doing wrong: saying\ntoo much, overacting the caution which she had been fancying necessary;\nin guarding against one evil, laying herself open to another; and to\nhave Miss Crawford's liveliness repeated to her at such a moment, and on\nsuch a subject, was a bitter aggravation.\n\nEdmund saw weariness and distress in her face, and immediately resolved\nto forbear all farther discussion; and not even to mention the name\nof Crawford again, except as it might be connected with what _must_ be\nagreeable to her. On this principle, he soon afterwards observed--\"They\ngo on Monday. You are sure, therefore, of seeing your friend either\nto-morrow or Sunday. They really go on Monday; and I was within a trifle\nof being persuaded to stay at Lessingby till that very day! I had almost\npromised it. What a difference it might have made! Those five or six\ndays more at Lessingby might have been felt all my life.\"\n\n\"You were near staying there?\"\n\n\"Very. I was most kindly pressed, and had nearly consented. Had I\nreceived any letter from Mansfield, to tell me how you were all going\non, I believe I should certainly have staid; but I knew nothing that\nhad happened here for a fortnight, and felt that I had been away long\nenough.\"\n\n\"You spent your time pleasantly there?\"\n\n\"Yes; that is, it was the fault of my own mind if I did not. They were\nall very pleasant. I doubt their finding me so. I took uneasiness with\nme, and there was no getting rid of it till I was in Mansfield again.\"\n\n\"The Miss Owens--you liked them, did not you?\"\n\n\"Yes, very well. Pleasant, good-humoured, unaffected girls. But I am\nspoilt, Fanny, for common female society. Good-humoured, unaffected\ngirls will not do for a man who has been used to sensible women. They\nare two distinct orders of being. You and Miss Crawford have made me too\nnice.\"\n\nStill, however, Fanny was oppressed and wearied; he saw it in her looks,\nit could not be talked away; and attempting it no more, he led her\ndirectly, with the kind authority of a privileged guardian, into the\nhouse.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVI\n\nEdmund now believed himself perfectly acquainted with all that Fanny\ncould tell, or could leave to be conjectured of her sentiments, and he\nwas satisfied. It had been, as he before presumed, too hasty a measure\non Crawford's side, and time must be given to make the idea first\nfamiliar, and then agreeable to her. She must be used to the\nconsideration of his being in love with her, and then a return of\naffection might not be very distant.\n\nHe gave this opinion as the result of the conversation to his father;\nand recommended there being nothing more said to her: no farther\nattempts to influence or persuade; but that everything should be left to\nCrawford's assiduities, and the natural workings of her own mind.\n\nSir Thomas promised that it should be so. Edmund's account of Fanny's\ndisposition he could believe to be just; he supposed she had all those\nfeelings, but he must consider it as very unfortunate that she _had_;\nfor, less willing than his son to trust to the future, he could not\nhelp fearing that if such very long allowances of time and habit were\nnecessary for her, she might not have persuaded herself into receiving\nhis addresses properly before the young man's inclination for paying\nthem were over. There was nothing to be done, however, but to submit\nquietly and hope the best.\n\nThe promised visit from \"her friend,\" as Edmund called Miss Crawford,\nwas a formidable threat to Fanny, and she lived in continual terror of\nit. As a sister, so partial and so angry, and so little scrupulous of\nwhat she said, and in another light so triumphant and secure, she was in\nevery way an object of painful alarm. Her displeasure, her penetration,\nand her happiness were all fearful to encounter; and the dependence of\nhaving others present when they met was Fanny's only support in looking\nforward to it. She absented herself as little as possible from Lady\nBertram, kept away from the East room, and took no solitary walk in the\nshrubbery, in her caution to avoid any sudden attack.\n\nShe succeeded. She was safe in the breakfast-room, with her aunt, when\nMiss Crawford did come; and the first misery over, and Miss Crawford\nlooking and speaking with much less particularity of expression than she\nhad anticipated, Fanny began to hope there would be nothing worse to be\nendured than a half-hour of moderate agitation. But here she hoped too\nmuch; Miss Crawford was not the slave of opportunity. She was determined\nto see Fanny alone, and therefore said to her tolerably soon, in a low\nvoice, \"I must speak to you for a few minutes somewhere\"; words that\nFanny felt all over her, in all her pulses and all her nerves. Denial\nwas impossible. Her habits of ready submission, on the contrary, made\nher almost instantly rise and lead the way out of the room. She did it\nwith wretched feelings, but it was inevitable.\n\nThey were no sooner in the hall than all restraint of countenance was\nover on Miss Crawford's side. She immediately shook her head at Fanny\nwith arch, yet affectionate reproach, and taking her hand, seemed hardly\nable to help beginning directly. She said nothing, however, but, \"Sad,\nsad girl! I do not know when I shall have done scolding you,\" and had\ndiscretion enough to reserve the rest till they might be secure of\nhaving four walls to themselves. Fanny naturally turned upstairs, and\ntook her guest to the apartment which was now always fit for comfortable\nuse; opening the door, however, with a most aching heart, and feeling\nthat she had a more distressing scene before her than ever that spot had\nyet witnessed. But the evil ready to burst on her was at least delayed\nby the sudden change in Miss Crawford's ideas; by the strong effect on\nher mind which the finding herself in the East room again produced.\n\n\"Ha!\" she cried, with instant animation, \"am I here again? The East\nroom! Once only was I in this room before\"; and after stopping to look\nabout her, and seemingly to retrace all that had then passed, she added,\n\"Once only before. Do you remember it? I came to rehearse. Your cousin\ncame too; and we had a rehearsal. You were our audience and prompter.\nA delightful rehearsal. I shall never forget it. Here we were, just in\nthis part of the room: here was your cousin, here was I, here were the\nchairs. Oh! why will such things ever pass away?\"\n\nHappily for her companion, she wanted no answer. Her mind was entirely\nself-engrossed. She was in a reverie of sweet remembrances.\n\n\"The scene we were rehearsing was so very remarkable! The subject of\nit so very--very--what shall I say? He was to be describing and\nrecommending matrimony to me. I think I see him now, trying to be as\ndemure and composed as Anhalt ought, through the two long speeches.\n'When two sympathetic hearts meet in the marriage state, matrimony\nmay be called a happy life.' I suppose no time can ever wear out the\nimpression I have of his looks and voice as he said those words. It was\ncurious, very curious, that we should have such a scene to play! If I\nhad the power of recalling any one week of my existence, it should be\nthat week--that acting week. Say what you would, Fanny, it should be\n_that_; for I never knew such exquisite happiness in any other. His\nsturdy spirit to bend as it did! Oh! it was sweet beyond expression. But\nalas, that very evening destroyed it all. That very evening brought your\nmost unwelcome uncle. Poor Sir Thomas, who was glad to see you? Yet,\nFanny, do not imagine I would now speak disrespectfully of Sir Thomas,\nthough I certainly did hate him for many a week. No, I do him justice\nnow. He is just what the head of such a family should be. Nay, in sober\nsadness, I believe I now love you all.\" And having said so, with a\ndegree of tenderness and consciousness which Fanny had never seen in her\nbefore, and now thought only too becoming, she turned away for a moment\nto recover herself. \"I have had a little fit since I came into this\nroom, as you may perceive,\" said she presently, with a playful smile,\n\"but it is over now; so let us sit down and be comfortable; for as to\nscolding you, Fanny, which I came fully intending to do, I have not\nthe heart for it when it comes to the point.\" And embracing her very\naffectionately, \"Good, gentle Fanny! when I think of this being the\nlast time of seeing you for I do not know how long, I feel it quite\nimpossible to do anything but love you.\"\n\nFanny was affected. She had not foreseen anything of this, and her\nfeelings could seldom withstand the melancholy influence of the word\n\"last.\" She cried as if she had loved Miss Crawford more than she\npossibly could; and Miss Crawford, yet farther softened by the sight of\nsuch emotion, hung about her with fondness, and said, \"I hate to leave\nyou. I shall see no one half so amiable where I am going. Who says we\nshall not be sisters? I know we shall. I feel that we are born to\nbe connected; and those tears convince me that you feel it too, dear\nFanny.\"\n\nFanny roused herself, and replying only in part, said, \"But you are\nonly going from one set of friends to another. You are going to a very\nparticular friend.\"\n\n\"Yes, very true. Mrs. Fraser has been my intimate friend for years. But\nI have not the least inclination to go near her. I can think only of the\nfriends I am leaving: my excellent sister, yourself, and the Bertrams in\ngeneral. You have all so much more _heart_ among you than one finds in\nthe world at large. You all give me a feeling of being able to trust and\nconfide in you, which in common intercourse one knows nothing of. I wish\nI had settled with Mrs. Fraser not to go to her till after Easter, a\nmuch better time for the visit, but now I cannot put her off. And when\nI have done with her I must go to her sister, Lady Stornaway, because\n_she_ was rather my most particular friend of the two, but I have not\ncared much for _her_ these three years.\"\n\nAfter this speech the two girls sat many minutes silent, each\nthoughtful: Fanny meditating on the different sorts of friendship in the\nworld, Mary on something of less philosophic tendency. _She_ first spoke\nagain.\n\n\"How perfectly I remember my resolving to look for you upstairs, and\nsetting off to find my way to the East room, without having an idea\nwhereabouts it was! How well I remember what I was thinking of as I came\nalong, and my looking in and seeing you here sitting at this table at\nwork; and then your cousin's astonishment, when he opened the door, at\nseeing me here! To be sure, your uncle's returning that very evening!\nThere never was anything quite like it.\"\n\nAnother short fit of abstraction followed, when, shaking it off, she\nthus attacked her companion.\n\n\"Why, Fanny, you are absolutely in a reverie. Thinking, I hope, of one\nwho is always thinking of you. Oh! that I could transport you for a\nshort time into our circle in town, that you might understand how your\npower over Henry is thought of there! Oh! the envyings and heartburnings\nof dozens and dozens; the wonder, the incredulity that will be felt at\nhearing what you have done! For as to secrecy, Henry is quite the hero\nof an old romance, and glories in his chains. You should come to London\nto know how to estimate your conquest. If you were to see how he is\ncourted, and how I am courted for his sake! Now, I am well aware that\nI shall not be half so welcome to Mrs. Fraser in consequence of his\nsituation with you. When she comes to know the truth she will, very\nlikely, wish me in Northamptonshire again; for there is a daughter of\nMr. Fraser, by a first wife, whom she is wild to get married, and\nwants Henry to take. Oh! she has been trying for him to such a degree.\nInnocent and quiet as you sit here, you cannot have an idea of the\n_sensation_ that you will be occasioning, of the curiosity there will\nbe to see you, of the endless questions I shall have to answer! Poor\nMargaret Fraser will be at me for ever about your eyes and your teeth,\nand how you do your hair, and who makes your shoes. I wish Margaret were\nmarried, for my poor friend's sake, for I look upon the Frasers to be\nabout as unhappy as most other married people. And yet it was a most\ndesirable match for Janet at the time. We were all delighted. She could\nnot do otherwise than accept him, for he was rich, and she had nothing;\nbut he turns out ill-tempered and _exigeant_, and wants a young woman,\na beautiful young woman of five-and-twenty, to be as steady as himself.\nAnd my friend does not manage him well; she does not seem to know how\nto make the best of it. There is a spirit of irritation which, to say\nnothing worse, is certainly very ill-bred. In their house I shall call\nto mind the conjugal manners of Mansfield Parsonage with respect. Even\nDr. Grant does shew a thorough confidence in my sister, and a certain\nconsideration for her judgment, which makes one feel there _is_\nattachment; but of that I shall see nothing with the Frasers. I shall\nbe at Mansfield for ever, Fanny. My own sister as a wife, Sir Thomas\nBertram as a husband, are my standards of perfection. Poor Janet has\nbeen sadly taken in, and yet there was nothing improper on her side:\nshe did not run into the match inconsiderately; there was no want of\nforesight. She took three days to consider of his proposals, and during\nthose three days asked the advice of everybody connected with her whose\nopinion was worth having, and especially applied to my late dear aunt,\nwhose knowledge of the world made her judgment very generally and\ndeservedly looked up to by all the young people of her acquaintance, and\nshe was decidedly in favour of Mr. Fraser. This seems as if nothing were\na security for matrimonial comfort. I have not so much to say for my\nfriend Flora, who jilted a very nice young man in the Blues for the sake\nof that horrid Lord Stornaway, who has about as much sense, Fanny, as\nMr. Rushworth, but much worse-looking, and with a blackguard character.\nI _had_ my doubts at the time about her being right, for he has not even\nthe air of a gentleman, and now I am sure she was wrong. By the bye,\nFlora Ross was dying for Henry the first winter she came out. But were I\nto attempt to tell you of all the women whom I have known to be in love\nwith him, I should never have done. It is you, only you, insensible\nFanny, who can think of him with anything like indifference. But are you\nso insensible as you profess yourself? No, no, I see you are not.\"\n\nThere was, indeed, so deep a blush over Fanny's face at that moment as\nmight warrant strong suspicion in a predisposed mind.\n\n\"Excellent creature! I will not tease you. Everything shall take its\ncourse. But, dear Fanny, you must allow that you were not so absolutely\nunprepared to have the question asked as your cousin fancies. It is not\npossible but that you must have had some thoughts on the subject, some\nsurmises as to what might be. You must have seen that he was trying to\nplease you by every attention in his power. Was not he devoted to you\nat the ball? And then before the ball, the necklace! Oh! you received\nit just as it was meant. You were as conscious as heart could desire. I\nremember it perfectly.\"\n\n\"Do you mean, then, that your brother knew of the necklace beforehand?\nOh! Miss Crawford, _that_ was not fair.\"\n\n\"Knew of it! It was his own doing entirely, his own thought. I am\nashamed to say that it had never entered my head, but I was delighted to\nact on his proposal for both your sakes.\"\n\n\"I will not say,\" replied Fanny, \"that I was not half afraid at the time\nof its being so, for there was something in your look that frightened\nme, but not at first; I was as unsuspicious of it at first--indeed,\nindeed I was. It is as true as that I sit here. And had I had an idea\nof it, nothing should have induced me to accept the necklace. As to your\nbrother's behaviour, certainly I was sensible of a particularity: I had\nbeen sensible of it some little time, perhaps two or three weeks; but\nthen I considered it as meaning nothing: I put it down as simply being\nhis way, and was as far from supposing as from wishing him to have any\nserious thoughts of me. I had not, Miss Crawford, been an inattentive\nobserver of what was passing between him and some part of this family in\nthe summer and autumn. I was quiet, but I was not blind. I could not\nbut see that Mr. Crawford allowed himself in gallantries which did mean\nnothing.\"\n\n\"Ah! I cannot deny it. He has now and then been a sad flirt, and\ncared very little for the havoc he might be making in young ladies'\naffections. I have often scolded him for it, but it is his only fault;\nand there is this to be said, that very few young ladies have any\naffections worth caring for. And then, Fanny, the glory of fixing one\nwho has been shot at by so many; of having it in one's power to pay off\nthe debts of one's sex! Oh! I am sure it is not in woman's nature to\nrefuse such a triumph.\"\n\nFanny shook her head. \"I cannot think well of a man who sports with any\nwoman's feelings; and there may often be a great deal more suffered than\na stander-by can judge of.\"\n\n\"I do not defend him. I leave him entirely to your mercy, and when he\nhas got you at Everingham, I do not care how much you lecture him. But\nthis I will say, that his fault, the liking to make girls a little\nin love with him, is not half so dangerous to a wife's happiness as a\ntendency to fall in love himself, which he has never been addicted to.\nAnd I do seriously and truly believe that he is attached to you in a way\nthat he never was to any woman before; that he loves you with all his\nheart, and will love you as nearly for ever as possible. If any man ever\nloved a woman for ever, I think Henry will do as much for you.\"\n\nFanny could not avoid a faint smile, but had nothing to say.\n\n\"I cannot imagine Henry ever to have been happier,\" continued Mary\npresently, \"than when he had succeeded in getting your brother's\ncommission.\"\n\nShe had made a sure push at Fanny's feelings here.\n\n\"Oh! yes. How very, very kind of him.\"\n\n\"I know he must have exerted himself very much, for I know the parties\nhe had to move. The Admiral hates trouble, and scorns asking favours;\nand there are so many young men's claims to be attended to in the same\nway, that a friendship and energy, not very determined, is easily put\nby. What a happy creature William must be! I wish we could see him.\"\n\nPoor Fanny's mind was thrown into the most distressing of all its\nvarieties. The recollection of what had been done for William was always\nthe most powerful disturber of every decision against Mr. Crawford; and\nshe sat thinking deeply of it till Mary, who had been first watching\nher complacently, and then musing on something else, suddenly called\nher attention by saying: \"I should like to sit talking with you here all\nday, but we must not forget the ladies below, and so good-bye, my dear,\nmy amiable, my excellent Fanny, for though we shall nominally part in\nthe breakfast-parlour, I must take leave of you here. And I do take\nleave, longing for a happy reunion, and trusting that when we meet\nagain, it will be under circumstances which may open our hearts to each\nother without any remnant or shadow of reserve.\"\n\nA very, very kind embrace, and some agitation of manner, accompanied\nthese words.\n\n\"I shall see your cousin in town soon: he talks of being there tolerably\nsoon; and Sir Thomas, I dare say, in the course of the spring; and your\neldest cousin, and the Rushworths, and Julia, I am sure of meeting again\nand again, and all but you. I have two favours to ask, Fanny: one is\nyour correspondence. You must write to me. And the other, that you will\noften call on Mrs. Grant, and make her amends for my being gone.\"\n\nThe first, at least, of these favours Fanny would rather not have been\nasked; but it was impossible for her to refuse the correspondence; it\nwas impossible for her even not to accede to it more readily than\nher own judgment authorised. There was no resisting so much apparent\naffection. Her disposition was peculiarly calculated to value a fond\ntreatment, and from having hitherto known so little of it, she was the\nmore overcome by Miss Crawford's. Besides, there was gratitude towards\nher, for having made their _tete-a-tete_ so much less painful than her\nfears had predicted.\n\nIt was over, and she had escaped without reproaches and without\ndetection. Her secret was still her own; and while that was the case,\nshe thought she could resign herself to almost everything.\n\nIn the evening there was another parting. Henry Crawford came and\nsat some time with them; and her spirits not being previously in the\nstrongest state, her heart was softened for a while towards him, because\nhe really seemed to feel. Quite unlike his usual self, he scarcely said\nanything. He was evidently oppressed, and Fanny must grieve for him,\nthough hoping she might never see him again till he were the husband of\nsome other woman.\n\nWhen it came to the moment of parting, he would take her hand, he would\nnot be denied it; he said nothing, however, or nothing that she heard,\nand when he had left the room, she was better pleased that such a token\nof friendship had passed.\n\nOn the morrow the Crawfords were gone.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVII\n\nMr. Crawford gone, Sir Thomas's next object was that he should be\nmissed; and he entertained great hope that his niece would find a blank\nin the loss of those attentions which at the time she had felt, or\nfancied, an evil. She had tasted of consequence in its most flattering\nform; and he did hope that the loss of it, the sinking again into\nnothing, would awaken very wholesome regrets in her mind. He watched her\nwith this idea; but he could hardly tell with what success. He hardly\nknew whether there were any difference in her spirits or not. She\nwas always so gentle and retiring that her emotions were beyond his\ndiscrimination. He did not understand her: he felt that he did not; and\ntherefore applied to Edmund to tell him how she stood affected on the\npresent occasion, and whether she were more or less happy than she had\nbeen.\n\nEdmund did not discern any symptoms of regret, and thought his father\na little unreasonable in supposing the first three or four days could\nproduce any.\n\nWhat chiefly surprised Edmund was, that Crawford's sister, the friend\nand companion who had been so much to her, should not be more visibly\nregretted. He wondered that Fanny spoke so seldom of _her_, and had so\nlittle voluntarily to say of her concern at this separation.\n\nAlas! it was this sister, this friend and companion, who was now the\nchief bane of Fanny's comfort. If she could have believed Mary's future\nfate as unconnected with Mansfield as she was determined the brother's\nshould be, if she could have hoped her return thither to be as distant\nas she was much inclined to think his, she would have been light of\nheart indeed; but the more she recollected and observed, the more deeply\nwas she convinced that everything was now in a fairer train for Miss\nCrawford's marrying Edmund than it had ever been before. On his side the\ninclination was stronger, on hers less equivocal. His objections, the\nscruples of his integrity, seemed all done away, nobody could tell\nhow; and the doubts and hesitations of her ambition were equally got\nover--and equally without apparent reason. It could only be imputed to\nincreasing attachment. His good and her bad feelings yielded to love,\nand such love must unite them. He was to go to town as soon as some\nbusiness relative to Thornton Lacey were completed--perhaps within a\nfortnight; he talked of going, he loved to talk of it; and when once\nwith her again, Fanny could not doubt the rest. Her acceptance must be\nas certain as his offer; and yet there were bad feelings still remaining\nwhich made the prospect of it most sorrowful to her, independently, she\nbelieved, independently of self.\n\nIn their very last conversation, Miss Crawford, in spite of some amiable\nsensations, and much personal kindness, had still been Miss Crawford;\nstill shewn a mind led astray and bewildered, and without any suspicion\nof being so; darkened, yet fancying itself light. She might love, but\nshe did not deserve Edmund by any other sentiment. Fanny believed there\nwas scarcely a second feeling in common between them; and she may be\nforgiven by older sages for looking on the chance of Miss Crawford's\nfuture improvement as nearly desperate, for thinking that if Edmund's\ninfluence in this season of love had already done so little in clearing\nher judgment, and regulating her notions, his worth would be finally\nwasted on her even in years of matrimony.\n\nExperience might have hoped more for any young people so circumstanced,\nand impartiality would not have denied to Miss Crawford's nature that\nparticipation of the general nature of women which would lead her to\nadopt the opinions of the man she loved and respected as her own. But\nas such were Fanny's persuasions, she suffered very much from them, and\ncould never speak of Miss Crawford without pain.\n\nSir Thomas, meanwhile, went on with his own hopes and his own\nobservations, still feeling a right, by all his knowledge of human\nnature, to expect to see the effect of the loss of power and consequence\non his niece's spirits, and the past attentions of the lover producing a\ncraving for their return; and he was soon afterwards able to account for\nhis not yet completely and indubitably seeing all this, by the prospect\nof another visitor, whose approach he could allow to be quite enough to\nsupport the spirits he was watching. William had obtained a ten days'\nleave of absence, to be given to Northamptonshire, and was coming, the\nhappiest of lieutenants, because the latest made, to shew his happiness\nand describe his uniform.\n\nHe came; and he would have been delighted to shew his uniform there too,\nhad not cruel custom prohibited its appearance except on duty. So the\nuniform remained at Portsmouth, and Edmund conjectured that before Fanny\nhad any chance of seeing it, all its own freshness and all the freshness\nof its wearer's feelings must be worn away. It would be sunk into a\nbadge of disgrace; for what can be more unbecoming, or more worthless,\nthan the uniform of a lieutenant, who has been a lieutenant a year or\ntwo, and sees others made commanders before him? So reasoned Edmund,\ntill his father made him the confidant of a scheme which placed Fanny's\nchance of seeing the second lieutenant of H.M.S. Thrush in all his glory\nin another light.\n\nThis scheme was that she should accompany her brother back to\nPortsmouth, and spend a little time with her own family. It had occurred\nto Sir Thomas, in one of his dignified musings, as a right and desirable\nmeasure; but before he absolutely made up his mind, he consulted his\nson. Edmund considered it every way, and saw nothing but what was right.\nThe thing was good in itself, and could not be done at a better time;\nand he had no doubt of it being highly agreeable to Fanny. This was\nenough to determine Sir Thomas; and a decisive \"then so it shall be\"\nclosed that stage of the business; Sir Thomas retiring from it with some\nfeelings of satisfaction, and views of good over and above what he had\ncommunicated to his son; for his prime motive in sending her away had\nvery little to do with the propriety of her seeing her parents again,\nand nothing at all with any idea of making her happy. He certainly\nwished her to go willingly, but he as certainly wished her to be\nheartily sick of home before her visit ended; and that a little\nabstinence from the elegancies and luxuries of Mansfield Park would\nbring her mind into a sober state, and incline her to a juster estimate\nof the value of that home of greater permanence, and equal comfort, of\nwhich she had the offer.\n\nIt was a medicinal project upon his niece's understanding, which he must\nconsider as at present diseased. A residence of eight or nine years in\nthe abode of wealth and plenty had a little disordered her powers of\ncomparing and judging. Her father's house would, in all probability,\nteach her the value of a good income; and he trusted that she would be\nthe wiser and happier woman, all her life, for the experiment he had\ndevised.\n\nHad Fanny been at all addicted to raptures, she must have had a strong\nattack of them when she first understood what was intended, when her\nuncle first made her the offer of visiting the parents, and brothers,\nand sisters, from whom she had been divided almost half her life; of\nreturning for a couple of months to the scenes of her infancy, with\nWilliam for the protector and companion of her journey, and the\ncertainty of continuing to see William to the last hour of his remaining\non land. Had she ever given way to bursts of delight, it must have been\nthen, for she was delighted, but her happiness was of a quiet, deep,\nheart-swelling sort; and though never a great talker, she was always\nmore inclined to silence when feeling most strongly. At the moment she\ncould only thank and accept. Afterwards, when familiarised with the\nvisions of enjoyment so suddenly opened, she could speak more largely\nto William and Edmund of what she felt; but still there were emotions\nof tenderness that could not be clothed in words. The remembrance of all\nher earliest pleasures, and of what she had suffered in being torn from\nthem, came over her with renewed strength, and it seemed as if to be\nat home again would heal every pain that had since grown out of the\nseparation. To be in the centre of such a circle, loved by so many,\nand more loved by all than she had ever been before; to feel affection\nwithout fear or restraint; to feel herself the equal of those who\nsurrounded her; to be at peace from all mention of the Crawfords, safe\nfrom every look which could be fancied a reproach on their account. This\nwas a prospect to be dwelt on with a fondness that could be but half\nacknowledged.\n\nEdmund, too--to be two months from _him_ (and perhaps she might be\nallowed to make her absence three) must do her good. At a distance,\nunassailed by his looks or his kindness, and safe from the perpetual\nirritation of knowing his heart, and striving to avoid his confidence,\nshe should be able to reason herself into a properer state; she should\nbe able to think of him as in London, and arranging everything there,\nwithout wretchedness. What might have been hard to bear at Mansfield was\nto become a slight evil at Portsmouth.\n\nThe only drawback was the doubt of her aunt Bertram's being comfortable\nwithout her. She was of use to no one else; but _there_ she might be\nmissed to a degree that she did not like to think of; and that part of\nthe arrangement was, indeed, the hardest for Sir Thomas to accomplish,\nand what only _he_ could have accomplished at all.\n\nBut he was master at Mansfield Park. When he had really resolved on\nany measure, he could always carry it through; and now by dint of long\ntalking on the subject, explaining and dwelling on the duty of Fanny's\nsometimes seeing her family, he did induce his wife to let her go;\nobtaining it rather from submission, however, than conviction, for Lady\nBertram was convinced of very little more than that Sir Thomas thought\nFanny ought to go, and therefore that she must. In the calmness of\nher own dressing-room, in the impartial flow of her own meditations,\nunbiassed by his bewildering statements, she could not acknowledge any\nnecessity for Fanny's ever going near a father and mother who had done\nwithout her so long, while she was so useful to herself. And as to the\nnot missing her, which under Mrs. Norris's discussion was the point\nattempted to be proved, she set herself very steadily against admitting\nany such thing.\n\nSir Thomas had appealed to her reason, conscience, and dignity. He\ncalled it a sacrifice, and demanded it of her goodness and self-command\nas such. But Mrs. Norris wanted to persuade her that Fanny could be very\nwell spared--_she_ being ready to give up all her own time to her as\nrequested--and, in short, could not really be wanted or missed.\n\n\"That may be, sister,\" was all Lady Bertram's reply. \"I dare say you are\nvery right; but I am sure I shall miss her very much.\"\n\nThe next step was to communicate with Portsmouth. Fanny wrote to offer\nherself; and her mother's answer, though short, was so kind--a few\nsimple lines expressed so natural and motherly a joy in the prospect\nof seeing her child again, as to confirm all the daughter's views of\nhappiness in being with her--convincing her that she should now find a\nwarm and affectionate friend in the \"mama\" who had certainly shewn no\nremarkable fondness for her formerly; but this she could easily suppose\nto have been her own fault or her own fancy. She had probably alienated\nlove by the helplessness and fretfulness of a fearful temper, or been\nunreasonable in wanting a larger share than any one among so many could\ndeserve. Now, when she knew better how to be useful, and how to forbear,\nand when her mother could be no longer occupied by the incessant\ndemands of a house full of little children, there would be leisure and\ninclination for every comfort, and they should soon be what mother and\ndaughter ought to be to each other.\n\nWilliam was almost as happy in the plan as his sister. It would be the\ngreatest pleasure to him to have her there to the last moment before he\nsailed, and perhaps find her there still when he came in from his first\ncruise. And besides, he wanted her so very much to see the Thrush before\nshe went out of harbour--the Thrush was certainly the finest sloop in\nthe service--and there were several improvements in the dockyard, too,\nwhich he quite longed to shew her.\n\nHe did not scruple to add that her being at home for a while would be a\ngreat advantage to everybody.\n\n\"I do not know how it is,\" said he; \"but we seem to want some of\nyour nice ways and orderliness at my father's. The house is always in\nconfusion. You will set things going in a better way, I am sure. You\nwill tell my mother how it all ought to be, and you will be so useful to\nSusan, and you will teach Betsey, and make the boys love and mind you.\nHow right and comfortable it will all be!\"\n\nBy the time Mrs. Price's answer arrived, there remained but a very few\ndays more to be spent at Mansfield; and for part of one of those days\nthe young travellers were in a good deal of alarm on the subject of\ntheir journey, for when the mode of it came to be talked of, and Mrs.\nNorris found that all her anxiety to save her brother-in-law's money\nwas vain, and that in spite of her wishes and hints for a less expensive\nconveyance of Fanny, they were to travel post; when she saw Sir Thomas\nactually give William notes for the purpose, she was struck with the\nidea of there being room for a third in the carriage, and suddenly\nseized with a strong inclination to go with them, to go and see her poor\ndear sister Price. She proclaimed her thoughts. She must say that she\nhad more than half a mind to go with the young people; it would be such\nan indulgence to her; she had not seen her poor dear sister Price for\nmore than twenty years; and it would be a help to the young people in\ntheir journey to have her older head to manage for them; and she could\nnot help thinking her poor dear sister Price would feel it very unkind\nof her not to come by such an opportunity.\n\nWilliam and Fanny were horror-struck at the idea.\n\nAll the comfort of their comfortable journey would be destroyed at\nonce. With woeful countenances they looked at each other. Their suspense\nlasted an hour or two. No one interfered to encourage or dissuade. Mrs.\nNorris was left to settle the matter by herself; and it ended, to the\ninfinite joy of her nephew and niece, in the recollection that she could\nnot possibly be spared from Mansfield Park at present; that she was a\ngreat deal too necessary to Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram for her to\nbe able to answer it to herself to leave them even for a week, and\ntherefore must certainly sacrifice every other pleasure to that of being\nuseful to them.\n\nIt had, in fact, occurred to her, that though taken to Portsmouth for\nnothing, it would be hardly possible for her to avoid paying her own\nexpenses back again. So her poor dear sister Price was left to all the\ndisappointment of her missing such an opportunity, and another twenty\nyears' absence, perhaps, begun.\n\nEdmund's plans were affected by this Portsmouth journey, this absence of\nFanny's. He too had a sacrifice to make to Mansfield Park as well as his\naunt. He had intended, about this time, to be going to London; but he\ncould not leave his father and mother just when everybody else of most\nimportance to their comfort was leaving them; and with an effort, felt\nbut not boasted of, he delayed for a week or two longer a journey which\nhe was looking forward to with the hope of its fixing his happiness for\never.\n\nHe told Fanny of it. She knew so much already, that she must know\neverything. It made the substance of one other confidential discourse\nabout Miss Crawford; and Fanny was the more affected from feeling it to\nbe the last time in which Miss Crawford's name would ever be mentioned\nbetween them with any remains of liberty. Once afterwards she was\nalluded to by him. Lady Bertram had been telling her niece in the\nevening to write to her soon and often, and promising to be a good\ncorrespondent herself; and Edmund, at a convenient moment, then added\nin a whisper, \"And _I_ shall write to you, Fanny, when I have anything\nworth writing about, anything to say that I think you will like to hear,\nand that you will not hear so soon from any other quarter.\" Had she\ndoubted his meaning while she listened, the glow in his face, when she\nlooked up at him, would have been decisive.\n\nFor this letter she must try to arm herself. That a letter from Edmund\nshould be a subject of terror! She began to feel that she had not yet\ngone through all the changes of opinion and sentiment which the progress\nof time and variation of circumstances occasion in this world of\nchanges. The vicissitudes of the human mind had not yet been exhausted\nby her.\n\nPoor Fanny! though going as she did willingly and eagerly, the last\nevening at Mansfield Park must still be wretchedness. Her heart was\ncompletely sad at parting. She had tears for every room in the house,\nmuch more for every beloved inhabitant. She clung to her aunt, because\nshe would miss her; she kissed the hand of her uncle with struggling\nsobs, because she had displeased him; and as for Edmund, she could\nneither speak, nor look, nor think, when the last moment came with\n_him_; and it was not till it was over that she knew he was giving her\nthe affectionate farewell of a brother.\n\nAll this passed overnight, for the journey was to begin very early in\nthe morning; and when the small, diminished party met at breakfast,\nWilliam and Fanny were talked of as already advanced one stage.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVIII\n\nThe novelty of travelling, and the happiness of being with William, soon\nproduced their natural effect on Fanny's spirits, when Mansfield Park\nwas fairly left behind; and by the time their first stage was ended, and\nthey were to quit Sir Thomas's carriage, she was able to take leave of\nthe old coachman, and send back proper messages, with cheerful looks.\n\nOf pleasant talk between the brother and sister there was no end.\nEverything supplied an amusement to the high glee of William's mind, and\nhe was full of frolic and joke in the intervals of their higher-toned\nsubjects, all of which ended, if they did not begin, in praise of the\nThrush, conjectures how she would be employed, schemes for an action\nwith some superior force, which (supposing the first lieutenant out of\nthe way, and William was not very merciful to the first lieutenant) was\nto give himself the next step as soon as possible, or speculations upon\nprize-money, which was to be generously distributed at home, with only\nthe reservation of enough to make the little cottage comfortable,\nin which he and Fanny were to pass all their middle and later life\ntogether.\n\nFanny's immediate concerns, as far as they involved Mr. Crawford, made\nno part of their conversation. William knew what had passed, and from\nhis heart lamented that his sister's feelings should be so cold towards\na man whom he must consider as the first of human characters; but he was\nof an age to be all for love, and therefore unable to blame; and knowing\nher wish on the subject, he would not distress her by the slightest\nallusion.\n\nShe had reason to suppose herself not yet forgotten by Mr. Crawford. She\nhad heard repeatedly from his sister within the three weeks which had\npassed since their leaving Mansfield, and in each letter there had been\na few lines from himself, warm and determined like his speeches. It\nwas a correspondence which Fanny found quite as unpleasant as she had\nfeared. Miss Crawford's style of writing, lively and affectionate, was\nitself an evil, independent of what she was thus forced into reading\nfrom the brother's pen, for Edmund would never rest till she had read\nthe chief of the letter to him; and then she had to listen to his\nadmiration of her language, and the warmth of her attachments. There\nhad, in fact, been so much of message, of allusion, of recollection, so\nmuch of Mansfield in every letter, that Fanny could not but suppose it\nmeant for him to hear; and to find herself forced into a purpose of\nthat kind, compelled into a correspondence which was bringing her the\naddresses of the man she did not love, and obliging her to administer\nto the adverse passion of the man she did, was cruelly mortifying. Here,\ntoo, her present removal promised advantage. When no longer under the\nsame roof with Edmund, she trusted that Miss Crawford would have no\nmotive for writing strong enough to overcome the trouble, and that at\nPortsmouth their correspondence would dwindle into nothing.\n\nWith such thoughts as these, among ten hundred others, Fanny proceeded\nin her journey safely and cheerfully, and as expeditiously as could\nrationally be hoped in the dirty month of February. They entered Oxford,\nbut she could take only a hasty glimpse of Edmund's college as they\npassed along, and made no stop anywhere till they reached Newbury, where\na comfortable meal, uniting dinner and supper, wound up the enjoyments\nand fatigues of the day.\n\nThe next morning saw them off again at an early hour; and with no\nevents, and no delays, they regularly advanced, and were in the environs\nof Portsmouth while there was yet daylight for Fanny to look around her,\nand wonder at the new buildings. They passed the drawbridge, and\nentered the town; and the light was only beginning to fail as, guided\nby William's powerful voice, they were rattled into a narrow street,\nleading from the High Street, and drawn up before the door of a small\nhouse now inhabited by Mr. Price.\n\nFanny was all agitation and flutter; all hope and apprehension. The\nmoment they stopped, a trollopy-looking maidservant, seemingly in\nwaiting for them at the door, stepped forward, and more intent on\ntelling the news than giving them any help, immediately began with, \"The\nThrush is gone out of harbour, please sir, and one of the officers has\nbeen here to--\" She was interrupted by a fine tall boy of eleven years\nold, who, rushing out of the house, pushed the maid aside, and while\nWilliam was opening the chaise-door himself, called out, \"You are just\nin time. We have been looking for you this half-hour. The Thrush went\nout of harbour this morning. I saw her. It was a beautiful sight. And\nthey think she will have her orders in a day or two. And Mr. Campbell\nwas here at four o'clock to ask for you: he has got one of the Thrush's\nboats, and is going off to her at six, and hoped you would be here in\ntime to go with him.\"\n\nA stare or two at Fanny, as William helped her out of the carriage, was\nall the voluntary notice which this brother bestowed; but he made no\nobjection to her kissing him, though still entirely engaged in detailing\nfarther particulars of the Thrush's going out of harbour, in which\nhe had a strong right of interest, being to commence his career of\nseamanship in her at this very time.\n\nAnother moment and Fanny was in the narrow entrance-passage of the\nhouse, and in her mother's arms, who met her there with looks of true\nkindness, and with features which Fanny loved the more, because they\nbrought her aunt Bertram's before her, and there were her two sisters:\nSusan, a well-grown fine girl of fourteen, and Betsey, the youngest of\nthe family, about five--both glad to see her in their way, though with\nno advantage of manner in receiving her. But manner Fanny did not want.\nWould they but love her, she should be satisfied.\n\nShe was then taken into a parlour, so small that her first conviction\nwas of its being only a passage-room to something better, and she stood\nfor a moment expecting to be invited on; but when she saw there was\nno other door, and that there were signs of habitation before her, she\ncalled back her thoughts, reproved herself, and grieved lest they should\nhave been suspected. Her mother, however, could not stay long enough\nto suspect anything. She was gone again to the street-door, to welcome\nWilliam. \"Oh! my dear William, how glad I am to see you. But have you\nheard about the Thrush? She is gone out of harbour already; three days\nbefore we had any thought of it; and I do not know what I am to do about\nSam's things, they will never be ready in time; for she may have her\norders to-morrow, perhaps. It takes me quite unawares. And now you must\nbe off for Spithead too. Campbell has been here, quite in a worry about\nyou; and now what shall we do? I thought to have had such a comfortable\nevening with you, and here everything comes upon me at once.\"\n\nHer son answered cheerfully, telling her that everything was always for\nthe best; and making light of his own inconvenience in being obliged to\nhurry away so soon.\n\n\"To be sure, I had much rather she had stayed in harbour, that I might\nhave sat a few hours with you in comfort; but as there is a boat ashore,\nI had better go off at once, and there is no help for it. Whereabouts\ndoes the Thrush lay at Spithead? Near the Canopus? But no matter; here's\nFanny in the parlour, and why should we stay in the passage? Come,\nmother, you have hardly looked at your own dear Fanny yet.\"\n\nIn they both came, and Mrs. Price having kindly kissed her daughter\nagain, and commented a little on her growth, began with very natural\nsolicitude to feel for their fatigues and wants as travellers.\n\n\"Poor dears! how tired you must both be! and now, what will you have? I\nbegan to think you would never come. Betsey and I have been watching for\nyou this half-hour. And when did you get anything to eat? And what would\nyou like to have now? I could not tell whether you would be for some\nmeat, or only a dish of tea, after your journey, or else I would have\ngot something ready. And now I am afraid Campbell will be here before\nthere is time to dress a steak, and we have no butcher at hand. It is\nvery inconvenient to have no butcher in the street. We were better off\nin our last house. Perhaps you would like some tea as soon as it can be\ngot.\"\n\nThey both declared they should prefer it to anything. \"Then, Betsey, my\ndear, run into the kitchen and see if Rebecca has put the water on; and\ntell her to bring in the tea-things as soon as she can. I wish we could\nget the bell mended; but Betsey is a very handy little messenger.\"\n\nBetsey went with alacrity, proud to shew her abilities before her fine\nnew sister.\n\n\"Dear me!\" continued the anxious mother, \"what a sad fire we have got,\nand I dare say you are both starved with cold. Draw your chair nearer,\nmy dear. I cannot think what Rebecca has been about. I am sure I told\nher to bring some coals half an hour ago. Susan, you should have taken\ncare of the fire.\"\n\n\"I was upstairs, mama, moving my things,\" said Susan, in a fearless,\nself-defending tone, which startled Fanny. \"You know you had but just\nsettled that my sister Fanny and I should have the other room; and I\ncould not get Rebecca to give me any help.\"\n\nFarther discussion was prevented by various bustles: first, the driver\ncame to be paid; then there was a squabble between Sam and Rebecca about\nthe manner of carrying up his sister's trunk, which he would manage all\nhis own way; and lastly, in walked Mr. Price himself, his own loud voice\npreceding him, as with something of the oath kind he kicked away his\nson's port-manteau and his daughter's bandbox in the passage, and called\nout for a candle; no candle was brought, however, and he walked into the\nroom.\n\nFanny with doubting feelings had risen to meet him, but sank down again\non finding herself undistinguished in the dusk, and unthought of. With\na friendly shake of his son's hand, and an eager voice, he instantly\nbegan--\"Ha! welcome back, my boy. Glad to see you. Have you heard the\nnews? The Thrush went out of harbour this morning. Sharp is the\nword, you see! By G--, you are just in time! The doctor has been here\ninquiring for you: he has got one of the boats, and is to be off for\nSpithead by six, so you had better go with him. I have been to Turner's\nabout your mess; it is all in a way to be done. I should not wonder if\nyou had your orders to-morrow: but you cannot sail with this wind, if\nyou are to cruise to the westward; and Captain Walsh thinks you will\ncertainly have a cruise to the westward, with the Elephant. By G--, I\nwish you may! But old Scholey was saying, just now, that he thought you\nwould be sent first to the Texel. Well, well, we are ready, whatever\nhappens. But by G--, you lost a fine sight by not being here in the\nmorning to see the Thrush go out of harbour! I would not have been out\nof the way for a thousand pounds. Old Scholey ran in at breakfast-time,\nto say she had slipped her moorings and was coming out, I jumped up, and\nmade but two steps to the platform. If ever there was a perfect beauty\nafloat, she is one; and there she lays at Spithead, and anybody in\nEngland would take her for an eight-and-twenty. I was upon the platform\ntwo hours this afternoon looking at her. She lays close to the Endymion,\nbetween her and the Cleopatra, just to the eastward of the sheer hulk.\"\n\n\"Ha!\" cried William, \"_that's_ just where I should have put her myself.\nIt's the best berth at Spithead. But here is my sister, sir; here is\nFanny,\" turning and leading her forward; \"it is so dark you do not see\nher.\"\n\nWith an acknowledgment that he had quite forgot her, Mr. Price now\nreceived his daughter; and having given her a cordial hug, and observed\nthat she was grown into a woman, and he supposed would be wanting a\nhusband soon, seemed very much inclined to forget her again. Fanny\nshrunk back to her seat, with feelings sadly pained by his language and\nhis smell of spirits; and he talked on only to his son, and only of the\nThrush, though William, warmly interested as he was in that subject,\nmore than once tried to make his father think of Fanny, and her long\nabsence and long journey.\n\nAfter sitting some time longer, a candle was obtained; but as there was\nstill no appearance of tea, nor, from Betsey's reports from the kitchen,\nmuch hope of any under a considerable period, William determined to\ngo and change his dress, and make the necessary preparations for\nhis removal on board directly, that he might have his tea in comfort\nafterwards.\n\nAs he left the room, two rosy-faced boys, ragged and dirty, about eight\nand nine years old, rushed into it just released from school, and coming\neagerly to see their sister, and tell that the Thrush was gone out of\nharbour; Tom and Charles. Charles had been born since Fanny's going\naway, but Tom she had often helped to nurse, and now felt a particular\npleasure in seeing again. Both were kissed very tenderly, but Tom she\nwanted to keep by her, to try to trace the features of the baby she had\nloved, and talked to, of his infant preference of herself. Tom, however,\nhad no mind for such treatment: he came home not to stand and be talked\nto, but to run about and make a noise; and both boys had soon burst from\nher, and slammed the parlour-door till her temples ached.\n\nShe had now seen all that were at home; there remained only two brothers\nbetween herself and Susan, one of whom was a clerk in a public office\nin London, and the other midshipman on board an Indiaman. But though she\nhad _seen_ all the members of the family, she had not yet _heard_ all\nthe noise they could make. Another quarter of an hour brought her a\ngreat deal more. William was soon calling out from the landing-place of\nthe second story for his mother and for Rebecca. He was in distress\nfor something that he had left there, and did not find again. A key was\nmislaid, Betsey accused of having got at his new hat, and some slight,\nbut essential alteration of his uniform waistcoat, which he had been\npromised to have done for him, entirely neglected.\n\nMrs. Price, Rebecca, and Betsey all went up to defend themselves, all\ntalking together, but Rebecca loudest, and the job was to be done as\nwell as it could in a great hurry; William trying in vain to send Betsey\ndown again, or keep her from being troublesome where she was; the whole\nof which, as almost every door in the house was open, could be plainly\ndistinguished in the parlour, except when drowned at intervals by the\nsuperior noise of Sam, Tom, and Charles chasing each other up and down\nstairs, and tumbling about and hallooing.\n\nFanny was almost stunned. The smallness of the house and thinness of the\nwalls brought everything so close to her, that, added to the fatigue of\nher journey, and all her recent agitation, she hardly knew how to\nbear it. _Within_ the room all was tranquil enough, for Susan having\ndisappeared with the others, there were soon only her father and herself\nremaining; and he, taking out a newspaper, the accustomary loan of a\nneighbour, applied himself to studying it, without seeming to recollect\nher existence. The solitary candle was held between himself and the\npaper, without any reference to her possible convenience; but she had\nnothing to do, and was glad to have the light screened from her aching\nhead, as she sat in bewildered, broken, sorrowful contemplation.\n\nShe was at home. But, alas! it was not such a home, she had not such a\nwelcome, as--she checked herself; she was unreasonable. What right had\nshe to be of importance to her family? She could have none, so long lost\nsight of! William's concerns must be dearest, they always had been, and\nhe had every right. Yet to have so little said or asked about herself,\nto have scarcely an inquiry made after Mansfield! It did pain her to\nhave Mansfield forgotten; the friends who had done so much--the dear,\ndear friends! But here, one subject swallowed up all the rest. Perhaps\nit must be so. The destination of the Thrush must be now preeminently\ninteresting. A day or two might shew the difference. _She_ only was to\nblame. Yet she thought it would not have been so at Mansfield. No, in\nher uncle's house there would have been a consideration of times and\nseasons, a regulation of subject, a propriety, an attention towards\neverybody which there was not here.\n\nThe only interruption which thoughts like these received for nearly half\nan hour was from a sudden burst of her father's, not at all calculated\nto compose them. At a more than ordinary pitch of thumping and hallooing\nin the passage, he exclaimed, \"Devil take those young dogs! How they are\nsinging out! Ay, Sam's voice louder than all the rest! That boy is fit\nfor a boatswain. Holla, you there! Sam, stop your confounded pipe, or I\nshall be after you.\"\n\nThis threat was so palpably disregarded, that though within five minutes\nafterwards the three boys all burst into the room together and sat down,\nFanny could not consider it as a proof of anything more than their\nbeing for the time thoroughly fagged, which their hot faces and panting\nbreaths seemed to prove, especially as they were still kicking each\nother's shins, and hallooing out at sudden starts immediately under\ntheir father's eye.\n\nThe next opening of the door brought something more welcome: it was for\nthe tea-things, which she had begun almost to despair of seeing that\nevening. Susan and an attendant girl, whose inferior appearance informed\nFanny, to her great surprise, that she had previously seen the upper\nservant, brought in everything necessary for the meal; Susan looking, as\nshe put the kettle on the fire and glanced at her sister, as if divided\nbetween the agreeable triumph of shewing her activity and usefulness,\nand the dread of being thought to demean herself by such an office. \"She\nhad been into the kitchen,\" she said, \"to hurry Sally and help make the\ntoast, and spread the bread and butter, or she did not know when they\nshould have got tea, and she was sure her sister must want something\nafter her journey.\"\n\nFanny was very thankful. She could not but own that she should be very\nglad of a little tea, and Susan immediately set about making it, as if\npleased to have the employment all to herself; and with only a little\nunnecessary bustle, and some few injudicious attempts at keeping her\nbrothers in better order than she could, acquitted herself very well.\nFanny's spirit was as much refreshed as her body; her head and heart\nwere soon the better for such well-timed kindness. Susan had an open,\nsensible countenance; she was like William, and Fanny hoped to find her\nlike him in disposition and goodwill towards herself.\n\nIn this more placid state of things William reentered, followed not\nfar behind by his mother and Betsey. He, complete in his lieutenant's\nuniform, looking and moving all the taller, firmer, and more graceful\nfor it, and with the happiest smile over his face, walked up directly\nto Fanny, who, rising from her seat, looked at him for a moment in\nspeechless admiration, and then threw her arms round his neck to sob out\nher various emotions of pain and pleasure.\n\nAnxious not to appear unhappy, she soon recovered herself; and wiping\naway her tears, was able to notice and admire all the striking parts\nof his dress; listening with reviving spirits to his cheerful hopes of\nbeing on shore some part of every day before they sailed, and even of\ngetting her to Spithead to see the sloop.\n\nThe next bustle brought in Mr. Campbell, the surgeon of the Thrush, a\nvery well-behaved young man, who came to call for his friend, and for\nwhom there was with some contrivance found a chair, and with some hasty\nwashing of the young tea-maker's, a cup and saucer; and after another\nquarter of an hour of earnest talk between the gentlemen, noise rising\nupon noise, and bustle upon bustle, men and boys at last all in motion\ntogether, the moment came for setting off; everything was ready, William\ntook leave, and all of them were gone; for the three boys, in spite\nof their mother's entreaty, determined to see their brother and Mr.\nCampbell to the sally-port; and Mr. Price walked off at the same time to\ncarry back his neighbour's newspaper.\n\nSomething like tranquillity might now be hoped for; and accordingly,\nwhen Rebecca had been prevailed on to carry away the tea-things,\nand Mrs. Price had walked about the room some time looking for a\nshirt-sleeve, which Betsey at last hunted out from a drawer in the\nkitchen, the small party of females were pretty well composed, and the\nmother having lamented again over the impossibility of getting Sam ready\nin time, was at leisure to think of her eldest daughter and the friends\nshe had come from.\n\nA few inquiries began: but one of the earliest--\"How did sister Bertram\nmanage about her servants?\" \"Was she as much plagued as herself to get\ntolerable servants?\"--soon led her mind away from Northamptonshire, and\nfixed it on her own domestic grievances, and the shocking character of\nall the Portsmouth servants, of whom she believed her own two were the\nvery worst, engrossed her completely. The Bertrams were all forgotten\nin detailing the faults of Rebecca, against whom Susan had also much\nto depose, and little Betsey a great deal more, and who did seem so\nthoroughly without a single recommendation, that Fanny could not help\nmodestly presuming that her mother meant to part with her when her year\nwas up.\n\n\"Her year!\" cried Mrs. Price; \"I am sure I hope I shall be rid of her\nbefore she has staid a year, for that will not be up till November.\nServants are come to such a pass, my dear, in Portsmouth, that it is\nquite a miracle if one keeps them more than half a year. I have no hope\nof ever being settled; and if I was to part with Rebecca, I should\nonly get something worse. And yet I do not think I am a very difficult\nmistress to please; and I am sure the place is easy enough, for there is\nalways a girl under her, and I often do half the work myself.\"\n\nFanny was silent; but not from being convinced that there might not be a\nremedy found for some of these evils. As she now sat looking at Betsey,\nshe could not but think particularly of another sister, a very pretty\nlittle girl, whom she had left there not much younger when she went into\nNorthamptonshire, who had died a few years afterwards. There had been\nsomething remarkably amiable about her. Fanny in those early days had\npreferred her to Susan; and when the news of her death had at last\nreached Mansfield, had for a short time been quite afflicted. The sight\nof Betsey brought the image of little Mary back again, but she would\nnot have pained her mother by alluding to her for the world. While\nconsidering her with these ideas, Betsey, at a small distance, was\nholding out something to catch her eyes, meaning to screen it at the\nsame time from Susan's.\n\n\"What have you got there, my love?\" said Fanny; \"come and shew it to\nme.\"\n\nIt was a silver knife. Up jumped Susan, claiming it as her own, and\ntrying to get it away; but the child ran to her mother's protection,\nand Susan could only reproach, which she did very warmly, and evidently\nhoping to interest Fanny on her side. \"It was very hard that she was not\nto have her _own_ knife; it was her own knife; little sister Mary had\nleft it to her upon her deathbed, and she ought to have had it to keep\nherself long ago. But mama kept it from her, and was always letting\nBetsey get hold of it; and the end of it would be that Betsey would\nspoil it, and get it for her own, though mama had _promised_ her that\nBetsey should not have it in her own hands.\"\n\nFanny was quite shocked. Every feeling of duty, honour, and tenderness\nwas wounded by her sister's speech and her mother's reply.\n\n\"Now, Susan,\" cried Mrs. Price, in a complaining voice, \"now, how can\nyou be so cross? You are always quarrelling about that knife. I wish you\nwould not be so quarrelsome. Poor little Betsey; how cross Susan is to\nyou! But you should not have taken it out, my dear, when I sent you to\nthe drawer. You know I told you not to touch it, because Susan is so\ncross about it. I must hide it another time, Betsey. Poor Mary little\nthought it would be such a bone of contention when she gave it me to\nkeep, only two hours before she died. Poor little soul! she could but\njust speak to be heard, and she said so prettily, 'Let sister Susan have\nmy knife, mama, when I am dead and buried.' Poor little dear! she was so\nfond of it, Fanny, that she would have it lay by her in bed, all through\nher illness. It was the gift of her good godmother, old Mrs. Admiral\nMaxwell, only six weeks before she was taken for death. Poor little\nsweet creature! Well, she was taken away from evil to come. My own\nBetsey\" (fondling her), \"_you_ have not the luck of such a good\ngodmother. Aunt Norris lives too far off to think of such little people\nas you.\"\n\nFanny had indeed nothing to convey from aunt Norris, but a message to\nsay she hoped that her god-daughter was a good girl, and learnt her\nbook. There had been at one moment a slight murmur in the drawing-room\nat Mansfield Park about sending her a prayer-book; but no second sound\nhad been heard of such a purpose. Mrs. Norris, however, had gone home\nand taken down two old prayer-books of her husband with that idea; but,\nupon examination, the ardour of generosity went off. One was found\nto have too small a print for a child's eyes, and the other to be too\ncumbersome for her to carry about.\n\nFanny, fatigued and fatigued again, was thankful to accept the first\ninvitation of going to bed; and before Betsey had finished her cry at\nbeing allowed to sit up only one hour extraordinary in honour of sister,\nshe was off, leaving all below in confusion and noise again; the boys\nbegging for toasted cheese, her father calling out for his rum and\nwater, and Rebecca never where she ought to be.\n\nThere was nothing to raise her spirits in the confined and scantily\nfurnished chamber that she was to share with Susan. The smallness of\nthe rooms above and below, indeed, and the narrowness of the passage and\nstaircase, struck her beyond her imagination. She soon learned to think\nwith respect of her own little attic at Mansfield Park, in _that_ house\nreckoned too small for anybody's comfort.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIX\n\nCould Sir Thomas have seen all his niece's feelings, when she wrote her\nfirst letter to her aunt, he would not have despaired; for though a good\nnight's rest, a pleasant morning, the hope of soon seeing William again,\nand the comparatively quiet state of the house, from Tom and Charles\nbeing gone to school, Sam on some project of his own, and her father\non his usual lounges, enabled her to express herself cheerfully on the\nsubject of home, there were still, to her own perfect consciousness,\nmany drawbacks suppressed. Could he have seen only half that she felt\nbefore the end of a week, he would have thought Mr. Crawford sure of\nher, and been delighted with his own sagacity.\n\nBefore the week ended, it was all disappointment. In the first place,\nWilliam was gone. The Thrush had had her orders, the wind had changed,\nand he was sailed within four days from their reaching Portsmouth; and\nduring those days she had seen him only twice, in a short and\nhurried way, when he had come ashore on duty. There had been no free\nconversation, no walk on the ramparts, no visit to the dockyard, no\nacquaintance with the Thrush, nothing of all that they had planned and\ndepended on. Everything in that quarter failed her, except William's\naffection. His last thought on leaving home was for her. He stepped back\nagain to the door to say, \"Take care of Fanny, mother. She is tender,\nand not used to rough it like the rest of us. I charge you, take care of\nFanny.\"\n\nWilliam was gone: and the home he had left her in was, Fanny could not\nconceal it from herself, in almost every respect the very reverse of\nwhat she could have wished. It was the abode of noise, disorder, and\nimpropriety. Nobody was in their right place, nothing was done as it\nought to be. She could not respect her parents as she had hoped. On her\nfather, her confidence had not been sanguine, but he was more negligent\nof his family, his habits were worse, and his manners coarser, than\nshe had been prepared for. He did not want abilities but he had no\ncuriosity, and no information beyond his profession; he read only\nthe newspaper and the navy-list; he talked only of the dockyard, the\nharbour, Spithead, and the Motherbank; he swore and he drank, he was\ndirty and gross. She had never been able to recall anything approaching\nto tenderness in his former treatment of herself. There had remained\nonly a general impression of roughness and loudness; and now he scarcely\never noticed her, but to make her the object of a coarse joke.\n\nHer disappointment in her mother was greater: _there_ she had hoped\nmuch, and found almost nothing. Every flattering scheme of being of\nconsequence to her soon fell to the ground. Mrs. Price was not unkind;\nbut, instead of gaining on her affection and confidence, and becoming\nmore and more dear, her daughter never met with greater kindness from\nher than on the first day of her arrival. The instinct of nature was\nsoon satisfied, and Mrs. Price's attachment had no other source. Her\nheart and her time were already quite full; she had neither leisure nor\naffection to bestow on Fanny. Her daughters never had been much to her.\nShe was fond of her sons, especially of William, but Betsey was the\nfirst of her girls whom she had ever much regarded. To her she was most\ninjudiciously indulgent. William was her pride; Betsey her darling;\nand John, Richard, Sam, Tom, and Charles occupied all the rest of her\nmaternal solicitude, alternately her worries and her comforts. These\nshared her heart: her time was given chiefly to her house and her\nservants. Her days were spent in a kind of slow bustle; all was busy\nwithout getting on, always behindhand and lamenting it, without altering\nher ways; wishing to be an economist, without contrivance or regularity;\ndissatisfied with her servants, without skill to make them better, and\nwhether helping, or reprimanding, or indulging them, without any power\nof engaging their respect.\n\nOf her two sisters, Mrs. Price very much more resembled Lady Bertram\nthan Mrs. Norris. She was a manager by necessity, without any of Mrs.\nNorris's inclination for it, or any of her activity. Her disposition\nwas naturally easy and indolent, like Lady Bertram's; and a situation of\nsimilar affluence and do-nothingness would have been much more suited\nto her capacity than the exertions and self-denials of the one which her\nimprudent marriage had placed her in. She might have made just as good a\nwoman of consequence as Lady Bertram, but Mrs. Norris would have been a\nmore respectable mother of nine children on a small income.\n\nMuch of all this Fanny could not but be sensible of. She might scruple\nto make use of the words, but she must and did feel that her mother was\na partial, ill-judging parent, a dawdle, a slattern, who neither taught\nnor restrained her children, whose house was the scene of mismanagement\nand discomfort from beginning to end, and who had no talent, no\nconversation, no affection towards herself; no curiosity to know her\nbetter, no desire of her friendship, and no inclination for her company\nthat could lessen her sense of such feelings.\n\nFanny was very anxious to be useful, and not to appear above her home,\nor in any way disqualified or disinclined, by her foreign education,\nfrom contributing her help to its comforts, and therefore set about\nworking for Sam immediately; and by working early and late, with\nperseverance and great despatch, did so much that the boy was shipped\noff at last, with more than half his linen ready. She had great pleasure\nin feeling her usefulness, but could not conceive how they would have\nmanaged without her.\n\nSam, loud and overbearing as he was, she rather regretted when he went,\nfor he was clever and intelligent, and glad to be employed in any errand\nin the town; and though spurning the remonstrances of Susan, given as\nthey were, though very reasonable in themselves, with ill-timed and\npowerless warmth, was beginning to be influenced by Fanny's services\nand gentle persuasions; and she found that the best of the three younger\nones was gone in him: Tom and Charles being at least as many years as\nthey were his juniors distant from that age of feeling and reason, which\nmight suggest the expediency of making friends, and of endeavouring to\nbe less disagreeable. Their sister soon despaired of making the smallest\nimpression on _them_; they were quite untameable by any means of address\nwhich she had spirits or time to attempt. Every afternoon brought a\nreturn of their riotous games all over the house; and she very early\nlearned to sigh at the approach of Saturday's constant half-holiday.\n\nBetsey, too, a spoiled child, trained up to think the alphabet her\ngreatest enemy, left to be with the servants at her pleasure, and\nthen encouraged to report any evil of them, she was almost as ready to\ndespair of being able to love or assist; and of Susan's temper she\nhad many doubts. Her continual disagreements with her mother, her rash\nsquabbles with Tom and Charles, and petulance with Betsey, were at least\nso distressing to Fanny that, though admitting they were by no means\nwithout provocation, she feared the disposition that could push them to\nsuch length must be far from amiable, and from affording any repose to\nherself.\n\nSuch was the home which was to put Mansfield out of her head, and\nteach her to think of her cousin Edmund with moderated feelings. On the\ncontrary, she could think of nothing but Mansfield, its beloved inmates,\nits happy ways. Everything where she now was in full contrast to it. The\nelegance, propriety, regularity, harmony, and perhaps, above all, the\npeace and tranquillity of Mansfield, were brought to her remembrance\nevery hour of the day, by the prevalence of everything opposite to them\n_here_.\n\nThe living in incessant noise was, to a frame and temper delicate and\nnervous like Fanny's, an evil which no superadded elegance or harmony\ncould have entirely atoned for. It was the greatest misery of all. At\nMansfield, no sounds of contention, no raised voice, no abrupt bursts,\nno tread of violence, was ever heard; all proceeded in a regular course\nof cheerful orderliness; everybody had their due importance; everybody's\nfeelings were consulted. If tenderness could be ever supposed wanting,\ngood sense and good breeding supplied its place; and as to the little\nirritations sometimes introduced by aunt Norris, they were short, they\nwere trifling, they were as a drop of water to the ocean, compared with\nthe ceaseless tumult of her present abode. Here everybody was noisy,\nevery voice was loud (excepting, perhaps, her mother's, which resembled\nthe soft monotony of Lady Bertram's, only worn into fretfulness).\nWhatever was wanted was hallooed for, and the servants hallooed out\ntheir excuses from the kitchen. The doors were in constant banging, the\nstairs were never at rest, nothing was done without a clatter, nobody\nsat still, and nobody could command attention when they spoke.\n\nIn a review of the two houses, as they appeared to her before the end\nof a week, Fanny was tempted to apply to them Dr. Johnson's celebrated\njudgment as to matrimony and celibacy, and say, that though Mansfield\nPark might have some pains, Portsmouth could have no pleasures.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XL\n\nFanny was right enough in not expecting to hear from Miss Crawford now\nat the rapid rate in which their correspondence had begun; Mary's next\nletter was after a decidedly longer interval than the last, but she\nwas not right in supposing that such an interval would be felt a great\nrelief to herself. Here was another strange revolution of mind! She was\nreally glad to receive the letter when it did come. In her present exile\nfrom good society, and distance from everything that had been wont to\ninterest her, a letter from one belonging to the set where her heart\nlived, written with affection, and some degree of elegance, was\nthoroughly acceptable. The usual plea of increasing engagements was made\nin excuse for not having written to her earlier; \"And now that I have\nbegun,\" she continued, \"my letter will not be worth your reading, for\nthere will be no little offering of love at the end, no three or four\nlines _passionnees_ from the most devoted H. C. in the world, for\nHenry is in Norfolk; business called him to Everingham ten days ago, or\nperhaps he only pretended to call, for the sake of being travelling\nat the same time that you were. But there he is, and, by the bye, his\nabsence may sufficiently account for any remissness of his sister's in\nwriting, for there has been no 'Well, Mary, when do you write to Fanny?\nIs not it time for you to write to Fanny?' to spur me on. At last, after\nvarious attempts at meeting, I have seen your cousins, 'dear Julia and\ndearest Mrs. Rushworth'; they found me at home yesterday, and we were\nglad to see each other again. We _seemed_ _very_ glad to see each other,\nand I do really think we were a little. We had a vast deal to say. Shall\nI tell you how Mrs. Rushworth looked when your name was mentioned? I did\nnot use to think her wanting in self-possession, but she had not quite\nenough for the demands of yesterday. Upon the whole, Julia was in the\nbest looks of the two, at least after you were spoken of. There was no\nrecovering the complexion from the moment that I spoke of 'Fanny,' and\nspoke of her as a sister should. But Mrs. Rushworth's day of good looks\nwill come; we have cards for her first party on the 28th. Then she\nwill be in beauty, for she will open one of the best houses in Wimpole\nStreet. I was in it two years ago, when it was Lady Lascelle's, and\nprefer it to almost any I know in London, and certainly she will then\nfeel, to use a vulgar phrase, that she has got her pennyworth for her\npenny. Henry could not have afforded her such a house. I hope she will\nrecollect it, and be satisfied, as well as she may, with moving the\nqueen of a palace, though the king may appear best in the background;\nand as I have no desire to tease her, I shall never _force_ your name\nupon her again. She will grow sober by degrees. From all that I hear\nand guess, Baron Wildenheim's attentions to Julia continue, but I do not\nknow that he has any serious encouragement. She ought to do better.\nA poor honourable is no catch, and I cannot imagine any liking in the\ncase, for take away his rants, and the poor baron has nothing. What a\ndifference a vowel makes! If his rents were but equal to his rants! Your\ncousin Edmund moves slowly; detained, perchance, by parish duties. There\nmay be some old woman at Thornton Lacey to be converted. I am unwilling\nto fancy myself neglected for a _young_ one. Adieu! my dear sweet Fanny,\nthis is a long letter from London: write me a pretty one in reply to\ngladden Henry's eyes, when he comes back, and send me an account of all\nthe dashing young captains whom you disdain for his sake.\"\n\nThere was great food for meditation in this letter, and chiefly for\nunpleasant meditation; and yet, with all the uneasiness it supplied, it\nconnected her with the absent, it told her of people and things about\nwhom she had never felt so much curiosity as now, and she would\nhave been glad to have been sure of such a letter every week. Her\ncorrespondence with her aunt Bertram was her only concern of higher\ninterest.\n\nAs for any society in Portsmouth, that could at all make amends for\ndeficiencies at home, there were none within the circle of her father's\nand mother's acquaintance to afford her the smallest satisfaction: she\nsaw nobody in whose favour she could wish to overcome her own shyness\nand reserve. The men appeared to her all coarse, the women all pert,\neverybody underbred; and she gave as little contentment as she received\nfrom introductions either to old or new acquaintance. The young ladies\nwho approached her at first with some respect, in consideration of her\ncoming from a baronet's family, were soon offended by what they termed\n\"airs\"; for, as she neither played on the pianoforte nor wore fine\npelisses, they could, on farther observation, admit no right of\nsuperiority.\n\nThe first solid consolation which Fanny received for the evils of home,\nthe first which her judgment could entirely approve, and which gave any\npromise of durability, was in a better knowledge of Susan, and a hope of\nbeing of service to her. Susan had always behaved pleasantly to herself,\nbut the determined character of her general manners had astonished\nand alarmed her, and it was at least a fortnight before she began to\nunderstand a disposition so totally different from her own. Susan saw\nthat much was wrong at home, and wanted to set it right. That a girl of\nfourteen, acting only on her own unassisted reason, should err in the\nmethod of reform, was not wonderful; and Fanny soon became more disposed\nto admire the natural light of the mind which could so early distinguish\njustly, than to censure severely the faults of conduct to which it led.\nSusan was only acting on the same truths, and pursuing the same system,\nwhich her own judgment acknowledged, but which her more supine and\nyielding temper would have shrunk from asserting. Susan tried to be\nuseful, where _she_ could only have gone away and cried; and that Susan\nwas useful she could perceive; that things, bad as they were, would\nhave been worse but for such interposition, and that both her mother and\nBetsey were restrained from some excesses of very offensive indulgence\nand vulgarity.\n\nIn every argument with her mother, Susan had in point of reason the\nadvantage, and never was there any maternal tenderness to buy her off.\nThe blind fondness which was for ever producing evil around her she had\nnever known. There was no gratitude for affection past or present to\nmake her better bear with its excesses to the others.\n\nAll this became gradually evident, and gradually placed Susan before her\nsister as an object of mingled compassion and respect. That her manner\nwas wrong, however, at times very wrong, her measures often ill-chosen\nand ill-timed, and her looks and language very often indefensible, Fanny\ncould not cease to feel; but she began to hope they might be rectified.\nSusan, she found, looked up to her and wished for her good opinion; and\nnew as anything like an office of authority was to Fanny, new as it\nwas to imagine herself capable of guiding or informing any one, she did\nresolve to give occasional hints to Susan, and endeavour to exercise for\nher advantage the juster notions of what was due to everybody, and what\nwould be wisest for herself, which her own more favoured education had\nfixed in her.\n\nHer influence, or at least the consciousness and use of it, originated\nin an act of kindness by Susan, which, after many hesitations of\ndelicacy, she at last worked herself up to. It had very early occurred\nto her that a small sum of money might, perhaps, restore peace for\never on the sore subject of the silver knife, canvassed as it now was\ncontinually, and the riches which she was in possession of herself,\nher uncle having given her 10 pounds at parting, made her as able as she was\nwilling to be generous. But she was so wholly unused to confer favours,\nexcept on the very poor, so unpractised in removing evils, or bestowing\nkindnesses among her equals, and so fearful of appearing to elevate\nherself as a great lady at home, that it took some time to determine\nthat it would not be unbecoming in her to make such a present. It\nwas made, however, at last: a silver knife was bought for Betsey, and\naccepted with great delight, its newness giving it every advantage\nover the other that could be desired; Susan was established in the full\npossession of her own, Betsey handsomely declaring that now she had got\none so much prettier herself, she should never want _that_ again; and\nno reproach seemed conveyed to the equally satisfied mother, which Fanny\nhad almost feared to be impossible. The deed thoroughly answered: a\nsource of domestic altercation was entirely done away, and it was the\nmeans of opening Susan's heart to her, and giving her something more to\nlove and be interested in. Susan shewed that she had delicacy: pleased\nas she was to be mistress of property which she had been struggling for\nat least two years, she yet feared that her sister's judgment had been\nagainst her, and that a reproof was designed her for having so struggled\nas to make the purchase necessary for the tranquillity of the house.\n\nHer temper was open. She acknowledged her fears, blamed herself for\nhaving contended so warmly; and from that hour Fanny, understanding the\nworth of her disposition and perceiving how fully she was inclined to\nseek her good opinion and refer to her judgment, began to feel again the\nblessing of affection, and to entertain the hope of being useful to a\nmind so much in need of help, and so much deserving it. She gave advice,\nadvice too sound to be resisted by a good understanding, and given so\nmildly and considerately as not to irritate an imperfect temper, and she\nhad the happiness of observing its good effects not unfrequently.\nMore was not expected by one who, while seeing all the obligation and\nexpediency of submission and forbearance, saw also with sympathetic\nacuteness of feeling all that must be hourly grating to a girl like\nSusan. Her greatest wonder on the subject soon became--not that Susan\nshould have been provoked into disrespect and impatience against her\nbetter knowledge--but that so much better knowledge, so many good\nnotions should have been hers at all; and that, brought up in the midst\nof negligence and error, she should have formed such proper opinions\nof what ought to be; she, who had had no cousin Edmund to direct her\nthoughts or fix her principles.\n\nThe intimacy thus begun between them was a material advantage to\neach. By sitting together upstairs, they avoided a great deal of the\ndisturbance of the house; Fanny had peace, and Susan learned to think it\nno misfortune to be quietly employed. They sat without a fire; but\nthat was a privation familiar even to Fanny, and she suffered the\nless because reminded by it of the East room. It was the only point of\nresemblance. In space, light, furniture, and prospect, there was\nnothing alike in the two apartments; and she often heaved a sigh at the\nremembrance of all her books and boxes, and various comforts there. By\ndegrees the girls came to spend the chief of the morning upstairs, at\nfirst only in working and talking, but after a few days, the remembrance\nof the said books grew so potent and stimulative that Fanny found it\nimpossible not to try for books again. There were none in her father's\nhouse; but wealth is luxurious and daring, and some of hers found its\nway to a circulating library. She became a subscriber; amazed at being\nanything _in propria persona_, amazed at her own doings in every way, to\nbe a renter, a chuser of books! And to be having any one's improvement\nin view in her choice! But so it was. Susan had read nothing, and Fanny\nlonged to give her a share in her own first pleasures, and inspire a\ntaste for the biography and poetry which she delighted in herself.\n\nIn this occupation she hoped, moreover, to bury some of the\nrecollections of Mansfield, which were too apt to seize her mind if her\nfingers only were busy; and, especially at this time, hoped it might\nbe useful in diverting her thoughts from pursuing Edmund to London,\nwhither, on the authority of her aunt's last letter, she knew he was\ngone. She had no doubt of what would ensue. The promised notification\nwas hanging over her head. The postman's knock within the neighbourhood\nwas beginning to bring its daily terrors, and if reading could banish\nthe idea for even half an hour, it was something gained.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLI\n\nA week was gone since Edmund might be supposed in town, and Fanny had\nheard nothing of him. There were three different conclusions to be drawn\nfrom his silence, between which her mind was in fluctuation; each of\nthem at times being held the most probable. Either his going had been\nagain delayed, or he had yet procured no opportunity of seeing Miss\nCrawford alone, or he was too happy for letter-writing!\n\nOne morning, about this time, Fanny having now been nearly four weeks\nfrom Mansfield, a point which she never failed to think over and\ncalculate every day, as she and Susan were preparing to remove, as\nusual, upstairs, they were stopped by the knock of a visitor, whom they\nfelt they could not avoid, from Rebecca's alertness in going to the\ndoor, a duty which always interested her beyond any other.\n\nIt was a gentleman's voice; it was a voice that Fanny was just turning\npale about, when Mr. Crawford walked into the room.\n\nGood sense, like hers, will always act when really called upon; and she\nfound that she had been able to name him to her mother, and recall her\nremembrance of the name, as that of \"William's friend,\" though she could\nnot previously have believed herself capable of uttering a syllable\nat such a moment. The consciousness of his being known there only as\nWilliam's friend was some support. Having introduced him, however, and\nbeing all reseated, the terrors that occurred of what this visit might\nlead to were overpowering, and she fancied herself on the point of\nfainting away.\n\nWhile trying to keep herself alive, their visitor, who had at first\napproached her with as animated a countenance as ever, was wisely and\nkindly keeping his eyes away, and giving her time to recover, while he\ndevoted himself entirely to her mother, addressing her, and attending\nto her with the utmost politeness and propriety, at the same time with\na degree of friendliness, of interest at least, which was making his\nmanner perfect.\n\nMrs. Price's manners were also at their best. Warmed by the sight of\nsuch a friend to her son, and regulated by the wish of appearing to\nadvantage before him, she was overflowing with gratitude--artless,\nmaternal gratitude--which could not be unpleasing. Mr. Price was out,\nwhich she regretted very much. Fanny was just recovered enough to\nfeel that _she_ could not regret it; for to her many other sources of\nuneasiness was added the severe one of shame for the home in which he\nfound her. She might scold herself for the weakness, but there was no\nscolding it away. She was ashamed, and she would have been yet more\nashamed of her father than of all the rest.\n\nThey talked of William, a subject on which Mrs. Price could never tire;\nand Mr. Crawford was as warm in his commendation as even her heart could\nwish. She felt that she had never seen so agreeable a man in her life;\nand was only astonished to find that, so great and so agreeable as he\nwas, he should be come down to Portsmouth neither on a visit to the\nport-admiral, nor the commissioner, nor yet with the intention of going\nover to the island, nor of seeing the dockyard. Nothing of all that she\nhad been used to think of as the proof of importance, or the employment\nof wealth, had brought him to Portsmouth. He had reached it late the\nnight before, was come for a day or two, was staying at the Crown, had\naccidentally met with a navy officer or two of his acquaintance since\nhis arrival, but had no object of that kind in coming.\n\nBy the time he had given all this information, it was not unreasonable\nto suppose that Fanny might be looked at and spoken to; and she was\ntolerably able to bear his eye, and hear that he had spent half an hour\nwith his sister the evening before his leaving London; that she had\nsent her best and kindest love, but had had no time for writing; that he\nthought himself lucky in seeing Mary for even half an hour, having spent\nscarcely twenty-four hours in London, after his return from Norfolk,\nbefore he set off again; that her cousin Edmund was in town, had been in\ntown, he understood, a few days; that he had not seen him himself, but\nthat he was well, had left them all well at Mansfield, and was to dine,\nas yesterday, with the Frasers.\n\nFanny listened collectedly, even to the last-mentioned circumstance;\nnay, it seemed a relief to her worn mind to be at any certainty; and the\nwords, \"then by this time it is all settled,\" passed internally, without\nmore evidence of emotion than a faint blush.\n\nAfter talking a little more about Mansfield, a subject in which her\ninterest was most apparent, Crawford began to hint at the expediency of\nan early walk. \"It was a lovely morning, and at that season of the year\na fine morning so often turned off, that it was wisest for everybody\nnot to delay their exercise\"; and such hints producing nothing, he soon\nproceeded to a positive recommendation to Mrs. Price and her\ndaughters to take their walk without loss of time. Now they came to an\nunderstanding. Mrs. Price, it appeared, scarcely ever stirred out of\ndoors, except of a Sunday; she owned she could seldom, with her large\nfamily, find time for a walk. \"Would she not, then, persuade her\ndaughters to take advantage of such weather, and allow him the pleasure\nof attending them?\" Mrs. Price was greatly obliged and very complying.\n\"Her daughters were very much confined; Portsmouth was a sad place; they\ndid not often get out; and she knew they had some errands in the town,\nwhich they would be very glad to do.\" And the consequence was, that\nFanny, strange as it was--strange, awkward, and distressing--found\nherself and Susan, within ten minutes, walking towards the High Street\nwith Mr. Crawford.\n\nIt was soon pain upon pain, confusion upon confusion; for they were\nhardly in the High Street before they met her father, whose\nappearance was not the better from its being Saturday. He stopt; and,\nungentlemanlike as he looked, Fanny was obliged to introduce him to Mr.\nCrawford. She could not have a doubt of the manner in which Mr. Crawford\nmust be struck. He must be ashamed and disgusted altogether. He must\nsoon give her up, and cease to have the smallest inclination for the\nmatch; and yet, though she had been so much wanting his affection to\nbe cured, this was a sort of cure that would be almost as bad as the\ncomplaint; and I believe there is scarcely a young lady in the United\nKingdoms who would not rather put up with the misfortune of being sought\nby a clever, agreeable man, than have him driven away by the vulgarity\nof her nearest relations.\n\nMr. Crawford probably could not regard his future father-in-law with any\nidea of taking him for a model in dress; but (as Fanny instantly, and to\nher great relief, discerned) her father was a very different man, a\nvery different Mr. Price in his behaviour to this most highly respected\nstranger, from what he was in his own family at home. His manners\nnow, though not polished, were more than passable: they were grateful,\nanimated, manly; his expressions were those of an attached father, and\na sensible man; his loud tones did very well in the open air, and there\nwas not a single oath to be heard. Such was his instinctive compliment\nto the good manners of Mr. Crawford; and, be the consequence what it\nmight, Fanny's immediate feelings were infinitely soothed.\n\nThe conclusion of the two gentlemen's civilities was an offer of Mr.\nPrice's to take Mr. Crawford into the dockyard, which Mr. Crawford,\ndesirous of accepting as a favour what was intended as such, though\nhe had seen the dockyard again and again, and hoping to be so much the\nlonger with Fanny, was very gratefully disposed to avail himself of, if\nthe Miss Prices were not afraid of the fatigue; and as it was somehow or\nother ascertained, or inferred, or at least acted upon, that they were\nnot at all afraid, to the dockyard they were all to go; and but for\nMr. Crawford, Mr. Price would have turned thither directly, without the\nsmallest consideration for his daughters' errands in the High Street. He\ntook care, however, that they should be allowed to go to the shops they\ncame out expressly to visit; and it did not delay them long, for Fanny\ncould so little bear to excite impatience, or be waited for, that before\nthe gentlemen, as they stood at the door, could do more than begin upon\nthe last naval regulations, or settle the number of three-deckers now in\ncommission, their companions were ready to proceed.\n\nThey were then to set forward for the dockyard at once, and the walk\nwould have been conducted--according to Mr. Crawford's opinion--in a\nsingular manner, had Mr. Price been allowed the entire regulation of it,\nas the two girls, he found, would have been left to follow, and keep up\nwith them or not, as they could, while they walked on together at their\nown hasty pace. He was able to introduce some improvement occasionally,\nthough by no means to the extent he wished; he absolutely would not walk\naway from them; and at any crossing or any crowd, when Mr. Price was\nonly calling out, \"Come, girls; come, Fan; come, Sue, take care of\nyourselves; keep a sharp lookout!\" he would give them his particular\nattendance.\n\nOnce fairly in the dockyard, he began to reckon upon some happy\nintercourse with Fanny, as they were very soon joined by a brother\nlounger of Mr. Price's, who was come to take his daily survey of how\nthings went on, and who must prove a far more worthy companion than\nhimself; and after a time the two officers seemed very well satisfied\ngoing about together, and discussing matters of equal and never-failing\ninterest, while the young people sat down upon some timbers in the yard,\nor found a seat on board a vessel in the stocks which they all went to\nlook at. Fanny was most conveniently in want of rest. Crawford could not\nhave wished her more fatigued or more ready to sit down; but he could\nhave wished her sister away. A quick-looking girl of Susan's age was the\nvery worst third in the world: totally different from Lady Bertram, all\neyes and ears; and there was no introducing the main point before her.\nHe must content himself with being only generally agreeable, and letting\nSusan have her share of entertainment, with the indulgence, now and\nthen, of a look or hint for the better-informed and conscious Fanny.\nNorfolk was what he had mostly to talk of: there he had been some time,\nand everything there was rising in importance from his present schemes.\nSuch a man could come from no place, no society, without importing\nsomething to amuse; his journeys and his acquaintance were all of use,\nand Susan was entertained in a way quite new to her. For Fanny, somewhat\nmore was related than the accidental agreeableness of the parties he had\nbeen in. For her approbation, the particular reason of his going into\nNorfolk at all, at this unusual time of year, was given. It had been\nreal business, relative to the renewal of a lease in which the welfare\nof a large and--he believed--industrious family was at stake. He had\nsuspected his agent of some underhand dealing; of meaning to bias\nhim against the deserving; and he had determined to go himself, and\nthoroughly investigate the merits of the case. He had gone, had done\neven more good than he had foreseen, had been useful to more than his\nfirst plan had comprehended, and was now able to congratulate himself\nupon it, and to feel that in performing a duty, he had secured agreeable\nrecollections for his own mind. He had introduced himself to some\ntenants whom he had never seen before; he had begun making acquaintance\nwith cottages whose very existence, though on his own estate, had been\nhitherto unknown to him. This was aimed, and well aimed, at Fanny. It\nwas pleasing to hear him speak so properly; here he had been acting as\nhe ought to do. To be the friend of the poor and the oppressed! Nothing\ncould be more grateful to her; and she was on the point of giving him an\napproving look, when it was all frightened off by his adding a something\ntoo pointed of his hoping soon to have an assistant, a friend, a guide\nin every plan of utility or charity for Everingham: a somebody that\nwould make Everingham and all about it a dearer object than it had ever\nbeen yet.\n\nShe turned away, and wished he would not say such things. She was\nwilling to allow he might have more good qualities than she had been\nwont to suppose. She began to feel the possibility of his turning out\nwell at last; but he was and must ever be completely unsuited to her,\nand ought not to think of her.\n\nHe perceived that enough had been said of Everingham, and that it would\nbe as well to talk of something else, and turned to Mansfield. He could\nnot have chosen better; that was a topic to bring back her attention and\nher looks almost instantly. It was a real indulgence to her to hear or\nto speak of Mansfield. Now so long divided from everybody who knew the\nplace, she felt it quite the voice of a friend when he mentioned it,\nand led the way to her fond exclamations in praise of its beauties and\ncomforts, and by his honourable tribute to its inhabitants allowed her\nto gratify her own heart in the warmest eulogium, in speaking of her\nuncle as all that was clever and good, and her aunt as having the\nsweetest of all sweet tempers.\n\nHe had a great attachment to Mansfield himself; he said so; he looked\nforward with the hope of spending much, very much, of his time there;\nalways there, or in the neighbourhood. He particularly built upon a very\nhappy summer and autumn there this year; he felt that it would be so: he\ndepended upon it; a summer and autumn infinitely superior to the last.\nAs animated, as diversified, as social, but with circumstances of\nsuperiority undescribable.\n\n\"Mansfield, Sotherton, Thornton Lacey,\" he continued; \"what a society\nwill be comprised in those houses! And at Michaelmas, perhaps, a fourth\nmay be added: some small hunting-box in the vicinity of everything so\ndear; for as to any partnership in Thornton Lacey, as Edmund Bertram\nonce good-humouredly proposed, I hope I foresee two objections: two\nfair, excellent, irresistible objections to that plan.\"\n\nFanny was doubly silenced here; though when the moment was passed,\ncould regret that she had not forced herself into the acknowledged\ncomprehension of one half of his meaning, and encouraged him to say\nsomething more of his sister and Edmund. It was a subject which she must\nlearn to speak of, and the weakness that shrunk from it would soon be\nquite unpardonable.\n\nWhen Mr. Price and his friend had seen all that they wished, or had time\nfor, the others were ready to return; and in the course of their walk\nback, Mr. Crawford contrived a minute's privacy for telling Fanny that\nhis only business in Portsmouth was to see her; that he was come down\nfor a couple of days on her account, and hers only, and because he could\nnot endure a longer total separation. She was sorry, really sorry; and\nyet in spite of this and the two or three other things which she wished\nhe had not said, she thought him altogether improved since she had seen\nhim; he was much more gentle, obliging, and attentive to other people's\nfeelings than he had ever been at Mansfield; she had never seen him so\nagreeable--so _near_ being agreeable; his behaviour to her father could\nnot offend, and there was something particularly kind and proper in the\nnotice he took of Susan. He was decidedly improved. She wished the next\nday over, she wished he had come only for one day; but it was not\nso very bad as she would have expected: the pleasure of talking of\nMansfield was so very great!\n\nBefore they parted, she had to thank him for another pleasure, and one\nof no trivial kind. Her father asked him to do them the honour of taking\nhis mutton with them, and Fanny had time for only one thrill of horror,\nbefore he declared himself prevented by a prior engagement. He was\nengaged to dinner already both for that day and the next; he had met\nwith some acquaintance at the Crown who would not be denied; he should\nhave the honour, however, of waiting on them again on the morrow, etc.,\nand so they parted--Fanny in a state of actual felicity from escaping so\nhorrible an evil!\n\nTo have had him join their family dinner-party, and see all their\ndeficiencies, would have been dreadful! Rebecca's cookery and Rebecca's\nwaiting, and Betsey's eating at table without restraint, and pulling\neverything about as she chose, were what Fanny herself was not yet\nenough inured to for her often to make a tolerable meal. _She_ was nice\nonly from natural delicacy, but _he_ had been brought up in a school of\nluxury and epicurism.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLII\n\nThe Prices were just setting off for church the next day when Mr.\nCrawford appeared again. He came, not to stop, but to join them; he was\nasked to go with them to the Garrison chapel, which was exactly what he\nhad intended, and they all walked thither together.\n\nThe family were now seen to advantage. Nature had given them no\ninconsiderable share of beauty, and every Sunday dressed them in their\ncleanest skins and best attire. Sunday always brought this comfort to\nFanny, and on this Sunday she felt it more than ever. Her poor mother\nnow did not look so very unworthy of being Lady Bertram's sister as she\nwas but too apt to look. It often grieved her to the heart to think of\nthe contrast between them; to think that where nature had made so little\ndifference, circumstances should have made so much, and that her mother,\nas handsome as Lady Bertram, and some years her junior, should have an\nappearance so much more worn and faded, so comfortless, so slatternly,\nso shabby. But Sunday made her a very creditable and tolerably\ncheerful-looking Mrs. Price, coming abroad with a fine family of\nchildren, feeling a little respite of her weekly cares, and only\ndiscomposed if she saw her boys run into danger, or Rebecca pass by with\na flower in her hat.\n\nIn chapel they were obliged to divide, but Mr. Crawford took care not to\nbe divided from the female branch; and after chapel he still continued\nwith them, and made one in the family party on the ramparts.\n\nMrs. Price took her weekly walk on the ramparts every fine Sunday\nthroughout the year, always going directly after morning service and\nstaying till dinner-time. It was her public place: there she met her\nacquaintance, heard a little news, talked over the badness of the\nPortsmouth servants, and wound up her spirits for the six days ensuing.\n\nThither they now went; Mr. Crawford most happy to consider the Miss\nPrices as his peculiar charge; and before they had been there long,\nsomehow or other, there was no saying how, Fanny could not have believed\nit, but he was walking between them with an arm of each under his,\nand she did not know how to prevent or put an end to it. It made her\nuncomfortable for a time, but yet there were enjoyments in the day and\nin the view which would be felt.\n\nThe day was uncommonly lovely. It was really March; but it was April in\nits mild air, brisk soft wind, and bright sun, occasionally clouded for\na minute; and everything looked so beautiful under the influence of such\na sky, the effects of the shadows pursuing each other on the ships at\nSpithead and the island beyond, with the ever-varying hues of the sea,\nnow at high water, dancing in its glee and dashing against the ramparts\nwith so fine a sound, produced altogether such a combination of charms\nfor Fanny, as made her gradually almost careless of the circumstances\nunder which she felt them. Nay, had she been without his arm, she would\nsoon have known that she needed it, for she wanted strength for a two\nhours' saunter of this kind, coming, as it generally did, upon a week's\nprevious inactivity. Fanny was beginning to feel the effect of being\ndebarred from her usual regular exercise; she had lost ground as to\nhealth since her being in Portsmouth; and but for Mr. Crawford and the\nbeauty of the weather would soon have been knocked up now.\n\nThe loveliness of the day, and of the view, he felt like herself. They\noften stopt with the same sentiment and taste, leaning against the wall,\nsome minutes, to look and admire; and considering he was not Edmund,\nFanny could not but allow that he was sufficiently open to the charms\nof nature, and very well able to express his admiration. She had a few\ntender reveries now and then, which he could sometimes take advantage\nof to look in her face without detection; and the result of these looks\nwas, that though as bewitching as ever, her face was less blooming than\nit ought to be. She _said_ she was very well, and did not like to be\nsupposed otherwise; but take it all in all, he was convinced that her\npresent residence could not be comfortable, and therefore could not\nbe salutary for her, and he was growing anxious for her being again at\nMansfield, where her own happiness, and his in seeing her, must be so\nmuch greater.\n\n\"You have been here a month, I think?\" said he.\n\n\"No; not quite a month. It is only four weeks to-morrow since I left\nMansfield.\"\n\n\"You are a most accurate and honest reckoner. I should call that a\nmonth.\"\n\n\"I did not arrive here till Tuesday evening.\"\n\n\"And it is to be a two months' visit, is not?\"\n\n\"Yes. My uncle talked of two months. I suppose it will not be less.\"\n\n\"And how are you to be conveyed back again? Who comes for you?\"\n\n\"I do not know. I have heard nothing about it yet from my aunt. Perhaps\nI may be to stay longer. It may not be convenient for me to be fetched\nexactly at the two months' end.\"\n\nAfter a moment's reflection, Mr. Crawford replied, \"I know Mansfield, I\nknow its way, I know its faults towards _you_. I know the danger of\nyour being so far forgotten, as to have your comforts give way to the\nimaginary convenience of any single being in the family. I am aware\nthat you may be left here week after week, if Sir Thomas cannot settle\neverything for coming himself, or sending your aunt's maid for you,\nwithout involving the slightest alteration of the arrangements which he\nmay have laid down for the next quarter of a year. This will not do. Two\nmonths is an ample allowance; I should think six weeks quite enough.\nI am considering your sister's health,\" said he, addressing himself to\nSusan, \"which I think the confinement of Portsmouth unfavourable to. She\nrequires constant air and exercise. When you know her as well as I do,\nI am sure you will agree that she does, and that she ought never to\nbe long banished from the free air and liberty of the country. If,\ntherefore\" (turning again to Fanny), \"you find yourself growing unwell,\nand any difficulties arise about your returning to Mansfield, without\nwaiting for the two months to be ended, _that_ must not be regarded\nas of any consequence, if you feel yourself at all less strong or\ncomfortable than usual, and will only let my sister know it, give her\nonly the slightest hint, she and I will immediately come down, and take\nyou back to Mansfield. You know the ease and the pleasure with which\nthis would be done. You know all that would be felt on the occasion.\"\n\nFanny thanked him, but tried to laugh it off.\n\n\"I am perfectly serious,\" he replied, \"as you perfectly know. And I\nhope you will not be cruelly concealing any tendency to indisposition.\nIndeed, you shall _not_; it shall not be in your power; for so long only\nas you positively say, in every letter to Mary, 'I am well,' and I\nknow you cannot speak or write a falsehood, so long only shall you be\nconsidered as well.\"\n\nFanny thanked him again, but was affected and distressed to a degree\nthat made it impossible for her to say much, or even to be certain of\nwhat she ought to say. This was towards the close of their walk. He\nattended them to the last, and left them only at the door of their own\nhouse, when he knew them to be going to dinner, and therefore pretended\nto be waited for elsewhere.\n\n\"I wish you were not so tired,\" said he, still detaining Fanny after all\nthe others were in the house--\"I wish I left you in stronger health. Is\nthere anything I can do for you in town? I have half an idea of going\ninto Norfolk again soon. I am not satisfied about Maddison. I am sure\nhe still means to impose on me if possible, and get a cousin of his own\ninto a certain mill, which I design for somebody else. I must come to an\nunderstanding with him. I must make him know that I will not be tricked\non the south side of Everingham, any more than on the north: that I will\nbe master of my own property. I was not explicit enough with him before.\nThe mischief such a man does on an estate, both as to the credit of his\nemployer and the welfare of the poor, is inconceivable. I have a great\nmind to go back into Norfolk directly, and put everything at once on\nsuch a footing as cannot be afterwards swerved from. Maddison is a\nclever fellow; I do not wish to displace him, provided he does not try\nto displace _me_; but it would be simple to be duped by a man who has no\nright of creditor to dupe me, and worse than simple to let him give me a\nhard-hearted, griping fellow for a tenant, instead of an honest man,\nto whom I have given half a promise already. Would it not be worse than\nsimple? Shall I go? Do you advise it?\"\n\n\"I advise! You know very well what is right.\"\n\n\"Yes. When you give me your opinion, I always know what is right. Your\njudgment is my rule of right.\"\n\n\"Oh, no! do not say so. We have all a better guide in ourselves, if we\nwould attend to it, than any other person can be. Good-bye; I wish you a\npleasant journey to-morrow.\"\n\n\"Is there nothing I can do for you in town?\"\n\n\"Nothing; I am much obliged to you.\"\n\n\"Have you no message for anybody?\"\n\n\"My love to your sister, if you please; and when you see my cousin, my\ncousin Edmund, I wish you would be so good as to say that I suppose I\nshall soon hear from him.\"\n\n\"Certainly; and if he is lazy or negligent, I will write his excuses\nmyself.\"\n\nHe could say no more, for Fanny would be no longer detained. He pressed\nher hand, looked at her, and was gone. _He_ went to while away the next\nthree hours as he could, with his other acquaintance, till the best\ndinner that a capital inn afforded was ready for their enjoyment, and\n_she_ turned in to her more simple one immediately.\n\nTheir general fare bore a very different character; and could he have\nsuspected how many privations, besides that of exercise, she endured in\nher father's house, he would have wondered that her looks were not much\nmore affected than he found them. She was so little equal to Rebecca's\npuddings and Rebecca's hashes, brought to table, as they all were, with\nsuch accompaniments of half-cleaned plates, and not half-cleaned knives\nand forks, that she was very often constrained to defer her heartiest\nmeal till she could send her brothers in the evening for biscuits and\nbuns. After being nursed up at Mansfield, it was too late in the day\nto be hardened at Portsmouth; and though Sir Thomas, had he known all,\nmight have thought his niece in the most promising way of being starved,\nboth mind and body, into a much juster value for Mr. Crawford's good\ncompany and good fortune, he would probably have feared to push his\nexperiment farther, lest she might die under the cure.\n\nFanny was out of spirits all the rest of the day. Though tolerably\nsecure of not seeing Mr. Crawford again, she could not help being low.\nIt was parting with somebody of the nature of a friend; and though, in\none light, glad to have him gone, it seemed as if she was now deserted\nby everybody; it was a sort of renewed separation from Mansfield; and\nshe could not think of his returning to town, and being frequently with\nMary and Edmund, without feelings so near akin to envy as made her hate\nherself for having them.\n\nHer dejection had no abatement from anything passing around her; a\nfriend or two of her father's, as always happened if he was not with\nthem, spent the long, long evening there; and from six o'clock till\nhalf-past nine, there was little intermission of noise or grog. She\nwas very low. The wonderful improvement which she still fancied in Mr.\nCrawford was the nearest to administering comfort of anything within the\ncurrent of her thoughts. Not considering in how different a circle she\nhad been just seeing him, nor how much might be owing to contrast, she\nwas quite persuaded of his being astonishingly more gentle and regardful\nof others than formerly. And, if in little things, must it not be so in\ngreat? So anxious for her health and comfort, so very feeling as he now\nexpressed himself, and really seemed, might not it be fairly supposed\nthat he would not much longer persevere in a suit so distressing to her?\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIII\n\nIt was presumed that Mr. Crawford was travelling back, to London, on the\nmorrow, for nothing more was seen of him at Mr. Price's; and two days\nafterwards, it was a fact ascertained to Fanny by the following letter\nfrom his sister, opened and read by her, on another account, with the\nmost anxious curiosity:--\n\n\"I have to inform you, my dearest Fanny, that Henry has been down to\nPortsmouth to see you; that he had a delightful walk with you to the\ndockyard last Saturday, and one still more to be dwelt on the next day,\non the ramparts; when the balmy air, the sparkling sea, and your sweet\nlooks and conversation were altogether in the most delicious harmony,\nand afforded sensations which are to raise ecstasy even in retrospect.\nThis, as well as I understand, is to be the substance of my information.\nHe makes me write, but I do not know what else is to be communicated,\nexcept this said visit to Portsmouth, and these two said walks, and his\nintroduction to your family, especially to a fair sister of yours, a\nfine girl of fifteen, who was of the party on the ramparts, taking her\nfirst lesson, I presume, in love. I have not time for writing much, but\nit would be out of place if I had, for this is to be a mere letter of\nbusiness, penned for the purpose of conveying necessary information,\nwhich could not be delayed without risk of evil. My dear, dear Fanny,\nif I had you here, how I would talk to you! You should listen to me till\nyou were tired, and advise me till you were still tired more; but it is\nimpossible to put a hundredth part of my great mind on paper, so I will\nabstain altogether, and leave you to guess what you like. I have no news\nfor you. You have politics, of course; and it would be too bad to plague\nyou with the names of people and parties that fill up my time. I ought\nto have sent you an account of your cousin's first party, but I was\nlazy, and now it is too long ago; suffice it, that everything was just\nas it ought to be, in a style that any of her connexions must have been\ngratified to witness, and that her own dress and manners did her the\ngreatest credit. My friend, Mrs. Fraser, is mad for such a house, and it\nwould not make _me_ miserable. I go to Lady Stornaway after Easter;\nshe seems in high spirits, and very happy. I fancy Lord S. is very\ngood-humoured and pleasant in his own family, and I do not think him so\nvery ill-looking as I did--at least, one sees many worse. He will not\ndo by the side of your cousin Edmund. Of the last-mentioned hero, what\nshall I say? If I avoided his name entirely, it would look suspicious.\nI will say, then, that we have seen him two or three times, and that\nmy friends here are very much struck with his gentlemanlike appearance.\nMrs. Fraser (no bad judge) declares she knows but three men in town\nwho have so good a person, height, and air; and I must confess, when he\ndined here the other day, there were none to compare with him, and\nwe were a party of sixteen. Luckily there is no distinction of dress\nnowadays to tell tales, but--but--but Yours affectionately.\"\n\n\"I had almost forgot (it was Edmund's fault: he gets into my head more\nthan does me good) one very material thing I had to say from Henry and\nmyself--I mean about our taking you back into Northamptonshire. My dear\nlittle creature, do not stay at Portsmouth to lose your pretty looks.\nThose vile sea-breezes are the ruin of beauty and health. My poor aunt\nalways felt affected if within ten miles of the sea, which the Admiral\nof course never believed, but I know it was so. I am at your service\nand Henry's, at an hour's notice. I should like the scheme, and we would\nmake a little circuit, and shew you Everingham in our way, and perhaps\nyou would not mind passing through London, and seeing the inside of St.\nGeorge's, Hanover Square. Only keep your cousin Edmund from me at such\na time: I should not like to be tempted. What a long letter! one word\nmore. Henry, I find, has some idea of going into Norfolk again upon\nsome business that _you_ approve; but this cannot possibly be permitted\nbefore the middle of next week; that is, he cannot anyhow be spared till\nafter the 14th, for _we_ have a party that evening. The value of a man\nlike Henry, on such an occasion, is what you can have no conception\nof; so you must take it upon my word to be inestimable. He will see the\nRushworths, which own I am not sorry for--having a little curiosity, and\nso I think has he--though he will not acknowledge it.\"\n\nThis was a letter to be run through eagerly, to be read deliberately,\nto supply matter for much reflection, and to leave everything in greater\nsuspense than ever. The only certainty to be drawn from it was, that\nnothing decisive had yet taken place. Edmund had not yet spoken. How\nMiss Crawford really felt, how she meant to act, or might act without\nor against her meaning; whether his importance to her were quite what\nit had been before the last separation; whether, if lessened, it were\nlikely to lessen more, or to recover itself, were subjects for endless\nconjecture, and to be thought of on that day and many days to come,\nwithout producing any conclusion. The idea that returned the oftenest\nwas that Miss Crawford, after proving herself cooled and staggered by\na return to London habits, would yet prove herself in the end too much\nattached to him to give him up. She would try to be more ambitious than\nher heart would allow. She would hesitate, she would tease, she would\ncondition, she would require a great deal, but she would finally accept.\n\nThis was Fanny's most frequent expectation. A house in town--that, she\nthought, must be impossible. Yet there was no saying what Miss Crawford\nmight not ask. The prospect for her cousin grew worse and worse. The\nwoman who could speak of him, and speak only of his appearance! What an\nunworthy attachment! To be deriving support from the commendations of\nMrs. Fraser! _She_ who had known him intimately half a year! Fanny was\nashamed of her. Those parts of the letter which related only to Mr.\nCrawford and herself, touched her, in comparison, slightly. Whether Mr.\nCrawford went into Norfolk before or after the 14th was certainly no\nconcern of hers, though, everything considered, she thought he _would_\ngo without delay. That Miss Crawford should endeavour to secure a\nmeeting between him and Mrs. Rushworth, was all in her worst line of\nconduct, and grossly unkind and ill-judged; but she hoped _he_ would\nnot be actuated by any such degrading curiosity. He acknowledged no such\ninducement, and his sister ought to have given him credit for better\nfeelings than her own.\n\nShe was yet more impatient for another letter from town after receiving\nthis than she had been before; and for a few days was so unsettled by\nit altogether, by what had come, and what might come, that her usual\nreadings and conversation with Susan were much suspended. She could\nnot command her attention as she wished. If Mr. Crawford remembered her\nmessage to her cousin, she thought it very likely, most likely, that he\nwould write to her at all events; it would be most consistent with his\nusual kindness; and till she got rid of this idea, till it gradually\nwore off, by no letters appearing in the course of three or four days\nmore, she was in a most restless, anxious state.\n\nAt length, a something like composure succeeded. Suspense must be\nsubmitted to, and must not be allowed to wear her out, and make her\nuseless. Time did something, her own exertions something more, and she\nresumed her attentions to Susan, and again awakened the same interest in\nthem.\n\nSusan was growing very fond of her, and though without any of the early\ndelight in books which had been so strong in Fanny, with a disposition\nmuch less inclined to sedentary pursuits, or to information for\ninformation's sake, she had so strong a desire of not _appearing_\nignorant, as, with a good clear understanding, made her a most\nattentive, profitable, thankful pupil. Fanny was her oracle. Fanny's\nexplanations and remarks were a most important addition to every essay,\nor every chapter of history. What Fanny told her of former times dwelt\nmore on her mind than the pages of Goldsmith; and she paid her sister\nthe compliment of preferring her style to that of any printed author.\nThe early habit of reading was wanting.\n\nTheir conversations, however, were not always on subjects so high as\nhistory or morals. Others had their hour; and of lesser matters, none\nreturned so often, or remained so long between them, as Mansfield Park,\na description of the people, the manners, the amusements, the ways\nof Mansfield Park. Susan, who had an innate taste for the genteel and\nwell-appointed, was eager to hear, and Fanny could not but indulge\nherself in dwelling on so beloved a theme. She hoped it was not wrong;\nthough, after a time, Susan's very great admiration of everything\nsaid or done in her uncle's house, and earnest longing to go into\nNorthamptonshire, seemed almost to blame her for exciting feelings which\ncould not be gratified.\n\nPoor Susan was very little better fitted for home than her elder sister;\nand as Fanny grew thoroughly to understand this, she began to feel that\nwhen her own release from Portsmouth came, her happiness would have a\nmaterial drawback in leaving Susan behind. That a girl so capable of\nbeing made everything good should be left in such hands, distressed her\nmore and more. Were _she_ likely to have a home to invite her to, what\na blessing it would be! And had it been possible for her to return Mr.\nCrawford's regard, the probability of his being very far from objecting\nto such a measure would have been the greatest increase of all her own\ncomforts. She thought he was really good-tempered, and could fancy his\nentering into a plan of that sort most pleasantly.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIV\n\nSeven weeks of the two months were very nearly gone, when the one\nletter, the letter from Edmund, so long expected, was put into Fanny's\nhands. As she opened, and saw its length, she prepared herself for a\nminute detail of happiness and a profusion of love and praise towards\nthe fortunate creature who was now mistress of his fate. These were the\ncontents--\n\n\"My Dear Fanny,--Excuse me that I have not written before. Crawford told\nme that you were wishing to hear from me, but I found it impossible to\nwrite from London, and persuaded myself that you would understand my\nsilence. Could I have sent a few happy lines, they should not have been\nwanting, but nothing of that nature was ever in my power. I am returned\nto Mansfield in a less assured state than when I left it. My hopes are\nmuch weaker. You are probably aware of this already. So very fond of you\nas Miss Crawford is, it is most natural that she should tell you enough\nof her own feelings to furnish a tolerable guess at mine. I will not be\nprevented, however, from making my own communication. Our confidences in\nyou need not clash. I ask no questions. There is something soothing\nin the idea that we have the same friend, and that whatever unhappy\ndifferences of opinion may exist between us, we are united in our love\nof you. It will be a comfort to me to tell you how things now are, and\nwhat are my present plans, if plans I can be said to have. I have been\nreturned since Saturday. I was three weeks in London, and saw her (for\nLondon) very often. I had every attention from the Frasers that could be\nreasonably expected. I dare say I was not reasonable in carrying with\nme hopes of an intercourse at all like that of Mansfield. It was her\nmanner, however, rather than any unfrequency of meeting. Had she been\ndifferent when I did see her, I should have made no complaint, but from\nthe very first she was altered: my first reception was so unlike what I\nhad hoped, that I had almost resolved on leaving London again directly.\nI need not particularise. You know the weak side of her character, and\nmay imagine the sentiments and expressions which were torturing me. She\nwas in high spirits, and surrounded by those who were giving all the\nsupport of their own bad sense to her too lively mind. I do not like\nMrs. Fraser. She is a cold-hearted, vain woman, who has married entirely\nfrom convenience, and though evidently unhappy in her marriage,\nplaces her disappointment not to faults of judgment, or temper, or\ndisproportion of age, but to her being, after all, less affluent than\nmany of her acquaintance, especially than her sister, Lady Stornaway,\nand is the determined supporter of everything mercenary and ambitious,\nprovided it be only mercenary and ambitious enough. I look upon her\nintimacy with those two sisters as the greatest misfortune of her life\nand mine. They have been leading her astray for years. Could she be\ndetached from them!--and sometimes I do not despair of it, for the\naffection appears to me principally on their side. They are very fond of\nher; but I am sure she does not love them as she loves you. When I think\nof her great attachment to you, indeed, and the whole of her judicious,\nupright conduct as a sister, she appears a very different creature,\ncapable of everything noble, and I am ready to blame myself for a too\nharsh construction of a playful manner. I cannot give her up, Fanny. She\nis the only woman in the world whom I could ever think of as a wife. If\nI did not believe that she had some regard for me, of course I should\nnot say this, but I do believe it. I am convinced that she is not\nwithout a decided preference. I have no jealousy of any individual. It\nis the influence of the fashionable world altogether that I am jealous\nof. It is the habits of wealth that I fear. Her ideas are not higher\nthan her own fortune may warrant, but they are beyond what our incomes\nunited could authorise. There is comfort, however, even here. I could\nbetter bear to lose her because not rich enough, than because of my\nprofession. That would only prove her affection not equal to sacrifices,\nwhich, in fact, I am scarcely justified in asking; and, if I am refused,\nthat, I think, will be the honest motive. Her prejudices, I trust, are\nnot so strong as they were. You have my thoughts exactly as they arise,\nmy dear Fanny; perhaps they are sometimes contradictory, but it will\nnot be a less faithful picture of my mind. Having once begun, it is a\npleasure to me to tell you all I feel. I cannot give her up. Connected\nas we already are, and, I hope, are to be, to give up Mary Crawford\nwould be to give up the society of some of those most dear to me; to\nbanish myself from the very houses and friends whom, under any other\ndistress, I should turn to for consolation. The loss of Mary I must\nconsider as comprehending the loss of Crawford and of Fanny. Were it a\ndecided thing, an actual refusal, I hope I should know how to bear it,\nand how to endeavour to weaken her hold on my heart, and in the course\nof a few years--but I am writing nonsense. Were I refused, I must bear\nit; and till I am, I can never cease to try for her. This is the truth.\nThe only question is _how_? What may be the likeliest means? I have\nsometimes thought of going to London again after Easter, and sometimes\nresolved on doing nothing till she returns to Mansfield. Even now, she\nspeaks with pleasure of being in Mansfield in June; but June is at\na great distance, and I believe I shall write to her. I have nearly\ndetermined on explaining myself by letter. To be at an early certainty\nis a material object. My present state is miserably irksome. Considering\neverything, I think a letter will be decidedly the best method of\nexplanation. I shall be able to write much that I could not say, and\nshall be giving her time for reflection before she resolves on her\nanswer, and I am less afraid of the result of reflection than of an\nimmediate hasty impulse; I think I am. My greatest danger would lie in\nher consulting Mrs. Fraser, and I at a distance unable to help my own\ncause. A letter exposes to all the evil of consultation, and where\nthe mind is anything short of perfect decision, an adviser may, in an\nunlucky moment, lead it to do what it may afterwards regret. I must\nthink this matter over a little. This long letter, full of my own\nconcerns alone, will be enough to tire even the friendship of a Fanny.\nThe last time I saw Crawford was at Mrs. Fraser's party. I am more\nand more satisfied with all that I see and hear of him. There is not a\nshadow of wavering. He thoroughly knows his own mind, and acts up to his\nresolutions: an inestimable quality. I could not see him and my eldest\nsister in the same room without recollecting what you once told me,\nand I acknowledge that they did not meet as friends. There was\nmarked coolness on her side. They scarcely spoke. I saw him draw back\nsurprised, and I was sorry that Mrs. Rushworth should resent any former\nsupposed slight to Miss Bertram. You will wish to hear my opinion\nof Maria's degree of comfort as a wife. There is no appearance of\nunhappiness. I hope they get on pretty well together. I dined twice in\nWimpole Street, and might have been there oftener, but it is mortifying\nto be with Rushworth as a brother. Julia seems to enjoy London\nexceedingly. I had little enjoyment there, but have less here. We are\nnot a lively party. You are very much wanted. I miss you more than I\ncan express. My mother desires her best love, and hopes to hear from\nyou soon. She talks of you almost every hour, and I am sorry to find\nhow many weeks more she is likely to be without you. My father means\nto fetch you himself, but it will not be till after Easter, when he has\nbusiness in town. You are happy at Portsmouth, I hope, but this must\nnot be a yearly visit. I want you at home, that I may have your opinion\nabout Thornton Lacey. I have little heart for extensive improvements\ntill I know that it will ever have a mistress. I think I shall certainly\nwrite. It is quite settled that the Grants go to Bath; they leave\nMansfield on Monday. I am glad of it. I am not comfortable enough to be\nfit for anybody; but your aunt seems to feel out of luck that such an\narticle of Mansfield news should fall to my pen instead of hers.--Yours\never, my dearest Fanny.\"\n\n\"I never will, no, I certainly never will wish for a letter again,\" was\nFanny's secret declaration as she finished this. \"What do they bring but\ndisappointment and sorrow? Not till after Easter! How shall I bear it?\nAnd my poor aunt talking of me every hour!\"\n\nFanny checked the tendency of these thoughts as well as she could, but\nshe was within half a minute of starting the idea that Sir Thomas was\nquite unkind, both to her aunt and to herself. As for the main subject\nof the letter, there was nothing in that to soothe irritation. She was\nalmost vexed into displeasure and anger against Edmund. \"There is no\ngood in this delay,\" said she. \"Why is not it settled? He is blinded,\nand nothing will open his eyes; nothing can, after having had truths\nbefore him so long in vain. He will marry her, and be poor and\nmiserable. God grant that her influence do not make him cease to be\nrespectable!\" She looked over the letter again. \"'So very fond of me!'\n'tis nonsense all. She loves nobody but herself and her brother. Her\nfriends leading her astray for years! She is quite as likely to have led\n_them_ astray. They have all, perhaps, been corrupting one another; but\nif they are so much fonder of her than she is of them, she is the less\nlikely to have been hurt, except by their flattery. 'The only woman in\nthe world whom he could ever think of as a wife.' I firmly believe it.\nIt is an attachment to govern his whole life. Accepted or refused, his\nheart is wedded to her for ever. 'The loss of Mary I must consider as\ncomprehending the loss of Crawford and Fanny.' Edmund, you do not know\nme. The families would never be connected if you did not connect\nthem! Oh! write, write. Finish it at once. Let there be an end of this\nsuspense. Fix, commit, condemn yourself.\"\n\nSuch sensations, however, were too near akin to resentment to be long\nguiding Fanny's soliloquies. She was soon more softened and sorrowful.\nHis warm regard, his kind expressions, his confidential treatment,\ntouched her strongly. He was only too good to everybody. It was a\nletter, in short, which she would not but have had for the world, and\nwhich could never be valued enough. This was the end of it.\n\nEverybody at all addicted to letter-writing, without having much to say,\nwhich will include a large proportion of the female world at least, must\nfeel with Lady Bertram that she was out of luck in having such a capital\npiece of Mansfield news as the certainty of the Grants going to Bath,\noccur at a time when she could make no advantage of it, and will admit\nthat it must have been very mortifying to her to see it fall to the\nshare of her thankless son, and treated as concisely as possible at the\nend of a long letter, instead of having it to spread over the largest\npart of a page of her own. For though Lady Bertram rather shone in the\nepistolary line, having early in her marriage, from the want of other\nemployment, and the circumstance of Sir Thomas's being in Parliament,\ngot into the way of making and keeping correspondents, and formed for\nherself a very creditable, common-place, amplifying style, so that a\nvery little matter was enough for her: she could not do entirely without\nany; she must have something to write about, even to her niece; and\nbeing so soon to lose all the benefit of Dr. Grant's gouty symptoms and\nMrs. Grant's morning calls, it was very hard upon her to be deprived of\none of the last epistolary uses she could put them to.\n\nThere was a rich amends, however, preparing for her. Lady Bertram's\nhour of good luck came. Within a few days from the receipt of Edmund's\nletter, Fanny had one from her aunt, beginning thus--\n\n\"My Dear Fanny,--I take up my pen to communicate some very alarming\nintelligence, which I make no doubt will give you much concern\".\n\nThis was a great deal better than to have to take up the pen to acquaint\nher with all the particulars of the Grants' intended journey, for the\npresent intelligence was of a nature to promise occupation for the pen\nfor many days to come, being no less than the dangerous illness of her\neldest son, of which they had received notice by express a few hours\nbefore.\n\nTom had gone from London with a party of young men to Newmarket, where\na neglected fall and a good deal of drinking had brought on a fever; and\nwhen the party broke up, being unable to move, had been left by himself\nat the house of one of these young men to the comforts of sickness and\nsolitude, and the attendance only of servants. Instead of being soon\nwell enough to follow his friends, as he had then hoped, his disorder\nincreased considerably, and it was not long before he thought so ill of\nhimself as to be as ready as his physician to have a letter despatched\nto Mansfield.\n\n\"This distressing intelligence, as you may suppose,\" observed\nher ladyship, after giving the substance of it, \"has agitated us\nexceedingly, and we cannot prevent ourselves from being greatly alarmed\nand apprehensive for the poor invalid, whose state Sir Thomas fears\nmay be very critical; and Edmund kindly proposes attending his brother\nimmediately, but I am happy to add that Sir Thomas will not leave me on\nthis distressing occasion, as it would be too trying for me. We shall\ngreatly miss Edmund in our small circle, but I trust and hope he\nwill find the poor invalid in a less alarming state than might be\napprehended, and that he will be able to bring him to Mansfield shortly,\nwhich Sir Thomas proposes should be done, and thinks best on every\naccount, and I flatter myself the poor sufferer will soon be able to\nbear the removal without material inconvenience or injury. As I\nhave little doubt of your feeling for us, my dear Fanny, under these\ndistressing circumstances, I will write again very soon.\"\n\nFanny's feelings on the occasion were indeed considerably more warm and\ngenuine than her aunt's style of writing. She felt truly for them all.\nTom dangerously ill, Edmund gone to attend him, and the sadly small\nparty remaining at Mansfield, were cares to shut out every other care,\nor almost every other. She could just find selfishness enough to wonder\nwhether Edmund _had_ written to Miss Crawford before this summons came,\nbut no sentiment dwelt long with her that was not purely affectionate\nand disinterestedly anxious. Her aunt did not neglect her: she wrote\nagain and again; they were receiving frequent accounts from Edmund,\nand these accounts were as regularly transmitted to Fanny, in the same\ndiffuse style, and the same medley of trusts, hopes, and fears, all\nfollowing and producing each other at haphazard. It was a sort of\nplaying at being frightened. The sufferings which Lady Bertram did not\nsee had little power over her fancy; and she wrote very comfortably\nabout agitation, and anxiety, and poor invalids, till Tom was actually\nconveyed to Mansfield, and her own eyes had beheld his altered\nappearance. Then a letter which she had been previously preparing for\nFanny was finished in a different style, in the language of real feeling\nand alarm; then she wrote as she might have spoken. \"He is just come, my\ndear Fanny, and is taken upstairs; and I am so shocked to see him, that\nI do not know what to do. I am sure he has been very ill. Poor Tom! I am\nquite grieved for him, and very much frightened, and so is Sir Thomas;\nand how glad I should be if you were here to comfort me. But Sir\nThomas hopes he will be better to-morrow, and says we must consider his\njourney.\"\n\nThe real solicitude now awakened in the maternal bosom was not\nsoon over. Tom's extreme impatience to be removed to Mansfield, and\nexperience those comforts of home and family which had been little\nthought of in uninterrupted health, had probably induced his being\nconveyed thither too early, as a return of fever came on, and for a week\nhe was in a more alarming state than ever. They were all very seriously\nfrightened. Lady Bertram wrote her daily terrors to her niece, who\nmight now be said to live upon letters, and pass all her time between\nsuffering from that of to-day and looking forward to to-morrow's.\nWithout any particular affection for her eldest cousin, her tenderness\nof heart made her feel that she could not spare him, and the purity of\nher principles added yet a keener solicitude, when she considered how\nlittle useful, how little self-denying his life had (apparently) been.\n\nSusan was her only companion and listener on this, as on more common\noccasions. Susan was always ready to hear and to sympathise. Nobody else\ncould be interested in so remote an evil as illness in a family above an\nhundred miles off; not even Mrs. Price, beyond a brief question or two,\nif she saw her daughter with a letter in her hand, and now and then the\nquiet observation of, \"My poor sister Bertram must be in a great deal of\ntrouble.\"\n\nSo long divided and so differently situated, the ties of blood were\nlittle more than nothing. An attachment, originally as tranquil as their\ntempers, was now become a mere name. Mrs. Price did quite as much for\nLady Bertram as Lady Bertram would have done for Mrs. Price. Three or\nfour Prices might have been swept away, any or all except Fanny and\nWilliam, and Lady Bertram would have thought little about it; or perhaps\nmight have caught from Mrs. Norris's lips the cant of its being a very\nhappy thing and a great blessing to their poor dear sister Price to have\nthem so well provided for.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLV\n\nAt about the week's end from his return to Mansfield, Tom's immediate\ndanger was over, and he was so far pronounced safe as to make his mother\nperfectly easy; for being now used to the sight of him in his suffering,\nhelpless state, and hearing only the best, and never thinking beyond\nwhat she heard, with no disposition for alarm and no aptitude at a hint,\nLady Bertram was the happiest subject in the world for a little medical\nimposition. The fever was subdued; the fever had been his complaint;\nof course he would soon be well again. Lady Bertram could think nothing\nless, and Fanny shared her aunt's security, till she received a few\nlines from Edmund, written purposely to give her a clearer idea of his\nbrother's situation, and acquaint her with the apprehensions which\nhe and his father had imbibed from the physician with respect to some\nstrong hectic symptoms, which seemed to seize the frame on the departure\nof the fever. They judged it best that Lady Bertram should not be\nharassed by alarms which, it was to be hoped, would prove unfounded;\nbut there was no reason why Fanny should not know the truth. They were\napprehensive for his lungs.\n\nA very few lines from Edmund shewed her the patient and the sickroom\nin a juster and stronger light than all Lady Bertram's sheets of paper\ncould do. There was hardly any one in the house who might not have\ndescribed, from personal observation, better than herself; not one who\nwas not more useful at times to her son. She could do nothing but glide\nin quietly and look at him; but when able to talk or be talked to, or\nread to, Edmund was the companion he preferred. His aunt worried him by\nher cares, and Sir Thomas knew not how to bring down his conversation or\nhis voice to the level of irritation and feebleness. Edmund was all in\nall. Fanny would certainly believe him so at least, and must find that\nher estimation of him was higher than ever when he appeared as the\nattendant, supporter, cheerer of a suffering brother. There was not only\nthe debility of recent illness to assist: there was also, as she now\nlearnt, nerves much affected, spirits much depressed to calm and raise,\nand her own imagination added that there must be a mind to be properly\nguided.\n\nThe family were not consumptive, and she was more inclined to hope than\nfear for her cousin, except when she thought of Miss Crawford; but Miss\nCrawford gave her the idea of being the child of good luck, and to her\nselfishness and vanity it would be good luck to have Edmund the only\nson.\n\nEven in the sick chamber the fortunate Mary was not forgotten. Edmund's\nletter had this postscript. \"On the subject of my last, I had actually\nbegun a letter when called away by Tom's illness, but I have now changed\nmy mind, and fear to trust the influence of friends. When Tom is better,\nI shall go.\"\n\nSuch was the state of Mansfield, and so it continued, with scarcely any\nchange, till Easter. A line occasionally added by Edmund to his\nmother's letter was enough for Fanny's information. Tom's amendment was\nalarmingly slow.\n\nEaster came particularly late this year, as Fanny had most sorrowfully\nconsidered, on first learning that she had no chance of leaving\nPortsmouth till after it. It came, and she had yet heard nothing of her\nreturn--nothing even of the going to London, which was to precede\nher return. Her aunt often expressed a wish for her, but there was no\nnotice, no message from the uncle on whom all depended. She supposed\nhe could not yet leave his son, but it was a cruel, a terrible delay\nto her. The end of April was coming on; it would soon be almost three\nmonths, instead of two, that she had been absent from them all, and that\nher days had been passing in a state of penance, which she loved them\ntoo well to hope they would thoroughly understand; and who could yet say\nwhen there might be leisure to think of or fetch her?\n\nHer eagerness, her impatience, her longings to be with them, were such\nas to bring a line or two of Cowper's Tirocinium for ever before her.\n\"With what intense desire she wants her home,\" was continually on her\ntongue, as the truest description of a yearning which she could not\nsuppose any schoolboy's bosom to feel more keenly.\n\nWhen she had been coming to Portsmouth, she had loved to call it her\nhome, had been fond of saying that she was going home; the word had\nbeen very dear to her, and so it still was, but it must be applied to\nMansfield. _That_ was now the home. Portsmouth was Portsmouth; Mansfield\nwas home. They had been long so arranged in the indulgence of her secret\nmeditations, and nothing was more consolatory to her than to find her\naunt using the same language: \"I cannot but say I much regret your being\nfrom home at this distressing time, so very trying to my spirits. I\ntrust and hope, and sincerely wish you may never be absent from home so\nlong again,\" were most delightful sentences to her. Still, however, it\nwas her private regale. Delicacy to her parents made her careful not to\nbetray such a preference of her uncle's house. It was always: \"When I go\nback into Northamptonshire, or when I return to Mansfield, I shall do\nso and so.\" For a great while it was so, but at last the longing grew\nstronger, it overthrew caution, and she found herself talking of what\nshe should do when she went home before she was aware. She reproached\nherself, coloured, and looked fearfully towards her father and mother.\nShe need not have been uneasy. There was no sign of displeasure, or even\nof hearing her. They were perfectly free from any jealousy of Mansfield.\nShe was as welcome to wish herself there as to be there.\n\nIt was sad to Fanny to lose all the pleasures of spring. She had not\nknown before what pleasures she _had_ to lose in passing March and April\nin a town. She had not known before how much the beginnings and progress\nof vegetation had delighted her. What animation, both of body and mind,\nshe had derived from watching the advance of that season which cannot,\nin spite of its capriciousness, be unlovely, and seeing its increasing\nbeauties from the earliest flowers in the warmest divisions of her\naunt's garden, to the opening of leaves of her uncle's plantations, and\nthe glory of his woods. To be losing such pleasures was no trifle; to\nbe losing them, because she was in the midst of closeness and noise,\nto have confinement, bad air, bad smells, substituted for liberty,\nfreshness, fragrance, and verdure, was infinitely worse: but even these\nincitements to regret were feeble, compared with what arose from the\nconviction of being missed by her best friends, and the longing to be\nuseful to those who were wanting her!\n\nCould she have been at home, she might have been of service to every\ncreature in the house. She felt that she must have been of use to all.\nTo all she must have saved some trouble of head or hand; and were it\nonly in supporting the spirits of her aunt Bertram, keeping her from\nthe evil of solitude, or the still greater evil of a restless, officious\ncompanion, too apt to be heightening danger in order to enhance her own\nimportance, her being there would have been a general good. She loved to\nfancy how she could have read to her aunt, how she could have talked to\nher, and tried at once to make her feel the blessing of what was, and\nprepare her mind for what might be; and how many walks up and down\nstairs she might have saved her, and how many messages she might have\ncarried.\n\nIt astonished her that Tom's sisters could be satisfied with remaining\nin London at such a time, through an illness which had now, under\ndifferent degrees of danger, lasted several weeks. _They_ might return\nto Mansfield when they chose; travelling could be no difficulty to\n_them_, and she could not comprehend how both could still keep away.\nIf Mrs. Rushworth could imagine any interfering obligations, Julia was\ncertainly able to quit London whenever she chose. It appeared from one\nof her aunt's letters that Julia had offered to return if wanted, but\nthis was all. It was evident that she would rather remain where she was.\n\nFanny was disposed to think the influence of London very much at war\nwith all respectable attachments. She saw the proof of it in Miss\nCrawford, as well as in her cousins; _her_ attachment to Edmund had been\nrespectable, the most respectable part of her character; her friendship\nfor herself had at least been blameless. Where was either sentiment now?\nIt was so long since Fanny had had any letter from her, that she had\nsome reason to think lightly of the friendship which had been so dwelt\non. It was weeks since she had heard anything of Miss Crawford or of\nher other connexions in town, except through Mansfield, and she was\nbeginning to suppose that she might never know whether Mr. Crawford had\ngone into Norfolk again or not till they met, and might never hear from\nhis sister any more this spring, when the following letter was received\nto revive old and create some new sensations--\n\n\"Forgive me, my dear Fanny, as soon as you can, for my long silence, and\nbehave as if you could forgive me directly. This is my modest request\nand expectation, for you are so good, that I depend upon being treated\nbetter than I deserve, and I write now to beg an immediate answer. I\nwant to know the state of things at Mansfield Park, and you, no doubt,\nare perfectly able to give it. One should be a brute not to feel for the\ndistress they are in; and from what I hear, poor Mr. Bertram has a bad\nchance of ultimate recovery. I thought little of his illness at first.\nI looked upon him as the sort of person to be made a fuss with, and to\nmake a fuss himself in any trifling disorder, and was chiefly concerned\nfor those who had to nurse him; but now it is confidently asserted that\nhe is really in a decline, that the symptoms are most alarming, and that\npart of the family, at least, are aware of it. If it be so, I am sure\nyou must be included in that part, that discerning part, and therefore\nentreat you to let me know how far I have been rightly informed. I need\nnot say how rejoiced I shall be to hear there has been any mistake, but\nthe report is so prevalent that I confess I cannot help trembling. To\nhave such a fine young man cut off in the flower of his days is most\nmelancholy. Poor Sir Thomas will feel it dreadfully. I really am quite\nagitated on the subject. Fanny, Fanny, I see you smile and look cunning,\nbut, upon my honour, I never bribed a physician in my life. Poor young\nman! If he is to die, there will be _two_ poor young men less in the\nworld; and with a fearless face and bold voice would I say to any one,\nthat wealth and consequence could fall into no hands more deserving of\nthem. It was a foolish precipitation last Christmas, but the evil of\na few days may be blotted out in part. Varnish and gilding hide many\nstains. It will be but the loss of the Esquire after his name. With real\naffection, Fanny, like mine, more might be overlooked. Write to me by\nreturn of post, judge of my anxiety, and do not trifle with it. Tell me\nthe real truth, as you have it from the fountainhead. And now, do\nnot trouble yourself to be ashamed of either my feelings or your own.\nBelieve me, they are not only natural, they are philanthropic and\nvirtuous. I put it to your conscience, whether 'Sir Edmund' would not do\nmore good with all the Bertram property than any other possible 'Sir.'\nHad the Grants been at home I would not have troubled you, but you are\nnow the only one I can apply to for the truth, his sisters not being\nwithin my reach. Mrs. R. has been spending the Easter with the Aylmers\nat Twickenham (as to be sure you know), and is not yet returned; and\nJulia is with the cousins who live near Bedford Square, but I forget\ntheir name and street. Could I immediately apply to either, however, I\nshould still prefer you, because it strikes me that they have all along\nbeen so unwilling to have their own amusements cut up, as to shut their\neyes to the truth. I suppose Mrs. R.'s Easter holidays will not last\nmuch longer; no doubt they are thorough holidays to her. The Aylmers\nare pleasant people; and her husband away, she can have nothing but\nenjoyment. I give her credit for promoting his going dutifully down to\nBath, to fetch his mother; but how will she and the dowager agree in one\nhouse? Henry is not at hand, so I have nothing to say from him. Do not\nyou think Edmund would have been in town again long ago, but for this\nillness?--Yours ever, Mary.\"\n\n\"I had actually begun folding my letter when Henry walked in, but he\nbrings no intelligence to prevent my sending it. Mrs. R. knows a decline\nis apprehended; he saw her this morning: she returns to Wimpole Street\nto-day; the old lady is come. Now do not make yourself uneasy with any\nqueer fancies because he has been spending a few days at Richmond. He\ndoes it every spring. Be assured he cares for nobody but you. At this\nvery moment he is wild to see you, and occupied only in contriving the\nmeans for doing so, and for making his pleasure conduce to yours. In\nproof, he repeats, and more eagerly, what he said at Portsmouth about\nour conveying you home, and I join him in it with all my soul. Dear\nFanny, write directly, and tell us to come. It will do us all good.\nHe and I can go to the Parsonage, you know, and be no trouble to our\nfriends at Mansfield Park. It would really be gratifying to see them\nall again, and a little addition of society might be of infinite use to\nthem; and as to yourself, you must feel yourself to be so wanted there,\nthat you cannot in conscience--conscientious as you are--keep away, when\nyou have the means of returning. I have not time or patience to give\nhalf Henry's messages; be satisfied that the spirit of each and every\none is unalterable affection.\"\n\nFanny's disgust at the greater part of this letter, with her extreme\nreluctance to bring the writer of it and her cousin Edmund together,\nwould have made her (as she felt) incapable of judging impartially\nwhether the concluding offer might be accepted or not. To herself,\nindividually, it was most tempting. To be finding herself, perhaps\nwithin three days, transported to Mansfield, was an image of the\ngreatest felicity, but it would have been a material drawback to be\nowing such felicity to persons in whose feelings and conduct, at the\npresent moment, she saw so much to condemn: the sister's feelings,\nthe brother's conduct, _her_ cold-hearted ambition, _his_ thoughtless\nvanity. To have him still the acquaintance, the flirt perhaps, of Mrs.\nRushworth! She was mortified. She had thought better of him. Happily,\nhowever, she was not left to weigh and decide between opposite\ninclinations and doubtful notions of right; there was no occasion to\ndetermine whether she ought to keep Edmund and Mary asunder or not. She\nhad a rule to apply to, which settled everything. Her awe of her uncle,\nand her dread of taking a liberty with him, made it instantly plain to\nher what she had to do. She must absolutely decline the proposal. If he\nwanted, he would send for her; and even to offer an early return was\na presumption which hardly anything would have seemed to justify. She\nthanked Miss Crawford, but gave a decided negative. \"Her uncle,\nshe understood, meant to fetch her; and as her cousin's illness had\ncontinued so many weeks without her being thought at all necessary,\nshe must suppose her return would be unwelcome at present, and that she\nshould be felt an encumbrance.\"\n\nHer representation of her cousin's state at this time was exactly\naccording to her own belief of it, and such as she supposed would convey\nto the sanguine mind of her correspondent the hope of everything she was\nwishing for. Edmund would be forgiven for being a clergyman, it seemed,\nunder certain conditions of wealth; and this, she suspected, was all\nthe conquest of prejudice which he was so ready to congratulate himself\nupon. She had only learnt to think nothing of consequence but money.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVI\n\nAs Fanny could not doubt that her answer was conveying a real\ndisappointment, she was rather in expectation, from her knowledge of\nMiss Crawford's temper, of being urged again; and though no second\nletter arrived for the space of a week, she had still the same feeling\nwhen it did come.\n\nOn receiving it, she could instantly decide on its containing little\nwriting, and was persuaded of its having the air of a letter of haste\nand business. Its object was unquestionable; and two moments were enough\nto start the probability of its being merely to give her notice that\nthey should be in Portsmouth that very day, and to throw her into all\nthe agitation of doubting what she ought to do in such a case. If two\nmoments, however, can surround with difficulties, a third can disperse\nthem; and before she had opened the letter, the possibility of Mr. and\nMiss Crawford's having applied to her uncle and obtained his permission\nwas giving her ease. This was the letter--\n\n\"A most scandalous, ill-natured rumour has just reached me, and I write,\ndear Fanny, to warn you against giving the least credit to it, should it\nspread into the country. Depend upon it, there is some mistake, and that\na day or two will clear it up; at any rate, that Henry is blameless, and\nin spite of a moment's _etourderie_, thinks of nobody but you. Say not a\nword of it; hear nothing, surmise nothing, whisper nothing till I\nwrite again. I am sure it will be all hushed up, and nothing proved but\nRushworth's folly. If they are gone, I would lay my life they are only\ngone to Mansfield Park, and Julia with them. But why would not you let\nus come for you? I wish you may not repent it.--Yours, etc.\"\n\nFanny stood aghast. As no scandalous, ill-natured rumour had reached\nher, it was impossible for her to understand much of this strange\nletter. She could only perceive that it must relate to Wimpole Street\nand Mr. Crawford, and only conjecture that something very imprudent had\njust occurred in that quarter to draw the notice of the world, and to\nexcite her jealousy, in Miss Crawford's apprehension, if she heard it.\nMiss Crawford need not be alarmed for her. She was only sorry for the\nparties concerned and for Mansfield, if the report should spread so far;\nbut she hoped it might not. If the Rushworths were gone themselves to\nMansfield, as was to be inferred from what Miss Crawford said, it was\nnot likely that anything unpleasant should have preceded them, or at\nleast should make any impression.\n\nAs to Mr. Crawford, she hoped it might give him a knowledge of his own\ndisposition, convince him that he was not capable of being steadily\nattached to any one woman in the world, and shame him from persisting\nany longer in addressing herself.\n\nIt was very strange! She had begun to think he really loved her, and to\nfancy his affection for her something more than common; and his sister\nstill said that he cared for nobody else. Yet there must have been some\nmarked display of attentions to her cousin, there must have been some\nstrong indiscretion, since her correspondent was not of a sort to regard\na slight one.\n\nVery uncomfortable she was, and must continue, till she heard from\nMiss Crawford again. It was impossible to banish the letter from her\nthoughts, and she could not relieve herself by speaking of it to any\nhuman being. Miss Crawford need not have urged secrecy with so much\nwarmth; she might have trusted to her sense of what was due to her\ncousin.\n\nThe next day came and brought no second letter. Fanny was disappointed.\nShe could still think of little else all the morning; but, when her\nfather came back in the afternoon with the daily newspaper as usual, she\nwas so far from expecting any elucidation through such a channel that\nthe subject was for a moment out of her head.\n\nShe was deep in other musing. The remembrance of her first evening in\nthat room, of her father and his newspaper, came across her. No candle\nwas now wanted. The sun was yet an hour and half above the horizon. She\nfelt that she had, indeed, been three months there; and the sun's rays\nfalling strongly into the parlour, instead of cheering, made her still\nmore melancholy, for sunshine appeared to her a totally different\nthing in a town and in the country. Here, its power was only a glare:\na stifling, sickly glare, serving but to bring forward stains and dirt\nthat might otherwise have slept. There was neither health nor gaiety in\nsunshine in a town. She sat in a blaze of oppressive heat, in a cloud\nof moving dust, and her eyes could only wander from the walls, marked by\nher father's head, to the table cut and notched by her brothers, where\nstood the tea-board never thoroughly cleaned, the cups and saucers wiped\nin streaks, the milk a mixture of motes floating in thin blue, and the\nbread and butter growing every minute more greasy than even Rebecca's\nhands had first produced it. Her father read his newspaper, and her\nmother lamented over the ragged carpet as usual, while the tea was\nin preparation, and wished Rebecca would mend it; and Fanny was first\nroused by his calling out to her, after humphing and considering over\na particular paragraph: \"What's the name of your great cousins in town,\nFan?\"\n\nA moment's recollection enabled her to say, \"Rushworth, sir.\"\n\n\"And don't they live in Wimpole Street?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"Then, there's the devil to pay among them, that's all! There\" (holding\nout the paper to her); \"much good may such fine relations do you. I\ndon't know what Sir Thomas may think of such matters; he may be too much\nof the courtier and fine gentleman to like his daughter the less. But,\nby G--! if she belonged to _me_, I'd give her the rope's end as long as\nI could stand over her. A little flogging for man and woman too would be\nthe best way of preventing such things.\"\n\nFanny read to herself that \"it was with infinite concern the newspaper\nhad to announce to the world a matrimonial _fracas_ in the family of\nMr. R. of Wimpole Street; the beautiful Mrs. R., whose name had not long\nbeen enrolled in the lists of Hymen, and who had promised to become\nso brilliant a leader in the fashionable world, having quitted her\nhusband's roof in company with the well-known and captivating Mr. C.,\nthe intimate friend and associate of Mr. R., and it was not known even\nto the editor of the newspaper whither they were gone.\"\n\n\"It is a mistake, sir,\" said Fanny instantly; \"it must be a mistake, it\ncannot be true; it must mean some other people.\"\n\nShe spoke from the instinctive wish of delaying shame; she spoke with\na resolution which sprung from despair, for she spoke what she did not,\ncould not believe herself. It had been the shock of conviction as she\nread. The truth rushed on her; and how she could have spoken at all,\nhow she could even have breathed, was afterwards matter of wonder to\nherself.\n\nMr. Price cared too little about the report to make her much answer.\n\"It might be all a lie,\" he acknowledged; \"but so many fine ladies were\ngoing to the devil nowadays that way, that there was no answering for\nanybody.\"\n\n\"Indeed, I hope it is not true,\" said Mrs. Price plaintively; \"it would\nbe so very shocking! If I have spoken once to Rebecca about that carpet,\nI am sure I have spoke at least a dozen times; have not I, Betsey? And\nit would not be ten minutes' work.\"\n\nThe horror of a mind like Fanny's, as it received the conviction of such\nguilt, and began to take in some part of the misery that must ensue, can\nhardly be described. At first, it was a sort of stupefaction; but every\nmoment was quickening her perception of the horrible evil. She could not\ndoubt, she dared not indulge a hope, of the paragraph being false. Miss\nCrawford's letter, which she had read so often as to make every line\nher own, was in frightful conformity with it. Her eager defence of her\nbrother, her hope of its being _hushed_ _up_, her evident agitation,\nwere all of a piece with something very bad; and if there was a woman\nof character in existence, who could treat as a trifle this sin of the\nfirst magnitude, who would try to gloss it over, and desire to have it\nunpunished, she could believe Miss Crawford to be the woman! Now she\ncould see her own mistake as to _who_ were gone, or _said_ to be\ngone. It was not Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth; it was Mrs. Rushworth and Mr.\nCrawford.\n\nFanny seemed to herself never to have been shocked before. There was no\npossibility of rest. The evening passed without a pause of misery, the\nnight was totally sleepless. She passed only from feelings of sickness\nto shudderings of horror; and from hot fits of fever to cold. The event\nwas so shocking, that there were moments even when her heart revolted\nfrom it as impossible: when she thought it could not be. A woman married\nonly six months ago; a man professing himself devoted, even _engaged_ to\nanother; that other her near relation; the whole family, both families\nconnected as they were by tie upon tie; all friends, all intimate\ntogether! It was too horrible a confusion of guilt, too gross a\ncomplication of evil, for human nature, not in a state of utter\nbarbarism, to be capable of! yet her judgment told her it was so.\n_His_ unsettled affections, wavering with his vanity, _Maria's_\ndecided attachment, and no sufficient principle on either side, gave it\npossibility: Miss Crawford's letter stampt it a fact.\n\nWhat would be the consequence? Whom would it not injure? Whose views\nmight it not affect? Whose peace would it not cut up for ever? Miss\nCrawford, herself, Edmund; but it was dangerous, perhaps, to tread\nsuch ground. She confined herself, or tried to confine herself, to the\nsimple, indubitable family misery which must envelop all, if it were\nindeed a matter of certified guilt and public exposure. The mother's\nsufferings, the father's; there she paused. Julia's, Tom's, Edmund's;\nthere a yet longer pause. They were the two on whom it would fall most\nhorribly. Sir Thomas's parental solicitude and high sense of honour and\ndecorum, Edmund's upright principles, unsuspicious temper, and genuine\nstrength of feeling, made her think it scarcely possible for them to\nsupport life and reason under such disgrace; and it appeared to her\nthat, as far as this world alone was concerned, the greatest blessing to\nevery one of kindred with Mrs. Rushworth would be instant annihilation.\n\nNothing happened the next day, or the next, to weaken her terrors. Two\nposts came in, and brought no refutation, public or private. There was\nno second letter to explain away the first from Miss Crawford; there was\nno intelligence from Mansfield, though it was now full time for her\nto hear again from her aunt. This was an evil omen. She had, indeed,\nscarcely the shadow of a hope to soothe her mind, and was reduced to so\nlow and wan and trembling a condition, as no mother, not unkind, except\nMrs. Price could have overlooked, when the third day did bring the\nsickening knock, and a letter was again put into her hands. It bore the\nLondon postmark, and came from Edmund.\n\n\"Dear Fanny,--You know our present wretchedness. May God support you\nunder your share! We have been here two days, but there is nothing to\nbe done. They cannot be traced. You may not have heard of the last\nblow--Julia's elopement; she is gone to Scotland with Yates. She left\nLondon a few hours before we entered it. At any other time this would\nhave been felt dreadfully. Now it seems nothing; yet it is an heavy\naggravation. My father is not overpowered. More cannot be hoped. He is\nstill able to think and act; and I write, by his desire, to propose your\nreturning home. He is anxious to get you there for my mother's sake. I\nshall be at Portsmouth the morning after you receive this, and hope to\nfind you ready to set off for Mansfield. My father wishes you to invite\nSusan to go with you for a few months. Settle it as you like; say what\nis proper; I am sure you will feel such an instance of his kindness at\nsuch a moment! Do justice to his meaning, however I may confuse it. You\nmay imagine something of my present state. There is no end of the evil\nlet loose upon us. You will see me early by the mail.--Yours, etc.\"\n\nNever had Fanny more wanted a cordial. Never had she felt such a one\nas this letter contained. To-morrow! to leave Portsmouth to-morrow!\nShe was, she felt she was, in the greatest danger of being exquisitely\nhappy, while so many were miserable. The evil which brought such good\nto her! She dreaded lest she should learn to be insensible of it. To be\ngoing so soon, sent for so kindly, sent for as a comfort, and with leave\nto take Susan, was altogether such a combination of blessings as set her\nheart in a glow, and for a time seemed to distance every pain, and\nmake her incapable of suitably sharing the distress even of those\nwhose distress she thought of most. Julia's elopement could affect her\ncomparatively but little; she was amazed and shocked; but it could not\noccupy her, could not dwell on her mind. She was obliged to call herself\nto think of it, and acknowledge it to be terrible and grievous, or it\nwas escaping her, in the midst of all the agitating pressing joyful\ncares attending this summons to herself.\n\nThere is nothing like employment, active indispensable employment, for\nrelieving sorrow. Employment, even melancholy, may dispel melancholy,\nand her occupations were hopeful. She had so much to do, that not even\nthe horrible story of Mrs. Rushworth--now fixed to the last point of\ncertainty could affect her as it had done before. She had not time to\nbe miserable. Within twenty-four hours she was hoping to be gone; her\nfather and mother must be spoken to, Susan prepared, everything got\nready. Business followed business; the day was hardly long enough. The\nhappiness she was imparting, too, happiness very little alloyed by the\nblack communication which must briefly precede it--the joyful consent\nof her father and mother to Susan's going with her--the general\nsatisfaction with which the going of both seemed regarded, and the\necstasy of Susan herself, was all serving to support her spirits.\n\nThe affliction of the Bertrams was little felt in the family. Mrs. Price\ntalked of her poor sister for a few minutes, but how to find anything to\nhold Susan's clothes, because Rebecca took away all the boxes and spoilt\nthem, was much more in her thoughts: and as for Susan, now unexpectedly\ngratified in the first wish of her heart, and knowing nothing personally\nof those who had sinned, or of those who were sorrowing--if she could\nhelp rejoicing from beginning to end, it was as much as ought to be\nexpected from human virtue at fourteen.\n\nAs nothing was really left for the decision of Mrs. Price, or the good\noffices of Rebecca, everything was rationally and duly accomplished,\nand the girls were ready for the morrow. The advantage of much sleep\nto prepare them for their journey was impossible. The cousin who was\ntravelling towards them could hardly have less than visited their\nagitated spirits--one all happiness, the other all varying and\nindescribable perturbation.\n\nBy eight in the morning Edmund was in the house. The girls heard his\nentrance from above, and Fanny went down. The idea of immediately seeing\nhim, with the knowledge of what he must be suffering, brought back all\nher own first feelings. He so near her, and in misery. She was ready to\nsink as she entered the parlour. He was alone, and met her instantly;\nand she found herself pressed to his heart with only these words, just\narticulate, \"My Fanny, my only sister; my only comfort now!\" She could\nsay nothing; nor for some minutes could he say more.\n\nHe turned away to recover himself, and when he spoke again, though his\nvoice still faltered, his manner shewed the wish of self-command, and\nthe resolution of avoiding any farther allusion. \"Have you breakfasted?\nWhen shall you be ready? Does Susan go?\" were questions following each\nother rapidly. His great object was to be off as soon as possible. When\nMansfield was considered, time was precious; and the state of his own\nmind made him find relief only in motion. It was settled that he should\norder the carriage to the door in half an hour. Fanny answered for their\nhaving breakfasted and being quite ready in half an hour. He had already\nate, and declined staying for their meal. He would walk round the\nramparts, and join them with the carriage. He was gone again; glad to\nget away even from Fanny.\n\nHe looked very ill; evidently suffering under violent emotions, which he\nwas determined to suppress. She knew it must be so, but it was terrible\nto her.\n\nThe carriage came; and he entered the house again at the same\nmoment, just in time to spend a few minutes with the family, and be a\nwitness--but that he saw nothing--of the tranquil manner in which the\ndaughters were parted with, and just in time to prevent their sitting\ndown to the breakfast-table, which, by dint of much unusual activity,\nwas quite and completely ready as the carriage drove from the door.\nFanny's last meal in her father's house was in character with her first:\nshe was dismissed from it as hospitably as she had been welcomed.\n\nHow her heart swelled with joy and gratitude as she passed the barriers\nof Portsmouth, and how Susan's face wore its broadest smiles, may be\neasily conceived. Sitting forwards, however, and screened by her bonnet,\nthose smiles were unseen.\n\nThe journey was likely to be a silent one. Edmund's deep sighs often\nreached Fanny. Had he been alone with her, his heart must have opened\nin spite of every resolution; but Susan's presence drove him quite into\nhimself, and his attempts to talk on indifferent subjects could never be\nlong supported.\n\nFanny watched him with never-failing solicitude, and sometimes catching\nhis eye, revived an affectionate smile, which comforted her; but the\nfirst day's journey passed without her hearing a word from him on the\nsubjects that were weighing him down. The next morning produced a\nlittle more. Just before their setting out from Oxford, while Susan was\nstationed at a window, in eager observation of the departure of a\nlarge family from the inn, the other two were standing by the fire; and\nEdmund, particularly struck by the alteration in Fanny's looks, and from\nhis ignorance of the daily evils of her father's house, attributing an\nundue share of the change, attributing _all_ to the recent event, took\nher hand, and said in a low, but very expressive tone, \"No wonder--you\nmust feel it--you must suffer. How a man who had once loved, could\ndesert you! But _yours_--your regard was new compared with----Fanny,\nthink of _me_!\"\n\nThe first division of their journey occupied a long day, and brought\nthem, almost knocked up, to Oxford; but the second was over at a much\nearlier hour. They were in the environs of Mansfield long before the\nusual dinner-time, and as they approached the beloved place, the hearts\nof both sisters sank a little. Fanny began to dread the meeting with her\naunts and Tom, under so dreadful a humiliation; and Susan to feel\nwith some anxiety, that all her best manners, all her lately acquired\nknowledge of what was practised here, was on the point of being called\ninto action. Visions of good and ill breeding, of old vulgarisms and new\ngentilities, were before her; and she was meditating much upon silver\nforks, napkins, and finger-glasses. Fanny had been everywhere awake to\nthe difference of the country since February; but when they entered the\nPark her perceptions and her pleasures were of the keenest sort. It was\nthree months, full three months, since her quitting it, and the\nchange was from winter to summer. Her eye fell everywhere on lawns\nand plantations of the freshest green; and the trees, though not fully\nclothed, were in that delightful state when farther beauty is known to\nbe at hand, and when, while much is actually given to the sight, more\nyet remains for the imagination. Her enjoyment, however, was for herself\nalone. Edmund could not share it. She looked at him, but he was leaning\nback, sunk in a deeper gloom than ever, and with eyes closed, as if the\nview of cheerfulness oppressed him, and the lovely scenes of home must\nbe shut out.\n\nIt made her melancholy again; and the knowledge of what must be enduring\nthere, invested even the house, modern, airy, and well situated as it\nwas, with a melancholy aspect.\n\nBy one of the suffering party within they were expected with such\nimpatience as she had never known before. Fanny had scarcely passed the\nsolemn-looking servants, when Lady Bertram came from the drawing-room\nto meet her; came with no indolent step; and falling on her neck, said,\n\"Dear Fanny! now I shall be comfortable.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVII\n\nIt had been a miserable party, each of the three believing themselves\nmost miserable. Mrs. Norris, however, as most attached to Maria, was\nreally the greatest sufferer. Maria was her first favourite, the dearest\nof all; the match had been her own contriving, as she had been wont with\nsuch pride of heart to feel and say, and this conclusion of it almost\noverpowered her.\n\nShe was an altered creature, quieted, stupefied, indifferent to\neverything that passed. The being left with her sister and nephew, and\nall the house under her care, had been an advantage entirely thrown\naway; she had been unable to direct or dictate, or even fancy herself\nuseful. When really touched by affliction, her active powers had been\nall benumbed; and neither Lady Bertram nor Tom had received from her the\nsmallest support or attempt at support. She had done no more for them\nthan they had done for each other. They had been all solitary, helpless,\nand forlorn alike; and now the arrival of the others only established\nher superiority in wretchedness. Her companions were relieved, but there\nwas no good for _her_. Edmund was almost as welcome to his brother\nas Fanny to her aunt; but Mrs. Norris, instead of having comfort from\neither, was but the more irritated by the sight of the person whom, in\nthe blindness of her anger, she could have charged as the daemon of the\npiece. Had Fanny accepted Mr. Crawford this could not have happened.\n\nSusan too was a grievance. She had not spirits to notice her in more\nthan a few repulsive looks, but she felt her as a spy, and an intruder,\nand an indigent niece, and everything most odious. By her other aunt,\nSusan was received with quiet kindness. Lady Bertram could not give her\nmuch time, or many words, but she felt her, as Fanny's sister, to have\na claim at Mansfield, and was ready to kiss and like her; and Susan\nwas more than satisfied, for she came perfectly aware that nothing but\nill-humour was to be expected from aunt Norris; and was so provided\nwith happiness, so strong in that best of blessings, an escape from\nmany certain evils, that she could have stood against a great deal more\nindifference than she met with from the others.\n\nShe was now left a good deal to herself, to get acquainted with the\nhouse and grounds as she could, and spent her days very happily in so\ndoing, while those who might otherwise have attended to her were shut\nup, or wholly occupied each with the person quite dependent on them, at\nthis time, for everything like comfort; Edmund trying to bury his own\nfeelings in exertions for the relief of his brother's, and Fanny devoted\nto her aunt Bertram, returning to every former office with more than\nformer zeal, and thinking she could never do enough for one who seemed\nso much to want her.\n\nTo talk over the dreadful business with Fanny, talk and lament, was all\nLady Bertram's consolation. To be listened to and borne with, and hear\nthe voice of kindness and sympathy in return, was everything that could\nbe done for her. To be otherwise comforted was out of the question. The\ncase admitted of no comfort. Lady Bertram did not think deeply, but,\nguided by Sir Thomas, she thought justly on all important points; and\nshe saw, therefore, in all its enormity, what had happened, and neither\nendeavoured herself, nor required Fanny to advise her, to think little\nof guilt and infamy.\n\nHer affections were not acute, nor was her mind tenacious. After a time,\nFanny found it not impossible to direct her thoughts to other subjects,\nand revive some interest in the usual occupations; but whenever Lady\nBertram _was_ fixed on the event, she could see it only in one light, as\ncomprehending the loss of a daughter, and a disgrace never to be wiped\noff.\n\nFanny learnt from her all the particulars which had yet transpired. Her\naunt was no very methodical narrator, but with the help of some letters\nto and from Sir Thomas, and what she already knew herself, and could\nreasonably combine, she was soon able to understand quite as much as she\nwished of the circumstances attending the story.\n\nMrs. Rushworth had gone, for the Easter holidays, to Twickenham, with\na family whom she had just grown intimate with: a family of lively,\nagreeable manners, and probably of morals and discretion to suit, for to\n_their_ house Mr. Crawford had constant access at all times. His having\nbeen in the same neighbourhood Fanny already knew. Mr. Rushworth had\nbeen gone at this time to Bath, to pass a few days with his mother, and\nbring her back to town, and Maria was with these friends without any\nrestraint, without even Julia; for Julia had removed from Wimpole Street\ntwo or three weeks before, on a visit to some relations of Sir Thomas;\na removal which her father and mother were now disposed to attribute\nto some view of convenience on Mr. Yates's account. Very soon after the\nRushworths' return to Wimpole Street, Sir Thomas had received a letter\nfrom an old and most particular friend in London, who hearing and\nwitnessing a good deal to alarm him in that quarter, wrote to recommend\nSir Thomas's coming to London himself, and using his influence with his\ndaughter to put an end to the intimacy which was already exposing her to\nunpleasant remarks, and evidently making Mr. Rushworth uneasy.\n\nSir Thomas was preparing to act upon this letter, without communicating\nits contents to any creature at Mansfield, when it was followed by\nanother, sent express from the same friend, to break to him the almost\ndesperate situation in which affairs then stood with the young people.\nMrs. Rushworth had left her husband's house: Mr. Rushworth had been\nin great anger and distress to _him_ (Mr. Harding) for his advice; Mr.\nHarding feared there had been _at_ _least_ very flagrant indiscretion.\nThe maidservant of Mrs. Rushworth, senior, threatened alarmingly. He\nwas doing all in his power to quiet everything, with the hope of Mrs.\nRushworth's return, but was so much counteracted in Wimpole Street by\nthe influence of Mr. Rushworth's mother, that the worst consequences\nmight be apprehended.\n\nThis dreadful communication could not be kept from the rest of the\nfamily. Sir Thomas set off, Edmund would go with him, and the others had\nbeen left in a state of wretchedness, inferior only to what followed\nthe receipt of the next letters from London. Everything was by that time\npublic beyond a hope. The servant of Mrs. Rushworth, the mother, had\nexposure in her power, and supported by her mistress, was not to be\nsilenced. The two ladies, even in the short time they had been\ntogether, had disagreed; and the bitterness of the elder against her\ndaughter-in-law might perhaps arise almost as much from the personal\ndisrespect with which she had herself been treated as from sensibility\nfor her son.\n\nHowever that might be, she was unmanageable. But had she been less\nobstinate, or of less weight with her son, who was always guided by the\nlast speaker, by the person who could get hold of and shut him up, the\ncase would still have been hopeless, for Mrs. Rushworth did not appear\nagain, and there was every reason to conclude her to be concealed\nsomewhere with Mr. Crawford, who had quitted his uncle's house, as for a\njourney, on the very day of her absenting herself.\n\nSir Thomas, however, remained yet a little longer in town, in the hope\nof discovering and snatching her from farther vice, though all was lost\non the side of character.\n\n_His_ present state Fanny could hardly bear to think of. There was but\none of his children who was not at this time a source of misery to\nhim. Tom's complaints had been greatly heightened by the shock of his\nsister's conduct, and his recovery so much thrown back by it, that even\nLady Bertram had been struck by the difference, and all her alarms were\nregularly sent off to her husband; and Julia's elopement, the additional\nblow which had met him on his arrival in London, though its force had\nbeen deadened at the moment, must, she knew, be sorely felt. She saw\nthat it was. His letters expressed how much he deplored it. Under any\ncircumstances it would have been an unwelcome alliance; but to have it\nso clandestinely formed, and such a period chosen for its completion,\nplaced Julia's feelings in a most unfavourable light, and severely\naggravated the folly of her choice. He called it a bad thing, done in\nthe worst manner, and at the worst time; and though Julia was yet as\nmore pardonable than Maria as folly than vice, he could not but\nregard the step she had taken as opening the worst probabilities of a\nconclusion hereafter like her sister's. Such was his opinion of the set\ninto which she had thrown herself.\n\nFanny felt for him most acutely. He could have no comfort but in Edmund.\nEvery other child must be racking his heart. His displeasure against\nherself she trusted, reasoning differently from Mrs. Norris, would now\nbe done away. _She_ should be justified. Mr. Crawford would have fully\nacquitted her conduct in refusing him; but this, though most material\nto herself, would be poor consolation to Sir Thomas. Her uncle's\ndispleasure was terrible to her; but what could her justification or her\ngratitude and attachment do for him? His stay must be on Edmund alone.\n\nShe was mistaken, however, in supposing that Edmund gave his father no\npresent pain. It was of a much less poignant nature than what the others\nexcited; but Sir Thomas was considering his happiness as very deeply\ninvolved in the offence of his sister and friend; cut off by it, as\nhe must be, from the woman whom he had been pursuing with undoubted\nattachment and strong probability of success; and who, in everything but\nthis despicable brother, would have been so eligible a connexion. He was\naware of what Edmund must be suffering on his own behalf, in addition\nto all the rest, when they were in town: he had seen or conjectured\nhis feelings; and, having reason to think that one interview with Miss\nCrawford had taken place, from which Edmund derived only increased\ndistress, had been as anxious on that account as on others to get him\nout of town, and had engaged him in taking Fanny home to her aunt, with\na view to his relief and benefit, no less than theirs. Fanny was not in\nthe secret of her uncle's feelings, Sir Thomas not in the secret of Miss\nCrawford's character. Had he been privy to her conversation with his\nson, he would not have wished her to belong to him, though her twenty\nthousand pounds had been forty.\n\nThat Edmund must be for ever divided from Miss Crawford did not admit\nof a doubt with Fanny; and yet, till she knew that he felt the same, her\nown conviction was insufficient. She thought he did, but she wanted to\nbe assured of it. If he would now speak to her with the unreserve which\nhad sometimes been too much for her before, it would be most consoling;\nbut _that_ she found was not to be. She seldom saw him: never alone. He\nprobably avoided being alone with her. What was to be inferred? That\nhis judgment submitted to all his own peculiar and bitter share of this\nfamily affliction, but that it was too keenly felt to be a subject of\nthe slightest communication. This must be his state. He yielded, but it\nwas with agonies which did not admit of speech. Long, long would it be\nere Miss Crawford's name passed his lips again, or she could hope for a\nrenewal of such confidential intercourse as had been.\n\nIt _was_ long. They reached Mansfield on Thursday, and it was not till\nSunday evening that Edmund began to talk to her on the subject. Sitting\nwith her on Sunday evening--a wet Sunday evening--the very time of\nall others when, if a friend is at hand, the heart must be opened, and\neverything told; no one else in the room, except his mother, who,\nafter hearing an affecting sermon, had cried herself to sleep, it was\nimpossible not to speak; and so, with the usual beginnings, hardly to\nbe traced as to what came first, and the usual declaration that if she\nwould listen to him for a few minutes, he should be very brief, and\ncertainly never tax her kindness in the same way again; she need not\nfear a repetition; it would be a subject prohibited entirely: he entered\nupon the luxury of relating circumstances and sensations of the first\ninterest to himself, to one of whose affectionate sympathy he was quite\nconvinced.\n\nHow Fanny listened, with what curiosity and concern, what pain and what\ndelight, how the agitation of his voice was watched, and how carefully\nher own eyes were fixed on any object but himself, may be imagined. The\nopening was alarming. He had seen Miss Crawford. He had been invited to\nsee her. He had received a note from Lady Stornaway to beg him to call;\nand regarding it as what was meant to be the last, last interview\nof friendship, and investing her with all the feelings of shame and\nwretchedness which Crawford's sister ought to have known, he had gone to\nher in such a state of mind, so softened, so devoted, as made it for a\nfew moments impossible to Fanny's fears that it should be the last. But\nas he proceeded in his story, these fears were over. She had met him,\nhe said, with a serious--certainly a serious--even an agitated air;\nbut before he had been able to speak one intelligible sentence, she had\nintroduced the subject in a manner which he owned had shocked him. \"'I\nheard you were in town,' said she; 'I wanted to see you. Let us talk\nover this sad business. What can equal the folly of our two relations?'\nI could not answer, but I believe my looks spoke. She felt reproved.\nSometimes how quick to feel! With a graver look and voice she then\nadded, 'I do not mean to defend Henry at your sister's expense.' So\nshe began, but how she went on, Fanny, is not fit, is hardly fit to be\nrepeated to you. I cannot recall all her words. I would not dwell upon\nthem if I could. Their substance was great anger at the _folly_ of each.\nShe reprobated her brother's folly in being drawn on by a woman whom he\nhad never cared for, to do what must lose him the woman he adored; but\nstill more the folly of poor Maria, in sacrificing such a situation,\nplunging into such difficulties, under the idea of being really loved\nby a man who had long ago made his indifference clear. Guess what I must\nhave felt. To hear the woman whom--no harsher name than folly given!\nSo voluntarily, so freely, so coolly to canvass it! No reluctance, no\nhorror, no feminine, shall I say, no modest loathings? This is what the\nworld does. For where, Fanny, shall we find a woman whom nature had so\nrichly endowed? Spoilt, spoilt!\"\n\nAfter a little reflection, he went on with a sort of desperate calmness.\n\"I will tell you everything, and then have done for ever. She saw it\nonly as folly, and that folly stamped only by exposure. The want of\ncommon discretion, of caution: his going down to Richmond for the whole\ntime of her being at Twickenham; her putting herself in the power of\na servant; it was the detection, in short--oh, Fanny! it was the\ndetection, not the offence, which she reprobated. It was the imprudence\nwhich had brought things to extremity, and obliged her brother to give\nup every dearer plan in order to fly with her.\"\n\nHe stopt. \"And what,\" said Fanny (believing herself required to speak),\n\"what could you say?\"\n\n\"Nothing, nothing to be understood. I was like a man stunned. She\nwent on, began to talk of you; yes, then she began to talk of you,\nregretting, as well she might, the loss of such a--. There she spoke\nvery rationally. But she has always done justice to you. 'He has thrown\naway,' said she, 'such a woman as he will never see again. She would\nhave fixed him; she would have made him happy for ever.' My dearest\nFanny, I am giving you, I hope, more pleasure than pain by this\nretrospect of what might have been--but what never can be now. You do\nnot wish me to be silent? If you do, give me but a look, a word, and I\nhave done.\"\n\nNo look or word was given.\n\n\"Thank God,\" said he. \"We were all disposed to wonder, but it seems to\nhave been the merciful appointment of Providence that the heart which\nknew no guile should not suffer. She spoke of you with high praise and\nwarm affection; yet, even here, there was alloy, a dash of evil; for in\nthe midst of it she could exclaim, 'Why would not she have him? It is\nall her fault. Simple girl! I shall never forgive her. Had she accepted\nhim as she ought, they might now have been on the point of marriage, and\nHenry would have been too happy and too busy to want any other object.\nHe would have taken no pains to be on terms with Mrs. Rushworth again.\nIt would have all ended in a regular standing flirtation, in yearly\nmeetings at Sotherton and Everingham.' Could you have believed it\npossible? But the charm is broken. My eyes are opened.\"\n\n\"Cruel!\" said Fanny, \"quite cruel. At such a moment to give way to\ngaiety, to speak with lightness, and to you! Absolute cruelty.\"\n\n\"Cruelty, do you call it? We differ there. No, hers is not a cruel\nnature. I do not consider her as meaning to wound my feelings. The evil\nlies yet deeper: in her total ignorance, unsuspiciousness of there being\nsuch feelings; in a perversion of mind which made it natural to her to\ntreat the subject as she did. She was speaking only as she had been used\nto hear others speak, as she imagined everybody else would speak. Hers\nare not faults of temper. She would not voluntarily give unnecessary\npain to any one, and though I may deceive myself, I cannot but think\nthat for me, for my feelings, she would--Hers are faults of principle,\nFanny; of blunted delicacy and a corrupted, vitiated mind. Perhaps it\nis best for me, since it leaves me so little to regret. Not so, however.\nGladly would I submit to all the increased pain of losing her, rather\nthan have to think of her as I do. I told her so.\"\n\n\"Did you?\"\n\n\"Yes; when I left her I told her so.\"\n\n\"How long were you together?\"\n\n\"Five-and-twenty minutes. Well, she went on to say that what remained\nnow to be done was to bring about a marriage between them. She spoke of\nit, Fanny, with a steadier voice than I can.\" He was obliged to pause\nmore than once as he continued. \"'We must persuade Henry to marry\nher,' said she; 'and what with honour, and the certainty of having shut\nhimself out for ever from Fanny, I do not despair of it. Fanny he must\ngive up. I do not think that even _he_ could now hope to succeed with\none of her stamp, and therefore I hope we may find no insuperable\ndifficulty. My influence, which is not small shall all go that way; and\nwhen once married, and properly supported by her own family, people of\nrespectability as they are, she may recover her footing in society to a\ncertain degree. In some circles, we know, she would never be admitted,\nbut with good dinners, and large parties, there will always be those\nwho will be glad of her acquaintance; and there is, undoubtedly, more\nliberality and candour on those points than formerly. What I advise\nis, that your father be quiet. Do not let him injure his own cause by\ninterference. Persuade him to let things take their course. If by any\nofficious exertions of his, she is induced to leave Henry's protection,\nthere will be much less chance of his marrying her than if she remain\nwith him. I know how he is likely to be influenced. Let Sir Thomas trust\nto his honour and compassion, and it may all end well; but if he get his\ndaughter away, it will be destroying the chief hold.'\"\n\nAfter repeating this, Edmund was so much affected that Fanny, watching\nhim with silent, but most tender concern, was almost sorry that the\nsubject had been entered on at all. It was long before he could speak\nagain. At last, \"Now, Fanny,\" said he, \"I shall soon have done. I have\ntold you the substance of all that she said. As soon as I could speak,\nI replied that I had not supposed it possible, coming in such a state of\nmind into that house as I had done, that anything could occur to make\nme suffer more, but that she had been inflicting deeper wounds in almost\nevery sentence. That though I had, in the course of our acquaintance,\nbeen often sensible of some difference in our opinions, on points,\ntoo, of some moment, it had not entered my imagination to conceive the\ndifference could be such as she had now proved it. That the manner in\nwhich she treated the dreadful crime committed by her brother and my\nsister (with whom lay the greater seduction I pretended not to say),\nbut the manner in which she spoke of the crime itself, giving it every\nreproach but the right; considering its ill consequences only as they\nwere to be braved or overborne by a defiance of decency and impudence in\nwrong; and last of all, and above all, recommending to us a compliance,\na compromise, an acquiescence in the continuance of the sin, on the\nchance of a marriage which, thinking as I now thought of her brother,\nshould rather be prevented than sought; all this together most\ngrievously convinced me that I had never understood her before, and\nthat, as far as related to mind, it had been the creature of my own\nimagination, not Miss Crawford, that I had been too apt to dwell on\nfor many months past. That, perhaps, it was best for me; I had less to\nregret in sacrificing a friendship, feelings, hopes which must, at any\nrate, have been torn from me now. And yet, that I must and would confess\nthat, could I have restored her to what she had appeared to me before,\nI would infinitely prefer any increase of the pain of parting, for the\nsake of carrying with me the right of tenderness and esteem. This is\nwhat I said, the purport of it; but, as you may imagine, not spoken\nso collectedly or methodically as I have repeated it to you. She was\nastonished, exceedingly astonished--more than astonished. I saw her\nchange countenance. She turned extremely red. I imagined I saw a\nmixture of many feelings: a great, though short struggle; half a wish of\nyielding to truths, half a sense of shame, but habit, habit carried\nit. She would have laughed if she could. It was a sort of laugh, as she\nanswered, 'A pretty good lecture, upon my word. Was it part of your last\nsermon? At this rate you will soon reform everybody at Mansfield and\nThornton Lacey; and when I hear of you next, it may be as a celebrated\npreacher in some great society of Methodists, or as a missionary into\nforeign parts.' She tried to speak carelessly, but she was not so\ncareless as she wanted to appear. I only said in reply, that from my\nheart I wished her well, and earnestly hoped that she might soon learn\nto think more justly, and not owe the most valuable knowledge we could\nany of us acquire, the knowledge of ourselves and of our duty, to the\nlessons of affliction, and immediately left the room. I had gone a few\nsteps, Fanny, when I heard the door open behind me. 'Mr. Bertram,' said\nshe. I looked back. 'Mr. Bertram,' said she, with a smile; but it was\na smile ill-suited to the conversation that had passed, a saucy playful\nsmile, seeming to invite in order to subdue me; at least it appeared so\nto me. I resisted; it was the impulse of the moment to resist, and still\nwalked on. I have since, sometimes, for a moment, regretted that I did\nnot go back, but I know I was right, and such has been the end of our\nacquaintance. And what an acquaintance has it been! How have I been\ndeceived! Equally in brother and sister deceived! I thank you for your\npatience, Fanny. This has been the greatest relief, and now we will have\ndone.\"\n\nAnd such was Fanny's dependence on his words, that for five minutes\nshe thought they _had_ done. Then, however, it all came on again, or\nsomething very like it, and nothing less than Lady Bertram's rousing\nthoroughly up could really close such a conversation. Till that\nhappened, they continued to talk of Miss Crawford alone, and how she had\nattached him, and how delightful nature had made her, and how excellent\nshe would have been, had she fallen into good hands earlier. Fanny, now\nat liberty to speak openly, felt more than justified in adding to\nhis knowledge of her real character, by some hint of what share his\nbrother's state of health might be supposed to have in her wish for a\ncomplete reconciliation. This was not an agreeable intimation. Nature\nresisted it for a while. It would have been a vast deal pleasanter to\nhave had her more disinterested in her attachment; but his vanity was\nnot of a strength to fight long against reason. He submitted to believe\nthat Tom's illness had influenced her, only reserving for himself this\nconsoling thought, that considering the many counteractions of opposing\nhabits, she had certainly been _more_ attached to him than could have\nbeen expected, and for his sake been more near doing right. Fanny\nthought exactly the same; and they were also quite agreed in their\nopinion of the lasting effect, the indelible impression, which such\na disappointment must make on his mind. Time would undoubtedly abate\nsomewhat of his sufferings, but still it was a sort of thing which he\nnever could get entirely the better of; and as to his ever meeting with\nany other woman who could--it was too impossible to be named but with\nindignation. Fanny's friendship was all that he had to cling to.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVIII\n\nLet other pens dwell on guilt and misery. I quit such odious subjects\nas soon as I can, impatient to restore everybody, not greatly in fault\nthemselves, to tolerable comfort, and to have done with all the rest.\n\nMy Fanny, indeed, at this very time, I have the satisfaction of knowing,\nmust have been happy in spite of everything. She must have been a happy\ncreature in spite of all that she felt, or thought she felt, for the\ndistress of those around her. She had sources of delight that must force\ntheir way. She was returned to Mansfield Park, she was useful, she was\nbeloved; she was safe from Mr. Crawford; and when Sir Thomas came back\nshe had every proof that could be given in his then melancholy state of\nspirits, of his perfect approbation and increased regard; and happy as\nall this must make her, she would still have been happy without any of\nit, for Edmund was no longer the dupe of Miss Crawford.\n\nIt is true that Edmund was very far from happy himself. He was suffering\nfrom disappointment and regret, grieving over what was, and wishing for\nwhat could never be. She knew it was so, and was sorry; but it was with\na sorrow so founded on satisfaction, so tending to ease, and so much in\nharmony with every dearest sensation, that there are few who might not\nhave been glad to exchange their greatest gaiety for it.\n\nSir Thomas, poor Sir Thomas, a parent, and conscious of errors in his\nown conduct as a parent, was the longest to suffer. He felt that he\nought not to have allowed the marriage; that his daughter's sentiments\nhad been sufficiently known to him to render him culpable in authorising\nit; that in so doing he had sacrificed the right to the expedient, and\nbeen governed by motives of selfishness and worldly wisdom. These were\nreflections that required some time to soften; but time will do almost\neverything; and though little comfort arose on Mrs. Rushworth's side for\nthe misery she had occasioned, comfort was to be found greater than\nhe had supposed in his other children. Julia's match became a less\ndesperate business than he had considered it at first. She was humble,\nand wishing to be forgiven; and Mr. Yates, desirous of being really\nreceived into the family, was disposed to look up to him and be guided.\nHe was not very solid; but there was a hope of his becoming less\ntrifling, of his being at least tolerably domestic and quiet; and at any\nrate, there was comfort in finding his estate rather more, and his debts\nmuch less, than he had feared, and in being consulted and treated as\nthe friend best worth attending to. There was comfort also in Tom, who\ngradually regained his health, without regaining the thoughtlessness and\nselfishness of his previous habits. He was the better for ever for his\nillness. He had suffered, and he had learned to think: two advantages\nthat he had never known before; and the self-reproach arising from the\ndeplorable event in Wimpole Street, to which he felt himself accessory\nby all the dangerous intimacy of his unjustifiable theatre, made an\nimpression on his mind which, at the age of six-and-twenty, with no want\nof sense or good companions, was durable in its happy effects. He became\nwhat he ought to be: useful to his father, steady and quiet, and not\nliving merely for himself.\n\nHere was comfort indeed! and quite as soon as Sir Thomas could place\ndependence on such sources of good, Edmund was contributing to his\nfather's ease by improvement in the only point in which he had given\nhim pain before--improvement in his spirits. After wandering about and\nsitting under trees with Fanny all the summer evenings, he had so well\ntalked his mind into submission as to be very tolerably cheerful again.\n\nThese were the circumstances and the hopes which gradually brought their\nalleviation to Sir Thomas, deadening his sense of what was lost, and\nin part reconciling him to himself; though the anguish arising from the\nconviction of his own errors in the education of his daughters was never\nto be entirely done away.\n\nToo late he became aware how unfavourable to the character of any young\npeople must be the totally opposite treatment which Maria and Julia had\nbeen always experiencing at home, where the excessive indulgence and\nflattery of their aunt had been continually contrasted with his own\nseverity. He saw how ill he had judged, in expecting to counteract what\nwas wrong in Mrs. Norris by its reverse in himself; clearly saw that he\nhad but increased the evil by teaching them to repress their spirits in\nhis presence so as to make their real disposition unknown to him, and\nsending them for all their indulgences to a person who had been able to\nattach them only by the blindness of her affection, and the excess of\nher praise.\n\nHere had been grievous mismanagement; but, bad as it was, he gradually\ngrew to feel that it had not been the most direful mistake in his plan\nof education. Something must have been wanting _within_, or time would\nhave worn away much of its ill effect. He feared that principle, active\nprinciple, had been wanting; that they had never been properly taught\nto govern their inclinations and tempers by that sense of duty which can\nalone suffice. They had been instructed theoretically in their religion,\nbut never required to bring it into daily practice. To be distinguished\nfor elegance and accomplishments, the authorised object of their youth,\ncould have had no useful influence that way, no moral effect on the\nmind. He had meant them to be good, but his cares had been directed to\nthe understanding and manners, not the disposition; and of the necessity\nof self-denial and humility, he feared they had never heard from any\nlips that could profit them.\n\nBitterly did he deplore a deficiency which now he could scarcely\ncomprehend to have been possible. Wretchedly did he feel, that with all\nthe cost and care of an anxious and expensive education, he had brought\nup his daughters without their understanding their first duties, or his\nbeing acquainted with their character and temper.\n\nThe high spirit and strong passions of Mrs. Rushworth, especially, were\nmade known to him only in their sad result. She was not to be prevailed\non to leave Mr. Crawford. She hoped to marry him, and they continued\ntogether till she was obliged to be convinced that such hope was vain,\nand till the disappointment and wretchedness arising from the conviction\nrendered her temper so bad, and her feelings for him so like hatred,\nas to make them for a while each other's punishment, and then induce a\nvoluntary separation.\n\nShe had lived with him to be reproached as the ruin of all his happiness\nin Fanny, and carried away no better consolation in leaving him than\nthat she _had_ divided them. What can exceed the misery of such a mind\nin such a situation?\n\nMr. Rushworth had no difficulty in procuring a divorce; and so ended a\nmarriage contracted under such circumstances as to make any better end\nthe effect of good luck not to be reckoned on. She had despised him,\nand loved another; and he had been very much aware that it was so. The\nindignities of stupidity, and the disappointments of selfish passion,\ncan excite little pity. His punishment followed his conduct, as did a\ndeeper punishment the deeper guilt of his wife. _He_ was released from\nthe engagement to be mortified and unhappy, till some other pretty girl\ncould attract him into matrimony again, and he might set forward on a\nsecond, and, it is to be hoped, more prosperous trial of the state: if\nduped, to be duped at least with good humour and good luck; while she\nmust withdraw with infinitely stronger feelings to a retirement and\nreproach which could allow no second spring of hope or character.\n\nWhere she could be placed became a subject of most melancholy and\nmomentous consultation. Mrs. Norris, whose attachment seemed to augment\nwith the demerits of her niece, would have had her received at home\nand countenanced by them all. Sir Thomas would not hear of it; and Mrs.\nNorris's anger against Fanny was so much the greater, from considering\n_her_ residence there as the motive. She persisted in placing his\nscruples to _her_ account, though Sir Thomas very solemnly assured her\nthat, had there been no young woman in question, had there been no young\nperson of either sex belonging to him, to be endangered by the society\nor hurt by the character of Mrs. Rushworth, he would never have offered\nso great an insult to the neighbourhood as to expect it to notice her.\nAs a daughter, he hoped a penitent one, she should be protected by him,\nand secured in every comfort, and supported by every encouragement to do\nright, which their relative situations admitted; but farther than _that_\nhe could not go. Maria had destroyed her own character, and he would\nnot, by a vain attempt to restore what never could be restored, by\naffording his sanction to vice, or in seeking to lessen its disgrace, be\nanywise accessory to introducing such misery in another man's family as\nhe had known himself.\n\nIt ended in Mrs. Norris's resolving to quit Mansfield and devote herself\nto her unfortunate Maria, and in an establishment being formed for them\nin another country, remote and private, where, shut up together with\nlittle society, on one side no affection, on the other no judgment,\nit may be reasonably supposed that their tempers became their mutual\npunishment.\n\nMrs. Norris's removal from Mansfield was the great supplementary comfort\nof Sir Thomas's life. His opinion of her had been sinking from the day\nof his return from Antigua: in every transaction together from that\nperiod, in their daily intercourse, in business, or in chat, she had\nbeen regularly losing ground in his esteem, and convincing him that\neither time had done her much disservice, or that he had considerably\nover-rated her sense, and wonderfully borne with her manners before. He\nhad felt her as an hourly evil, which was so much the worse, as there\nseemed no chance of its ceasing but with life; she seemed a part of\nhimself that must be borne for ever. To be relieved from her, therefore,\nwas so great a felicity that, had she not left bitter remembrances\nbehind her, there might have been danger of his learning almost to\napprove the evil which produced such a good.\n\nShe was regretted by no one at Mansfield. She had never been able to\nattach even those she loved best; and since Mrs. Rushworth's elopement,\nher temper had been in a state of such irritation as to make her\neverywhere tormenting. Not even Fanny had tears for aunt Norris, not\neven when she was gone for ever.\n\nThat Julia escaped better than Maria was owing, in some measure, to a\nfavourable difference of disposition and circumstance, but in a greater\nto her having been less the darling of that very aunt, less flattered\nand less spoilt. Her beauty and acquirements had held but a second\nplace. She had been always used to think herself a little inferior to\nMaria. Her temper was naturally the easiest of the two; her feelings,\nthough quick, were more controllable, and education had not given her so\nvery hurtful a degree of self-consequence.\n\nShe had submitted the best to the disappointment in Henry Crawford.\nAfter the first bitterness of the conviction of being slighted was over,\nshe had been tolerably soon in a fair way of not thinking of him again;\nand when the acquaintance was renewed in town, and Mr. Rushworth's house\nbecame Crawford's object, she had had the merit of withdrawing herself\nfrom it, and of chusing that time to pay a visit to her other friends,\nin order to secure herself from being again too much attracted. This had\nbeen her motive in going to her cousin's. Mr. Yates's convenience had\nhad nothing to do with it. She had been allowing his attentions some\ntime, but with very little idea of ever accepting him; and had not her\nsister's conduct burst forth as it did, and her increased dread of her\nfather and of home, on that event, imagining its certain consequence\nto herself would be greater severity and restraint, made her hastily\nresolve on avoiding such immediate horrors at all risks, it is probable\nthat Mr. Yates would never have succeeded. She had not eloped with any\nworse feelings than those of selfish alarm. It had appeared to her the\nonly thing to be done. Maria's guilt had induced Julia's folly.\n\nHenry Crawford, ruined by early independence and bad domestic example,\nindulged in the freaks of a cold-blooded vanity a little too long. Once\nit had, by an opening undesigned and unmerited, led him into the way of\nhappiness. Could he have been satisfied with the conquest of one\namiable woman's affections, could he have found sufficient exultation\nin overcoming the reluctance, in working himself into the esteem and\ntenderness of Fanny Price, there would have been every probability of\nsuccess and felicity for him. His affection had already done something.\nHer influence over him had already given him some influence over her.\nWould he have deserved more, there can be no doubt that more would have\nbeen obtained, especially when that marriage had taken place, which\nwould have given him the assistance of her conscience in subduing her\nfirst inclination, and brought them very often together. Would he have\npersevered, and uprightly, Fanny must have been his reward, and a reward\nvery voluntarily bestowed, within a reasonable period from Edmund's\nmarrying Mary.\n\nHad he done as he intended, and as he knew he ought, by going down to\nEveringham after his return from Portsmouth, he might have been deciding\nhis own happy destiny. But he was pressed to stay for Mrs. Fraser's\nparty; his staying was made of flattering consequence, and he was to\nmeet Mrs. Rushworth there. Curiosity and vanity were both engaged, and\nthe temptation of immediate pleasure was too strong for a mind unused to\nmake any sacrifice to right: he resolved to defer his Norfolk journey,\nresolved that writing should answer the purpose of it, or that its\npurpose was unimportant, and staid. He saw Mrs. Rushworth, was received\nby her with a coldness which ought to have been repulsive, and have\nestablished apparent indifference between them for ever; but he was\nmortified, he could not bear to be thrown off by the woman whose smiles\nhad been so wholly at his command: he must exert himself to subdue so\nproud a display of resentment; it was anger on Fanny's account; he must\nget the better of it, and make Mrs. Rushworth Maria Bertram again in her\ntreatment of himself.\n\nIn this spirit he began the attack, and by animated perseverance had\nsoon re-established the sort of familiar intercourse, of gallantry,\nof flirtation, which bounded his views; but in triumphing over the\ndiscretion which, though beginning in anger, might have saved them both,\nhe had put himself in the power of feelings on her side more strong\nthan he had supposed. She loved him; there was no withdrawing attentions\navowedly dear to her. He was entangled by his own vanity, with as little\nexcuse of love as possible, and without the smallest inconstancy of mind\ntowards her cousin. To keep Fanny and the Bertrams from a knowledge of\nwhat was passing became his first object. Secrecy could not have been\nmore desirable for Mrs. Rushworth's credit than he felt it for his own.\nWhen he returned from Richmond, he would have been glad to see Mrs.\nRushworth no more. All that followed was the result of her imprudence;\nand he went off with her at last, because he could not help it,\nregretting Fanny even at the moment, but regretting her infinitely more\nwhen all the bustle of the intrigue was over, and a very few months had\ntaught him, by the force of contrast, to place a yet higher value on the\nsweetness of her temper, the purity of her mind, and the excellence of\nher principles.\n\nThat punishment, the public punishment of disgrace, should in a just\nmeasure attend _his_ share of the offence is, we know, not one of the\nbarriers which society gives to virtue. In this world the penalty is\nless equal than could be wished; but without presuming to look forward\nto a juster appointment hereafter, we may fairly consider a man of\nsense, like Henry Crawford, to be providing for himself no small\nportion of vexation and regret: vexation that must rise sometimes\nto self-reproach, and regret to wretchedness, in having so requited\nhospitality, so injured family peace, so forfeited his best, most\nestimable, and endeared acquaintance, and so lost the woman whom he had\nrationally as well as passionately loved.\n\nAfter what had passed to wound and alienate the two families, the\ncontinuance of the Bertrams and Grants in such close neighbourhood would\nhave been most distressing; but the absence of the latter, for some\nmonths purposely lengthened, ended very fortunately in the necessity, or\nat least the practicability, of a permanent removal. Dr. Grant, through\nan interest on which he had almost ceased to form hopes, succeeded to\na stall in Westminster, which, as affording an occasion for leaving\nMansfield, an excuse for residence in London, and an increase of income\nto answer the expenses of the change, was highly acceptable to those who\nwent and those who staid.\n\nMrs. Grant, with a temper to love and be loved, must have gone with some\nregret from the scenes and people she had been used to; but the same\nhappiness of disposition must in any place, and any society, secure her\na great deal to enjoy, and she had again a home to offer Mary; and Mary\nhad had enough of her own friends, enough of vanity, ambition, love, and\ndisappointment in the course of the last half-year, to be in need of the\ntrue kindness of her sister's heart, and the rational tranquillity\nof her ways. They lived together; and when Dr. Grant had brought on\napoplexy and death, by three great institutionary dinners in one week,\nthey still lived together; for Mary, though perfectly resolved against\never attaching herself to a younger brother again, was long in finding\namong the dashing representatives, or idle heir-apparents, who were at\nthe command of her beauty, and her Ł20,000, any one who could satisfy the\nbetter taste she had acquired at Mansfield, whose character and manners\ncould authorise a hope of the domestic happiness she had there learned\nto estimate, or put Edmund Bertram sufficiently out of her head.\n\nEdmund had greatly the advantage of her in this respect. He had not to\nwait and wish with vacant affections for an object worthy to succeed her\nin them. Scarcely had he done regretting Mary Crawford, and observing to\nFanny how impossible it was that he should ever meet with such another\nwoman, before it began to strike him whether a very different kind of\nwoman might not do just as well, or a great deal better: whether Fanny\nherself were not growing as dear, as important to him in all her smiles\nand all her ways, as Mary Crawford had ever been; and whether it might\nnot be a possible, an hopeful undertaking to persuade her that her warm\nand sisterly regard for him would be foundation enough for wedded love.\n\nI purposely abstain from dates on this occasion, that every one may\nbe at liberty to fix their own, aware that the cure of unconquerable\npassions, and the transfer of unchanging attachments, must vary much as\nto time in different people. I only entreat everybody to believe that\nexactly at the time when it was quite natural that it should be so, and\nnot a week earlier, Edmund did cease to care about Miss Crawford, and\nbecame as anxious to marry Fanny as Fanny herself could desire.\n\nWith such a regard for her, indeed, as his had long been, a regard\nfounded on the most endearing claims of innocence and helplessness, and\ncompleted by every recommendation of growing worth, what could be more\nnatural than the change? Loving, guiding, protecting her, as he had been\ndoing ever since her being ten years old, her mind in so great a degree\nformed by his care, and her comfort depending on his kindness, an\nobject to him of such close and peculiar interest, dearer by all his own\nimportance with her than any one else at Mansfield, what was there now\nto add, but that he should learn to prefer soft light eyes to sparkling\ndark ones. And being always with her, and always talking confidentially,\nand his feelings exactly in that favourable state which a recent\ndisappointment gives, those soft light eyes could not be very long in\nobtaining the pre-eminence.\n\nHaving once set out, and felt that he had done so on this road to\nhappiness, there was nothing on the side of prudence to stop him or make\nhis progress slow; no doubts of her deserving, no fears of opposition of\ntaste, no need of drawing new hopes of happiness from dissimilarity\nof temper. Her mind, disposition, opinions, and habits wanted no\nhalf-concealment, no self-deception on the present, no reliance on\nfuture improvement. Even in the midst of his late infatuation, he had\nacknowledged Fanny's mental superiority. What must be his sense of it\nnow, therefore? She was of course only too good for him; but as nobody\nminds having what is too good for them, he was very steadily earnest in\nthe pursuit of the blessing, and it was not possible that encouragement\nfrom her should be long wanting. Timid, anxious, doubting as she was, it\nwas still impossible that such tenderness as hers should not, at times,\nhold out the strongest hope of success, though it remained for a later\nperiod to tell him the whole delightful and astonishing truth. His\nhappiness in knowing himself to have been so long the beloved of such a\nheart, must have been great enough to warrant any strength of language\nin which he could clothe it to her or to himself; it must have been\na delightful happiness. But there was happiness elsewhere which no\ndescription can reach. Let no one presume to give the feelings of a\nyoung woman on receiving the assurance of that affection of which she\nhas scarcely allowed herself to entertain a hope.\n\nTheir own inclinations ascertained, there were no difficulties behind,\nno drawback of poverty or parent. It was a match which Sir Thomas's\nwishes had even forestalled. Sick of ambitious and mercenary connexions,\nprizing more and more the sterling good of principle and temper, and\nchiefly anxious to bind by the strongest securities all that remained to\nhim of domestic felicity, he had pondered with genuine satisfaction on\nthe more than possibility of the two young friends finding their natural\nconsolation in each other for all that had occurred of disappointment to\neither; and the joyful consent which met Edmund's application, the high\nsense of having realised a great acquisition in the promise of Fanny for\na daughter, formed just such a contrast with his early opinion on the\nsubject when the poor little girl's coming had been first agitated, as\ntime is for ever producing between the plans and decisions of mortals,\nfor their own instruction, and their neighbours' entertainment.\n\nFanny was indeed the daughter that he wanted. His charitable kindness\nhad been rearing a prime comfort for himself. His liberality had a rich\nrepayment, and the general goodness of his intentions by her deserved\nit. He might have made her childhood happier; but it had been an error\nof judgment only which had given him the appearance of harshness, and\ndeprived him of her early love; and now, on really knowing each other,\ntheir mutual attachment became very strong. After settling her at\nThornton Lacey with every kind attention to her comfort, the object of\nalmost every day was to see her there, or to get her away from it.\n\nSelfishly dear as she had long been to Lady Bertram, she could not be\nparted with willingly by _her_. No happiness of son or niece could make\nher wish the marriage. But it was possible to part with her, because\nSusan remained to supply her place. Susan became the stationary niece,\ndelighted to be so; and equally well adapted for it by a readiness of\nmind, and an inclination for usefulness, as Fanny had been by sweetness\nof temper, and strong feelings of gratitude. Susan could never be\nspared. First as a comfort to Fanny, then as an auxiliary, and last as\nher substitute, she was established at Mansfield, with every appearance\nof equal permanency. Her more fearless disposition and happier nerves\nmade everything easy to her there. With quickness in understanding\nthe tempers of those she had to deal with, and no natural timidity to\nrestrain any consequent wishes, she was soon welcome and useful to all;\nand after Fanny's removal succeeded so naturally to her influence over\nthe hourly comfort of her aunt, as gradually to become, perhaps, the\nmost beloved of the two. In _her_ usefulness, in Fanny's excellence,\nin William's continued good conduct and rising fame, and in the general\nwell-doing and success of the other members of the family, all assisting\nto advance each other, and doing credit to his countenance and aid, Sir\nThomas saw repeated, and for ever repeated, reason to rejoice in what he\nhad done for them all, and acknowledge the advantages of early hardship\nand discipline, and the consciousness of being born to struggle and\nendure.\n\nWith so much true merit and true love, and no want of fortune and\nfriends, the happiness of the married cousins must appear as secure as\nearthly happiness can be. Equally formed for domestic life, and attached\nto country pleasures, their home was the home of affection and comfort;\nand to complete the picture of good, the acquisition of Mansfield\nliving, by the death of Dr. Grant, occurred just after they had been\nmarried long enough to begin to want an increase of income, and feel\ntheir distance from the paternal abode an inconvenience.\n\nOn that event they removed to Mansfield; and the Parsonage there,\nwhich, under each of its two former owners, Fanny had never been able\nto approach but with some painful sensation of restraint or alarm, soon\ngrew as dear to her heart, and as thoroughly perfect in her eyes, as\neverything else within the view and patronage of Mansfield Park had long\nbeen.\n\n\nTHE END"