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\title{Mansfield Park}


\author{Jane Austen}

\maketitle
\vspace*{\stretch{1}}

\noindent The preparer of this public-domain (U.S.) text is unknown.
The Project Gutenberg edition ({}``mansf10'') was converted to \LaTeX{}
using \textbf{GutenMark} software, and re-edited (formatting only)
by Ron Burkey. Report problems to info@sandroid.org. Revision B1 differs
from B in that {}``----'' has everywhere been replaced by {}``---''.

\noindent \begin{center}Revision: B1\\
Date: 01/27/2008\end{center}

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\pagestyle{myheadings} \tableofcontents{}\newpage

\mainmatter


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER I}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER I}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER I}

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lady Bertram made no opposition.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER II}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER II}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER II}

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

{}``Yes, very.''

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

{}``But, cousin, will it go to the post?''\ 

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

{}``My uncle!''\ repeated Fanny, with a frightened look.

{}``Yes, when you have written the letter, I will take it to my father
to frank.''

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER III}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER III}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER III}

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

{}``I shall be very sorry to go away,'' said she, with a faltering
voice.

{}``Yes, I dare say you will; \textit{that's} natural enough. I suppose
you have had as little to vex you since you came into this house as
any creature in the world.''

{}``I hope I am not ungrateful, aunt,'' said Fanny modestly.

{}``No, my dear; I hope not. I have always found you a very good
girl.''

{}``And am I never to live here again?''\ 

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

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

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

{}``Indeed!''\ 

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

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

{}``Oh, cousin!''\ 

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

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

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

{}``I can never be important to any one.''

{}``What is to prevent you?''\ 

{}``Everything. My situation, my foolishness and awkwardness.''

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

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

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

{}``Oh!\ I do not say so.''

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mrs.\ Norris almost started. {}``Live with me, dear Lady Bertram!\ what
do you mean?''\ 

{}``Is she not to live with you? I thought you had settled it with
Sir Thomas.''

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

{}``Indeed, I do not know. I suppose he thought it best.''

{}``But what did he say? He could not say he \textit{wished} me to
take Fanny. I am sure in his heart he could not wish me to do it.''

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

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

{}``Then you will not mind living by yourself quite alone?''\ 

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

{}``I dare say you will. You always do, don't you?''\ 

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

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

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

{}``Oh!\ \textit{that} will soon be settled. Sir Thomas has been
writing about it, I know.''

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER IV}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER IV}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER IV}

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

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

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

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

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

Fanny had no share in the festivities of the season; but she enjoyed
being avowedly useful as her aunt's companion when they called away
the rest of the family; and, as Miss Lee had left Mansfield, she naturally
became everything to Lady Bertram during the night of a ball or a
party. She talked to her, listened to her, read to her; and the tranquillity
of such evenings, her perfect security in such a \textit{t\^{e}te-\`{a}-t\^{e}te}
from any sound of unkindness, was unspeakably welcome to a mind which
had seldom known a pause in its alarms or embarrassments. As to her
cousins' gaieties, she loved to hear an account of them, especially
of the balls, and whom Edmund had danced with; but thought too lowly
of her own situation to imagine she should ever be admitted to the
same, and listened, therefore, without an idea of any nearer concern
in them. Upon the whole, it was a comfortable winter to her; for though
it brought no William to England, the never-failing hope of his arrival
was worth much.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Henry bowed and thanked her.

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

{}``My dear brother, I will not believe this of you.''

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

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

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

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

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


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER V}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER V}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER V}

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

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

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

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

{}``So they are indeed, and I am delighted to hear you say it. But
you like Julia best.''

{}``Oh yes! I like Julia best.''

{}``But do you really? for Miss Bertram is in general thought the
handsomest.''

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

{}``I shall not talk to you, Henry, but I know you \textit{will}
like her best at last.''

{}``Do not I tell you that I like her best \textit{at} \textit{first}?''\ 

{}``And besides, Miss Bertram is engaged. Remember that, my dear
brother. Her choice is made.''

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

{}``Why, as to that, Mr.\ Rushworth is a very good sort of young
man, and it is a great match for her.''

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

{}``Mary, how shall we manage him?''\ 

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

{}``But I would not have him \textit{taken} \textit{in}; I would
not have him duped; I would have it all fair and honourable.''

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

{}``Not always in marriage, dear Mary.''

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

{}``Ah! You have been in a bad school for matrimony, in Hill Street.''

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

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

{}``Well done, sister! I honour your \textit{esprit} \textit{du}
\textit{corps}. When I am a wife, I mean to be just as staunch myself;
and I wish my friends in general would be so too. It would save me
many a heartache.''

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

{}``Those who are showing the world what female manners \textit{should}
be,'' said Mr.\ Bertram gallantly, {}``are doing a great deal to
set them right.''

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

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

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

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

{}``No,'' replied Edmund; {}``I do not think she has ever been
to a ball. My mother seldom goes into company herself, and dines nowhere
but with Mrs.\ Grant, and Fanny stays at home with \textit{her}.''

{}``Oh!\ then the point is clear. Miss Price is not out.''


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER VI}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER VI}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER VI}

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

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

{}``Oh, for shame!''\ cried Mrs.\ Norris. {}``A prison indeed?
Sotherton Court is the noblest old place in the world.''

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

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

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

{}``Your best friend upon such an occasion,'' said Miss Bertram
calmly, {}``would be Mr.\ Repton, I imagine.''

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

{}``The avenue! Oh!\ I do not recollect it. I really know very little
of Sotherton.''

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

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

He smiled as he answered, {}``I am afraid the avenue stands a bad
chance, Fanny.''

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

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

{}``Oh!\ it does not signify. Whenever I do see it, you will tell
me how it has been altered.''

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

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

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

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

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

{}``It would be delightful to \textit{me} to see the progress of
it all,'' said Fanny.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

{}``At sea, has she? In the king's service, of course?''\ 

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

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

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

Edmund again felt grave, and only replied, {}``It is a noble profession.''

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

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

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

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

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

{}``You are fond of the sort of thing?''\ said Julia.

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

{}``Those who see quickly, will resolve quickly, and act quickly,''
said Julia.\ {} {}``\textit{You} can never want employment. Instead
of envying Mr.\ Rushworth, you should assist him with your opinion.''

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

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

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


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER VII}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER VII}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER VII}

{}``Well, Fanny, and how do you like Miss Crawford \textit{now}?''\ 
said Edmund the next day, after thinking some time on the subject
himself. {}``How did you like her yesterday?''\ 

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

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

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

{}``I thought you would be struck. It was very wrong; very indecorous.''

{}``And very ungrateful, I think.''

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

{}``No, I do not know\mbox{---}not if you want the mare,'' was
her answer.

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

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

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

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

{}``No, not that I know of,'' replied Mrs.\ Norris; {}``she was
here a moment ago.''

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

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

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

{}``Fanny,'' said Edmund, after looking at her attentively, {}``I
am sure you have the headache.''

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

{}``I can hardly believe you,'' he replied; {}``I know your looks
too well. How long have you had it?''\ 

{}``Since a little before dinner. It is nothing but the heat.''

{}``Did you go out in the heat?''\ 

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

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

{}``Fanny has been cutting roses, has she?''\ 

{}``Yes, and I am afraid they will be the last this year. Poor thing!
\textit{She} found it hot enough; but they were so full-blown that
one could not wait.''

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

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

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

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

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

{}``But were there roses enough to oblige her to go twice?''\ 

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

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

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

{}``I wish Fanny had half your strength, ma'am.''

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

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

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

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

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


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER VIII}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER VIII}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER VIII}

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

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

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

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

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

{}``Oh no! I cannot do without Fanny.''

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

{}``There is no hardship, I suppose, nothing unpleasant,'' said
Edmund, {}``in going on the barouche box.''

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

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

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

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

{}``To be sure not, but I \textit{cannot} do without her.''

{}``You can, if I stay at home with you, as I mean to do.''

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

{}``Oh yes!\ very glad, if your aunt sees no objection.''

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

{}``It seems very odd,'' said Maria, {}``that you should be staying
at home instead of Fanny.''

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER IX}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER IX}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER IX}

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

{}``It was foolish of me not to think of all that; but I am disappointed.''

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

{}``Every generation has its improvements,'' said Miss Crawford,
with a smile, to Edmund.

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

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

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

{}``\textit{That} is hardly Fanny's idea of a family assembling,''
said Edmund. {}``If the master and mistress do \textit{not} attend
themselves, there must be more harm than good in the custom.''

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

{}``I am afraid I should do it very awkwardly,'' was his reply,
with a look of meaning.

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

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

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

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

{}``Ordained!''\ said Miss Crawford; {}``what, are you to be a
clergyman?''\ 

{}``Yes; I shall take orders soon after my father's return\mbox{---}probably
at Christmas.''

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

{}``A very praiseworthy practice,'' said Edmund, {}``but not quite
universal. I am one of the exceptions, and \textit{being} one, must
do something for myself.''

{}``But why are you to be a clergyman? I thought \textit{that} was
always the lot of the youngest, where there were many to chuse before
him.''

{}``Do you think the church itself never chosen, then?''\ 

{}``\textit{Never} is a black word. But yes, in the \textit{never}
of conversation, which means \textit{not} \textit{very} \textit{often},
I do think it. For what is to be done in the church? Men love to distinguish
themselves, and in either of the other lines distinction may be gained,
but not in the church. A clergyman is nothing.''

{}``The \textit{nothing} of conversation has its gradations, I hope,
as well as the \textit{never}. A clergyman cannot be high in state
or fashion. He must not head mobs, or set the ton in dress. But I
cannot call that situation nothing which has the charge of all that
is of the first importance to mankind, individually or collectively
considered, temporally and eternally, which has the guardianship of
religion and morals, and consequently of the manners which result
from their influence. No one here can call the \textit{office} nothing.
If the man who holds it is so, it is by the neglect of his duty, by
foregoing its just importance, and stepping out of his place to appear
what he ought not to appear.''

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

{}``\textit{You} are speaking of London, \textit{I} am speaking of
the nation at large.''

{}``The metropolis, I imagine, is a pretty fair sample of the rest.''

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

{}``Certainly,'' said Fanny, with gentle earnestness.

{}``There,'' cried Miss Crawford, {}``you have quite convinced
Miss Price already.''

{}``I wish I could convince Miss Crawford too.''

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

{}``Go into the law! With as much ease as I was told to go into this
wilderness.''

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

{}``\textit{Your} attentiveness and consideration makes me more sensible
of my own neglect. Fanny's interest seems in safer hands with you
than with me.''

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

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

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

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

{}``It is an immense distance,'' said she; {}``I see \textit{that}
with a glance.''

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


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER X}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER X}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER X}

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

{}``You think her more light-hearted than I am?''\ 

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

{}``Naturally, I believe, I am as lively as Julia, but I have more
to think of now.''

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fanny explained.

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

{}``But, Julia, Mr.\ Rushworth will be here in a moment with the
key. Do wait for Mr.\ Rushworth.''

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

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

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

{}``It is a pity he should have so much trouble for nothing.''

{}``\textit{That} is Miss Maria's concern. I am not obliged to punish
myself for \textit{her} sins. The mother I could not avoid, as long
as my tiresome aunt was dancing about with the housekeeper, but the
son I \textit{can} get away from.''

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

{}``They desired me to stay\mbox{---}my cousin Maria charged me
to say that you would find them at that knoll, or thereabouts.''

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

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

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

After an interval of silence, {}``I think they might as well have
staid for me,'' said he.

{}``Miss Bertram thought you would follow her.''

{}``I should not have had to follow her if she had staid.''

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

{}``I do not think him at all handsome.''

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

{}``What else have you been spunging?''\ said Maria, half-pleased
that Sotherton should be so complimented.

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

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


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XI}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XI}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER XI}

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

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

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

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

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

{}``Your father's return will be a very interesting event.''

{}``It will, indeed, after such an absence; an absence not only long,
but including so many dangers.''

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

{}``Yes.''

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

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

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

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

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

{}``Which you suppose has biassed me?''\ 

{}``But \textit{that} I am sure it has not,'' cried Fanny.

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

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

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

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

{}``What!\ take orders without a living! No; that is madness indeed;
absolute madness.''

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

{}``\textit{You} taught me to think and feel on the subject, cousin.''

{}``I had a very apt scholar. There's Arcturus looking very bright.''

{}``Yes, and the Bear. I wish I could see Cassiopeia.''

{}``We must go out on the lawn for that. Should you be afraid?''\ 

{}``Not in the least. It is a great while since we have had any star-gazing.''

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

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


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XII}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XII}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER XII}

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

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

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

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

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

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

{}``What a favourite he is with my cousins!''\ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

{}``The couple above, ma'am. Do you see no symptoms there?''\ 

{}``Oh dear! Miss Julia and Mr.\ Crawford. Yes, indeed, a very pretty
match. What is his property?''\ 

{}``Four thousand a year.''

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XIII}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XIII}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER XIII}

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

{}``I believe we must be satisfied with \textit{less},'' said Maria.
{}``There would not be time, and other difficulties would arise.
We must rather adopt Mr.\ Crawford's views, and make the \textit{performance},
not the \textit{theatre}, our object. Many parts of our best plays
are independent of scenery.''

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

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

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

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

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

{}``You are not serious, Tom, in meaning to act?''\ said Edmund,
in a low voice, as his brother approached the fire.

{}``Not serious!\ never more so, I assure you. What is there to
surprise you in it?''\ 

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

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

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

Edmund smiled and shook his head.

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

{}``What is the matter?''\ asked her ladyship, in the heavy tone
of one half-roused; {}``I was not asleep.''

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

{}``I cannot agree with you; I am convinced that my father would
totally disapprove it.''

{}``And I am convinced to the contrary. Nobody is fonder of the exercise
of talent in young people, or promotes it more, than my father, and
for anything of the acting, spouting, reciting kind, I think he has
always a decided taste. I am sure he encouraged it in us as boys.
How many a time have we mourned over the dead body of Julius C\ae{}sar,
and to \textit{be'd} and not \textit{to} \textit{be'd}, in this very
room, for his amusement? And I am sure, \textit{my} \textit{name}
\textit{was} \textit{Norval}, every evening of my life through one
Christmas holidays.''

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

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

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

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

{}``The innovation, if not wrong as an innovation, will be wrong
as an expense.''

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

{}``No, as to acting myself,'' said Edmund, {}``\textit{that} I
absolutely protest against.''

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

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

{}``I have no hope there, Fanny. If they persist in the scheme, they
will find something. I shall speak to my sisters and try to dissuade
\textit{them}, and that is all I can do.''

{}``I should think my aunt Norris would be on your side.''

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

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

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

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


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XIV}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XIV}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER XIV}

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

{}``Miss Crawford must be Amelia. She will be an excellent Amelia.''

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

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

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

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


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XV}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XV}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER XV}

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

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

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

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

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

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

{}``But what do you do for women?''\ said Edmund gravely, and looking
at Maria.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

{}``I am convinced, madam,'' said Edmund, preventing Fanny, {}``that
Sir Thomas would not like it.''

{}``There, my dear, do you hear what Edmund says?''\ 

{}``If I were to decline the part,'' said Maria, with renewed zeal,
{}``Julia would certainly take it.''

{}``What!''\ cried Edmund, {}``if she knew your reasons!''\ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

{}``\textit{The} \textit{Count} has two-and-forty speeches,'' returned
Mr.\ Rushworth, {}``which is no trifle.''

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

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

{}``Your \textit{brother} should take the part,'' said Mr.\ Yates,
in a low voice. {}``Do not you think he would?''\ 

{}``\textit{I} shall not ask him,'' replied Tom, in a cold, determined
manner.

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

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

{}``My advice,'' said he calmly, {}``is that you change the play.''

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

Edmund said no more.

{}``If \textit{any} part could tempt \textit{you} to act, I suppose
it would be Anhalt,'' observed the lady archly, after a short pause;
{}``for he is a clergyman, you know.''

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

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

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

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

{}``Oh!\ we do not want to disturb you from your seat. We do not
want your \textit{present} services. We shall only want you in our
play. You must be Cottager's wife.''

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

{}``I am not very sanguine as to our play,'' said Miss Crawford,
in an undervoice to Fanny, after some consideration; {}``and I can
tell Mr.\ Maddox that I shall shorten some of \textit{his} speeches,
and a great many of \textit{my} \textit{own}, before we rehearse together.
It will be very disagreeable, and by no means what I expected.''


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XVI}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XVI}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER XVI}

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

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

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

{}``Can I speak with you, Fanny, for a few minutes?''\ said he.

{}``Yes, certainly.''

{}``I want to consult. I want your opinion.''

{}``My opinion!''\ she cried, shrinking from such a compliment,
highly as it gratified her.

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

{}``Yes; but what can be done? Your brother is so determined.''

{}``There is but \textit{one} thing to be done, Fanny. I must take
Anhalt myself. I am well aware that nothing else will quiet Tom.''

Fanny could not answer him.

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

{}``No,'' said Fanny slowly, {}``not immediately, but\mbox{---}''

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

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

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

{}``Yes, it will be a great point.''

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

{}``No, I cannot think of anything else.''

{}``Give me your approbation, then, Fanny. I am not comfortable without
it.''

{}``Oh, cousin!''\ 

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

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

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

{}``She \textit{was} very kind, indeed, and I am glad to have her
spared''...

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

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

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


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XVII}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XVII}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER XVII}

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

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

{}``Perhaps,'' said Tom, {}``Fanny may be more disposed to oblige
us now. Perhaps you may persuade \textit{her}.''

{}``No, she is quite determined. She certainly will not act.''

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

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

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

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

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

{}``I rather wonder Julia is not in love with Henry,'' was her observation
to Mary.

{}``I dare say she is,'' replied Mary coldly. {}``I imagine both
sisters are.''

{}``Both!\ no, no, that must not be. Do not give him a hint of it.
Think of Mr.\ Rushworth!''\ 

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

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

{}``Sir Thomas is to achieve many mighty things when he comes home,''
said Mary, after a pause. {}``Do you remember Hawkins Browne's `Address
to Tobacco,' in imitation of Pope?\mbox{---} \begin{flushleft} \begin{verse} \footnotesize

Blest leaf! whose aromatic gales dispense \\*

To Templars modesty, to Parsons sense.

\end{verse} \end{flushleft} I will parody them\mbox{---} \begin{flushleft} \begin{verse} \footnotesize

\  \\

\mbox{Blest Knight! whose dictatorial looks dispense} \\*

\mbox{To Children affluence, to Rushworth sense.}

\end{verse} \end{flushleft} Will not that do, Mrs.\ Grant? Everything seems to depend upon Sir
Thomas's return.''

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

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

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

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

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

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


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XVIII}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XVIII}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER XVIII}

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

{}``Have I? I will do my best with the greatest readiness; but I
must \textit{read} the part, for I can say very little of it.''

{}``\textit{None} of it, I suppose. You are to have the book, of
course. Now for it. We must have two chairs at hand for you to bring
forward to the front of the stage. There\mbox{---}very good school-room
chairs, not made for a theatre, I dare say; much more fitted for little
girls to sit and kick their feet against when they are learning a
lesson. What would your governess and your uncle say to see them used
for such a purpose? Could Sir Thomas look in upon us just now, he
would bless himself, for we are rehearsing all over the house. Yates
is storming away in the dining-room. I heard him as I came upstairs,
and the theatre is engaged of course by those indefatigable rehearsers,
Agatha and Frederick. If \textit{they} are not perfect, I \textit{shall}
be surprised. By the bye, I looked in upon them five minutes ago,
and it happened to be exactly at one of the times when they were trying
\textit{not} to embrace, and Mr.\ Rushworth was with me. I thought
he began to look a little queer, so I turned it off as well as I could,
by whispering to him, `We shall have an excellent Agatha; there is
something so \textit{maternal} in her manner, so completely \textit{maternal}
in her voice and countenance.' Was not that well done of me? He brightened
up directly. Now for my soliloquy.''

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

{}``You have only to \textit{read} the part,'' said Henry Crawford,
with renewed entreaty.

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

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

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


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XIX}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XIX}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER XIX}

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

{}``Indeed!\ and what have you been acting?''\ 

{}``Oh!\ they'll tell you all about it.''

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

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

{}``Something must be done,'' said he.

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

Fanny told of their departure, and delivered their message.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sir Thomas looked again, and then replied with an approving smile,
{}``I am happy to find our sentiments on this subject so much the
same. It gives me sincere satisfaction. That I should be cautious
and quick-sighted, and feel many scruples which my children do \textit{not}
feel, is perfectly natural; and equally so that my value for domestic
tranquillity, for a home which shuts out noisy pleasures, should much
exceed theirs. But at your time of life to feel all this, is a most
favourable circumstance for yourself, and for everybody connected
with you; and I am sensible of the importance of having an ally of
such weight.''

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


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XX}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XX}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER XX}

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

{}``It is about my uncle's usual time.''

{}``When do you think of going?''\ 

{}``I may, perhaps, get as far as Banbury to-day.''

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

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

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

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

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

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


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XXI}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XXI}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER XXI}

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

{}``I did\mbox{---}and was in hopes the question would be followed
up by others. It would have pleased your uncle to be inquired of farther.''

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sir Thomas was satisfied; too glad to be satisfied, perhaps, to urge
the matter quite so far as his judgment might have dictated to others.
It was an alliance which he could not have relinquished without pain;
and thus he reasoned. Mr.\ Rushworth was young enough to improve.
Mr.\ Rushworth must and would improve in good society; and if Maria
could now speak so securely of her happiness with him, speaking certainly
without the prejudice, the blindness of love, she ought to be believed.
Her feelings, probably, were not acute; he had never supposed them
to be so; but her comforts might not be less on that account; and
if she could dispense with seeing her husband a leading, shining character,
there would certainly be everything else in her favour. A well-disposed
young woman, who did not marry for love, was in general but the more
attached to her own family; and the nearness of Sotherton to Mansfield
must naturally hold out the greatest temptation, and would, in all
probability, be a continual supply of the most amiable and innocent
enjoyments. Such and such-like were the reasonings of Sir Thomas,
happy to escape the embarrassing evils of a rupture, the wonder, the
reflections, the reproach that must attend it; happy to secure a marriage
which would bring him such an addition of respectability and influence,
and very happy to think anything of his daughter's disposition that
was most favourable for the purpose.

To her the conference closed as satisfactorily as to him. She was
in a state of mind to be glad that she had secured her fate beyond
recall: that she had pledged herself anew to Sotherton; that she was
safe from the possibility of giving Crawford the triumph of governing
her actions, and destroying her prospects; and retired in proud resolve,
determined only to behave more cautiously to Mr.\ Rushworth in future,
that her father might not be again suspecting her.

Had Sir Thomas applied to his daughter within the first three or four
days after Henry Crawford's leaving Mansfield, before her feelings
were at all tranquillised, before she had given up every hope of him,
or absolutely resolved on enduring his rival, her answer might have
been different; but after another three or four days, when there was
no return, no letter, no message, no symptom of a softened heart,
no hope of advantage from separation, her mind became cool enough
to seek all the comfort that pride and self revenge could give.

Henry Crawford had destroyed her happiness, but he should not know
that he had done it; he should not destroy her credit, her appearance,
her prosperity, too. He should not have to think of her as pining
in the retirement of Mansfield for \textit{him}, rejecting Sotherton
and London, independence and splendour, for \textit{his} sake. Independence
was more needful than ever; the want of it at Mansfield more sensibly
felt. She was less and less able to endure the restraint which her
father imposed. The liberty which his absence had given was now become
absolutely necessary. She must escape from him and Mansfield as soon
as possible, and find consolation in fortune and consequence, bustle
and the world, for a wounded spirit. Her mind was quite determined,
and varied not.

To such feelings delay, even the delay of much preparation, would
have been an evil, and Mr.\ Rushworth could hardly be more impatient
for the marriage than herself. In all the important preparations of
the mind she was complete: being prepared for matrimony by an hatred
of home, restraint, and tranquillity; by the misery of disappointed
affection, and contempt of the man she was to marry. The rest might
wait. The preparations of new carriages and furniture might wait for
London and spring, when her own taste could have fairer play.

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

Mrs.\ Rushworth was quite ready to retire, and make way for the fortunate
young woman whom her dear son had selected; and very early in November
removed herself, her maid, her footman, and her chariot, with true
dowager propriety, to Bath, there to parade over the wonders of Sotherton
in her evening parties; enjoying them as thoroughly, perhaps, in the
animation of a card-table, as she had ever done on the spot; and before
the middle of the same month the ceremony had taken place which gave
Sotherton another mistress.

It was a very proper wedding. The bride was elegantly dressed; the
two bridesmaids were duly inferior; her father gave her away; her
mother stood with salts in her hand, expecting to be agitated; her
aunt tried to cry; and the service was impressively read by Dr.\ Grant.
Nothing could be objected to when it came under the discussion of
the neighbourhood, except that the carriage which conveyed the bride
and bridegroom and Julia from the church-door to Sotherton was the
same chaise which Mr.\ Rushworth had used for a twelvemonth before.
In everything else the etiquette of the day might stand the strictest
investigation.

It was done, and they were gone. Sir Thomas felt as an anxious father
must feel, and was indeed experiencing much of the agitation which
his wife had been apprehensive of for herself, but had fortunately
escaped. Mrs.\ Norris, most happy to assist in the duties of the
day, by spending it at the Park to support her sister's spirits, and
drinking the health of Mr.\ and Mrs.\ Rushworth in a supernumerary
glass or two, was all joyous delight; for she had made the match;
she had done everything; and no one would have supposed, from her
confident triumph, that she had ever heard of conjugal infelicity
in her life, or could have the smallest insight into the disposition
of the niece who had been brought up under her eye.

The plan of the young couple was to proceed, after a few days, to
Brighton, and take a house there for some weeks. Every public place
was new to Maria, and Brighton is almost as gay in winter as in summer.
When the novelty of amusement there was over, it would be time for
the wider range of London.

Julia was to go with them to Brighton. Since rivalry between the sisters
had ceased, they had been gradually recovering much of their former
good understanding; and were at least sufficiently friends to make
each of them exceedingly glad to be with the other at such a time.
Some other companion than Mr.\ Rushworth was of the first consequence
to his lady; and Julia was quite as eager for novelty and pleasure
as Maria, though she might not have struggled through so much to obtain
them, and could better bear a subordinate situation.

Their departure made another material change at Mansfield, a chasm
which required some time to fill up. The family circle became greatly
contracted; and though the Miss Bertrams had latterly added little
to its gaiety, they could not but be missed. Even their mother missed
them; and how much more their tenderhearted cousin, who wandered about
the house, and thought of them, and felt for them, with a degree of
affectionate regret which they had never done much to deserve!


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XXII}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XXII}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER XXII}

Fanny's consequence increased on the departure of her cousins. Becoming,
as she then did, the only young woman in the drawing-room, the only
occupier of that interesting division of a family in which she had
hitherto held so humble a third, it was impossible for her not to
be more looked at, more thought of and attended to, than she had ever
been before; and {}``Where is Fanny?''\ became no uncommon question,
even without her being wanted for any one's convenience.

Not only at home did her value increase, but at the Parsonage too.
In that house, which she had hardly entered twice a year since Mr.\ Norris's
death, she became a welcome, an invited guest, and in the gloom and
dirt of a November day, most acceptable to Mary Crawford. Her visits
there, beginning by chance, were continued by solicitation. Mrs.\ Grant,
really eager to get any change for her sister, could, by the easiest
self-deceit, persuade herself that she was doing the kindest thing
by Fanny, and giving her the most important opportunities of improvement
in pressing her frequent calls.

Fanny, having been sent into the village on some errand by her aunt
Norris, was overtaken by a heavy shower close to the Parsonage; and
being descried from one of the windows endeavouring to find shelter
under the branches and lingering leaves of an oak just beyond their
premises, was forced, though not without some modest reluctance on
her part, to come in. A civil servant she had withstood; but when
Dr.\ Grant himself went out with an umbrella, there was nothing to
be done but to be very much ashamed, and to get into the house as
fast as possible; and to poor Miss Crawford, who had just been contemplating
the dismal rain in a very desponding state of mind, sighing over the
ruin of all her plan of exercise for that morning, and of every chance
of seeing a single creature beyond themselves for the next twenty-four
hours, the sound of a little bustle at the front door, and the sight
of Miss Price dripping with wet in the vestibule, was delightful.
The value of an event on a wet day in the country was most forcibly
brought before her. She was all alive again directly, and among the
most active in being useful to Fanny, in detecting her to be wetter
than she would at first allow, and providing her with dry clothes;
and Fanny, after being obliged to submit to all this attention, and
to being assisted and waited on by mistresses and maids, being also
obliged, on returning downstairs, to be fixed in their drawing-room
for an hour while the rain continued, the blessing of something fresh
to see and think of was thus extended to Miss Crawford, and might
carry on her spirits to the period of dressing and dinner.

The two sisters were so kind to her, and so pleasant, that Fanny might
have enjoyed her visit could she have believed herself not in the
way, and could she have foreseen that the weather would certainly
clear at the end of the hour, and save her from the shame of having
Dr.\ Grant's carriage and horses out to take her home, with which
she was threatened. As to anxiety for any alarm that her absence in
such weather might occasion at home, she had nothing to suffer on
that score; for as her being out was known only to her two aunts,
she was perfectly aware that none would be felt, and that in whatever
cottage aunt Norris might chuse to establish her during the rain,
her being in such cottage would be indubitable to aunt Bertram.

It was beginning to look brighter, when Fanny, observing a harp in
the room, asked some questions about it, which soon led to an acknowledgment
of her wishing very much to hear it, and a confession, which could
hardly be believed, of her having never yet heard it since its being
in Mansfield. To Fanny herself it appeared a very simple and natural
circumstance. She had scarcely ever been at the Parsonage since the
instrument's arrival, there had been no reason that she should; but
Miss Crawford, calling to mind an early expressed wish on the subject,
was concerned at her own neglect; and {}``Shall I play to you now?''\ 
and {}``What will you have?''\ were questions immediately following
with the readiest good-humour.

She played accordingly; happy to have a new listener, and a listener
who seemed so much obliged, so full of wonder at the performance,
and who shewed herself not wanting in taste. She played till Fanny's
eyes, straying to the window on the weather's being evidently fair,
spoke what she felt must be done.

{}``Another quarter of an hour,'' said Miss Crawford, {}``and we
shall see how it will be. Do not run away the first moment of its
holding up. Those clouds look alarming.''

{}``But they are passed over,'' said Fanny. {}``I have been watching
them. This weather is all from the south.''

{}``South or north, I know a black cloud when I see it; and you must
not set forward while it is so threatening. And besides, I want to
play something more to you\mbox{---}a very pretty piece\mbox{---}and
your cousin Edmund's prime favourite. You must stay and hear your
cousin's favourite.''

Fanny felt that she must; and though she had not waited for that sentence
to be thinking of Edmund, such a memento made her particularly awake
to his idea, and she fancied him sitting in that room again and again,
perhaps in the very spot where she sat now, listening with constant
delight to the favourite air, played, as it appeared to her, with
superior tone and expression; and though pleased with it herself,
and glad to like whatever was liked by him, she was more sincerely
impatient to go away at the conclusion of it than she had been before;
and on this being evident, she was so kindly asked to call again,
to take them in her walk whenever she could, to come and hear more
of the harp, that she felt it necessary to be done, if no objection
arose at home.

Such was the origin of the sort of intimacy which took place between
them within the first fortnight after the Miss Bertrams' going away\mbox{---}an
intimacy resulting principally from Miss Crawford's desire of something
new, and which had little reality in Fanny's feelings. Fanny went
to her every two or three days: it seemed a kind of fascination: she
could not be easy without going, and yet it was without loving her,
without ever thinking like her, without any sense of obligation for
being sought after now when nobody else was to be had; and deriving
no higher pleasure from her conversation than occasional amusement,
and \textit{that} often at the expense of her judgment, when it was
raised by pleasantry on people or subjects which she wished to be
respected. She went, however, and they sauntered about together many
an half-hour in Mrs.\ Grant's shrubbery, the weather being unusually
mild for the time of year, and venturing sometimes even to sit down
on one of the benches now comparatively unsheltered, remaining there
perhaps till, in the midst of some tender ejaculation of Fanny's on
the sweets of so protracted an autumn, they were forced, by the sudden
swell of a cold gust shaking down the last few yellow leaves about
them, to jump up and walk for warmth.

{}``This is pretty, very pretty,'' said Fanny, looking around her
as they were thus sitting together one day; {}``every time I come
into this shrubbery I am more struck with its growth and beauty. Three
years ago, this was nothing but a rough hedgerow along the upper side
of the field, never thought of as anything, or capable of becoming
anything; and now it is converted into a walk, and it would be difficult
to say whether most valuable as a convenience or an ornament; and
perhaps, in another three years, we may be forgetting\mbox{---}almost
forgetting what it was before. How wonderful, how very wonderful the
operations of time, and the changes of the human mind!''\ And following
the latter train of thought, she soon afterwards added: {}``If any
one faculty of our nature may be called \textit{more} wonderful than
the rest, I do think it is memory. There seems something more speakingly
incomprehensible in the powers, the failures, the inequalities of
memory, than in any other of our intelligences. The memory is sometimes
so retentive, so serviceable, so obedient; at others, so bewildered
and so weak; and at others again, so tyrannic, so beyond control!
We are, to be sure, a miracle every way; but our powers of recollecting
and of forgetting do seem peculiarly past finding out.''

Miss Crawford, untouched and inattentive, had nothing to say; and
Fanny, perceiving it, brought back her own mind to what she thought
must interest.

{}``It may seem impertinent in \textit{me} to praise, but I must
admire the taste Mrs.\ Grant has shewn in all this. There is such
a quiet simplicity in the plan of the walk! Not too much attempted!''\ 

{}``Yes,'' replied Miss Crawford carelessly, {}``it does very well
for a place of this sort. One does not think of extent \textit{here};
and between ourselves, till I came to Mansfield, I had not imagined
a country parson ever aspired to a shrubbery, or anything of the kind.''

{}``I am so glad to see the evergreens thrive!''\ said Fanny, in
reply. {}``My uncle's gardener always says the soil here is better
than his own, and so it appears from the growth of the laurels and
evergreens in general. The evergreen! How beautiful, how welcome,
how wonderful the evergreen! When one thinks of it, how astonishing
a variety of nature! In some countries we know the tree that sheds
its leaf is the variety, but that does not make it less amazing that
the same soil and the same sun should nurture plants differing in
the first rule and law of their existence. You will think me rhapsodising;
but when I am out of doors, especially when I am sitting out of doors,
I am very apt to get into this sort of wondering strain. One cannot
fix one's eyes on the commonest natural production without finding
food for a rambling fancy.''

{}``To say the truth,'' replied Miss Crawford, {}``I am something
like the famous Doge at the court of Lewis XIV.; and may declare that
I see no wonder in this shrubbery equal to seeing myself in it. If
anybody had told me a year ago that this place would be my home, that
I should be spending month after month here, as I have done, I certainly
should not have believed them. I have now been here nearly five months;
and, moreover, the quietest five months I ever passed.''

{}``\textit{Too} quiet for you, I believe.''

{}``I should have thought so \textit{theoretically} myself, but,''
and her eyes brightened as she spoke, {}``take it all and all, I
never spent so happy a summer. But then,'' with a more thoughtful
air and lowered voice, {}``there is no saying what it may lead to.''

Fanny's heart beat quick, and she felt quite unequal to surmising
or soliciting anything more. Miss Crawford, however, with renewed
animation, soon went on\mbox{---}

{}``I am conscious of being far better reconciled to a country residence
than I had ever expected to be. I can even suppose it pleasant to
spend \textit{half} the year in the country, under certain circumstances,
very pleasant. An elegant, moderate-sized house in the centre of family
connexions; continual engagements among them; commanding the first
society in the neighbourhood; looked up to, perhaps, as leading it
even more than those of larger fortune, and turning from the cheerful
round of such amusements to nothing worse than a \textit{t\^{e}te-\`{a}-t\^{e}te}
with the person one feels most agreeable in the world. There is nothing
frightful in such a picture, is there, Miss Price? One need not envy
the new Mrs.\ Rushworth with such a home as \textit{that}.'' {}``Envy
Mrs.\ Rushworth!''\ was all that Fanny attempted to say. {}``Come,
come, it would be very un-handsome in us to be severe on Mrs.\ Rushworth,
for I look forward to our owing her a great many gay, brilliant, happy
hours. I expect we shall be all very much at Sotherton another year.
Such a match as Miss Bertram has made is a public blessing; for the
first pleasures of Mr.\ Rushworth's wife must be to fill her house,
and give the best balls in the country.''

Fanny was silent, and Miss Crawford relapsed into thoughtfulness,
till suddenly looking up at the end of a few minutes, she exclaimed,
{}``Ah!\ here he is.'' It was not Mr.\ Rushworth, however, but
Edmund, who then appeared walking towards them with Mrs.\ Grant.
{}``My sister and Mr.\ Bertram. I am so glad your eldest cousin
is gone, that he may be Mr.\ Bertram again. There is something in
the sound of Mr.\ \textit{Edmund} Bertram so formal, so pitiful,
so younger-brother-like, that I detest it.''

{}``How differently we feel!''\ cried Fanny. {}``To me, the sound
of \textit{Mr.} Bertram is so cold and nothing-meaning, so entirely
without warmth or character! It just stands for a gentleman, and that's
all. But there is nobleness in the name of Edmund. It is a name of
heroism and renown; of kings, princes, and knights; and seems to breathe
the spirit of chivalry and warm affections.''

{}``I grant you the name is good in itself, and \textit{Lord} Edmund
or \textit{Sir} Edmund sound delightfully; but sink it under the chill,
the annihilation of a Mr., and Mr.\ Edmund is no more than Mr.\ John
or Mr.\ Thomas. Well, shall we join and disappoint them of half their
lecture upon sitting down out of doors at this time of year, by being
up before they can begin?''\ 

Edmund met them with particular pleasure. It was the first time of
his seeing them together since the beginning of that better acquaintance
which he had been hearing of with great satisfaction. A friendship
between two so very dear to him was exactly what he could have wished:
and to the credit of the lover's understanding, be it stated, that
he did not by any means consider Fanny as the only, or even as the
greater gainer by such a friendship.

{}``Well,'' said Miss Crawford, {}``and do you not scold us for
our imprudence? What do you think we have been sitting down for but
to be talked to about it, and entreated and supplicated never to do
so again?''\ 

{}``Perhaps I might have scolded,'' said Edmund, {}``if either
of you had been sitting down alone; but while you do wrong together,
I can overlook a great deal.''

{}``They cannot have been sitting long,'' cried Mrs.\ Grant, {}``for
when I went up for my shawl I saw them from the staircase window,
and then they were walking.''

{}``And really,'' added Edmund, {}``the day is so mild, that your
sitting down for a few minutes can be hardly thought imprudent. Our
weather must not always be judged by the calendar. We may sometimes
take greater liberties in November than in May.''

{}``Upon my word,'' cried Miss Crawford, {}``you are two of the
most disappointing and unfeeling kind friends I ever met with! There
is no giving you a moment's uneasiness. You do not know how much we
have been suffering, nor what chills we have felt! But I have long
thought Mr.\ Bertram one of the worst subjects to work on, in any
little man\oe{}uvre against common sense, that a woman could be plagued
with. I had very little hope of \textit{him} from the first; but you,
Mrs.\ Grant, my sister, my own sister, I think I had a right to alarm
you a little.''

{}``Do not flatter yourself, my dearest Mary. You have not the smallest
chance of moving me. I have my alarms, but they are quite in a different
quarter; and if I could have altered the weather, you would have had
a good sharp east wind blowing on you the whole time\mbox{---}for
here are some of my plants which Robert \textit{will} leave out because
the nights are so mild, and I know the end of it will be, that we
shall have a sudden change of weather, a hard frost setting in all
at once, taking everybody (at least Robert) by surprise, and I shall
lose every one; and what is worse, cook has just been telling me that
the turkey, which I particularly wished not to be dressed till Sunday,
because I know how much more Dr.\ Grant would enjoy it on Sunday
after the fatigues of the day, will not keep beyond to-morrow. These
are something like grievances, and make me think the weather most
unseasonably close.''

{}``The sweets of housekeeping in a country village!''\ said Miss
Crawford archly. {}``Commend me to the nurseryman and the poulterer.''

{}``My dear child, commend Dr.\ Grant to the deanery of Westminster
or St.\ Paul's, and I should be as glad of your nurseryman and poulterer
as you could be. But we have no such people in Mansfield. What would
you have me do?''\ 

{}``Oh!\ you can do nothing but what you do already: be plagued
very often, and never lose your temper.''

{}``Thank you; but there is no escaping these little vexations, Mary,
live where we may; and when you are settled in town and I come to
see you, I dare say I shall find you with yours, in spite of the nurseryman
and the poulterer, perhaps on their very account. Their remoteness
and unpunctuality, or their exorbitant charges and frauds, will be
drawing forth bitter lamentations.''

{}``I mean to be too rich to lament or to feel anything of the sort.
A large income is the best recipe for happiness I ever heard of. It
certainly may secure all the myrtle and turkey part of it.''

{}``You intend to be very rich?''\ said Edmund, with a look which,
to Fanny's eye, had a great deal of serious meaning.

{}``To be sure. Do not you? Do not we all?''\ 

{}``I cannot intend anything which it must be so completely beyond
my power to command. Miss Crawford may chuse her degree of wealth.
She has only to fix on her number of thousands a year, and there can
be no doubt of their coming. My intentions are only not to be poor.''

{}``By moderation and economy, and bringing down your wants to your
income, and all that. I understand you\mbox{---}and a very proper
plan it is for a person at your time of life, with such limited means
and indifferent connexions. What can \textit{you} want but a decent
maintenance? You have not much time before you; and your relations
are in no situation to do anything for you, or to mortify you by the
contrast of their own wealth and consequence. Be honest and poor,
by all means\mbox{---}but I shall not envy you; I do not much think
I shall even respect you. I have a much greater respect for those
that are honest and rich.''

{}``Your degree of respect for honesty, rich or poor, is precisely
what I have no manner of concern with. I do not mean to be poor. Poverty
is exactly what I have determined against. Honesty, in the something
between, in the middle state of worldly circumstances, is all that
I am anxious for your not looking down on.''

{}``But I do look down upon it, if it might have been higher. I must
look down upon anything contented with obscurity when it might rise
to distinction.''

{}``But how may it rise? How may my honesty at least rise to any
distinction?''\ 

This was not so very easy a question to answer, and occasioned an
{}``Oh!''\ of some length from the fair lady before she could add,
{}``You ought to be in parliament, or you should have gone into the
army ten years ago.''

{}``\textit{That} is not much to the purpose now; and as to my being
in parliament, I believe I must wait till there is an especial assembly
for the representation of younger sons who have little to live on.
No, Miss Crawford,'' he added, in a more serious tone, {}``there
\textit{are} distinctions which I should be miserable if I thought
myself without any chance\mbox{---}absolutely without chance or possibility
of obtaining\mbox{---}but they are of a different character.''

A look of consciousness as he spoke, and what seemed a consciousness
of manner on Miss Crawford's side as she made some laughing answer,
was sorrowfull food for Fanny's observation; and finding herself quite
unable to attend as she ought to Mrs.\ Grant, by whose side she was
now following the others, she had nearly resolved on going home immediately,
and only waited for courage to say so, when the sound of the great
clock at Mansfield Park, striking three, made her feel that she had
really been much longer absent than usual, and brought the previous
self-inquiry of whether she should take leave or not just then, and
how, to a very speedy issue. With undoubting decision she directly
began her \emph{adieu}s; and Edmund began at the same time to recollect
that his mother had been inquiring for her, and that he had walked
down to the Parsonage on purpose to bring her back.

Fanny's hurry increased; and without in the least expecting Edmund's
attendance, she would have hastened away alone; but the general pace
was quickened, and they all accompanied her into the house, through
which it was necessary to pass. Dr.\ Grant was in the vestibule,
and as they stopt to speak to him she found, from Edmund's manner,
that he \textit{did} mean to go with her. He too was taking leave.
She could not but be thankful. In the moment of parting, Edmund was
invited by Dr.\ Grant to eat his mutton with him the next day; and
Fanny had barely time for an unpleasant feeling on the occasion, when
Mrs.\ Grant, with sudden recollection, turned to her and asked for
the pleasure of her company too. This was so new an attention, so
perfectly new a circumstance in the events of Fanny's life, that she
was all surprise and embarrassment; and while stammering out her great
obligation, and her {}``but she did not suppose it would be in her
power,'' was looking at Edmund for his opinion and help. But Edmund,
delighted with her having such an happiness offered, and ascertaining
with half a look, and half a sentence, that she had no objection but
on her aunt's account, could not imagine that his mother would make
any difficulty of sparing her, and therefore gave his decided open
advice that the invitation should be accepted; and though Fanny would
not venture, even on his encouragement, to such a flight of audacious
independence, it was soon settled, that if nothing were heard to the
contrary, Mrs.\ Grant might expect her.

{}``And you know what your dinner will be,'' said Mrs.\ Grant,
smiling\mbox{---}{}``the turkey, and I assure you a very fine one;
for, my dear,'' turning to her husband, {}``cook insists upon the
turkey's being dressed to-morrow.''

{}``Very well, very well,'' cried Dr.\ Grant, {}``all the better;
I am glad to hear you have anything so good in the house. But Miss
Price and Mr.\ Edmund Bertram, I dare say, would take their chance.
We none of us want to hear the bill of fare. A friendly meeting, and
not a fine dinner, is all we have in view. A turkey, or a goose, or
a leg of mutton, or whatever you and your cook chuse to give us.''

The two cousins walked home together; and, except in the immediate
discussion of this engagement, which Edmund spoke of with the warmest
satisfaction, as so particularly desirable for her in the intimacy
which he saw with so much pleasure established, it was a silent walk;
for having finished that subject, he grew thoughtful and indisposed
for any other.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XXIII}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XXIII}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER XXIII}

{}``But why should Mrs.\ Grant ask Fanny?''\ said Lady Bertram.
{}``How came she to think of asking Fanny? Fanny never dines there,
you know, in this sort of way. I cannot spare her, and I am sure she
does not want to go. Fanny, you do not want to go, do you?''\ 

{}``If you put such a question to her,'' cried Edmund, preventing
his cousin's speaking, {}``Fanny will immediately say No; but I am
sure, my dear mother, she would like to go; and I can see no reason
why she should not.''

{}``I cannot imagine why Mrs.\ Grant should think of asking her?
She never did before. She used to ask your sisters now and then, but
she never asked Fanny.''

{}``If you cannot do without me, ma'am\mbox{---}'' said Fanny,
in a self-denying tone.

{}``But my mother will have my father with her all the evening.''

{}``To be sure, so I shall.''

{}``Suppose you take my father's opinion, ma'am.''

{}``That's well thought of. So I will, Edmund. I will ask Sir Thomas,
as soon as he comes in, whether I can do without her.''

{}``As you please, ma'am, on that head; but I meant my father's opinion
as to the \textit{propriety} of the invitation's being accepted or
not; and I think he will consider it a right thing by Mrs.\ Grant,
as well as by Fanny, that being the \textit{first} invitation it should
be accepted.''

{}``I do not know. We will ask him. But he will be very much surprised
that Mrs.\ Grant should ask Fanny at all.''

There was nothing more to be said, or that could be said to any purpose,
till Sir Thomas were present; but the subject involving, as it did,
her own evening's comfort for the morrow, was so much uppermost in
Lady Bertram's mind, that half an hour afterwards, on his looking
in for a minute in his way from his plantation to his dressing-room,
she called him back again, when he had almost closed the door, with
{}``Sir Thomas, stop a moment\mbox{---}I have something to say to
you.''

Her tone of calm languor, for she never took the trouble of raising
her voice, was always heard and attended to; and Sir Thomas came back.
Her story began; and Fanny immediately slipped out of the room; for
to hear herself the subject of any discussion with her uncle was more
than her nerves could bear. She was anxious, she knew\mbox{---}more
anxious perhaps than she ought to be\mbox{---}for what was it after
all whether she went or staid?\ but if her uncle were to be a great
while considering and deciding, and with very grave looks, and those
grave looks directed to her, and at last decide against her, she might
not be able to appear properly submissive and indifferent. Her cause,
meanwhile, went on well. It began, on Lady Bertram's part, with\mbox{---}{}``I
have something to tell you that will surprise you. Mrs.\ Grant has
asked Fanny to dinner.''

{}``Well,'' said Sir Thomas, as if waiting more to accomplish the
surprise.

{}``Edmund wants her to go. But how can I spare her?''\ 

{}``She will be late,'' said Sir Thomas, taking out his watch; {}``but
what is your difficulty?''\ 

Edmund found himself obliged to speak and fill up the blanks in his
mother's story. He told the whole; and she had only to add, {}``So
strange!\ for Mrs.\ Grant never used to ask her.''

{}``But is it not very natural,'' observed Edmund, {}``that Mrs.\ Grant
should wish to procure so agreeable a visitor for her sister?''\ 

{}``Nothing can be more natural,'' said Sir Thomas, after a short
deliberation; {}``nor, were there no sister in the case, could anything,
in my opinion, be more natural. Mrs.\ Grant's shewing civility to
Miss Price, to Lady Bertram's niece, could never want explanation.
The only surprise I can feel is, that this should be the \textit{first}
time of its being paid. Fanny was perfectly right in giving only a
conditional answer. She appears to feel as she ought. But as I conclude
that she must wish to go, since all young people like to be together,
I can see no reason why she should be denied the indulgence.''

{}``But can I do without her, Sir Thomas?''\ 

{}``Indeed I think you may.''

{}``She always makes tea, you know, when my sister is not here.''

{}``Your sister, perhaps, may be prevailed on to spend the day with
us, and I shall certainly be at home.''

{}``Very well, then, Fanny may go, Edmund.''

The good news soon followed her. Edmund knocked at her door in his
way to his own.

{}``Well, Fanny, it is all happily settled, and without the smallest
hesitation on your uncle's side. He had but one opinion. You are to
go.''

{}``Thank you, I am \textit{so} glad,'' was Fanny's instinctive
reply; though when she had turned from him and shut the door, she
could not help feeling, {}``And yet why should I be glad?\ for am
I not certain of seeing or hearing something there to pain me?''\ 

In spite of this conviction, however, she was glad. Simple as such
an engagement might appear in other eyes, it had novelty and importance
in hers, for excepting the day at Sotherton, she had scarcely ever
dined out before; and though now going only half a mile, and only
to three people, still it was dining out, and all the little interests
of preparation were enjoyments in themselves. She had neither sympathy
nor assistance from those who ought to have entered into her feelings
and directed her taste; for Lady Bertram never thought of being useful
to anybody, and Mrs.\ Norris, when she came on the morrow, in consequence
of an early call and invitation from Sir Thomas, was in a very ill
humour, and seemed intent only on lessening her niece's pleasure,
both present and future, as much as possible.

{}``Upon my word, Fanny, you are in high luck to meet with such attention
and indulgence! You ought to be very much obliged to Mrs.\ Grant
for thinking of you, and to your aunt for letting you go, and you
ought to look upon it as something extraordinary; for I hope you are
aware that there is no real occasion for your going into company in
this sort of way, or ever dining out at all; and it is what you must
not depend upon ever being repeated. Nor must you be fancying that
the invitation is meant as any particular compliment to \textit{you};
the compliment is intended to your uncle and aunt and me. Mrs.\ Grant
thinks it a civility due to \textit{us} to take a little notice of
you, or else it would never have come into her head, and you may be
very certain that, if your cousin Julia had been at home, you would
not have been asked at all.''

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

{}``Oh!\ depend upon it, your aunt can do very well without you,
or you would not be allowed to go.\  \textit{I} shall be here, so
you may be quite easy about your aunt. And I hope you will have a
very \textit{agreeable} day, and find it all mighty \textit{delightful}.
But I must observe that five is the very awkwardest of all possible
numbers to sit down to table; and I cannot but be surprised that such
an \textit{elegant} lady as Mrs.\ Grant should not contrive better!
And round their enormous great wide table, too, which fills up the
room so dreadfully! Had the doctor been contented to take my dining-table
when I came away, as anybody in their senses would have done, instead
of having that absurd new one of his own, which is wider, literally
wider than the dinner-table here, how infinitely better it would have
been!\ and how much more he would have been respected!\ for people
are never respected when they step out of their proper sphere. Remember
that, Fanny. Five\mbox{---}only five to be sitting round that table.
However, you will have dinner enough on it for ten, I dare say.''

Mrs.\ Norris fetched breath, and went on again.

{}``The nonsense and folly of people's stepping out of their rank
and trying to appear above themselves, makes me think it right to
give \textit{you} a hint, Fanny, now that you are going into company
without any of us; and I do beseech and entreat you not to be putting
yourself forward, and talking and giving your opinion as if you were
one of your cousins\mbox{---}as if you were dear Mrs.\ Rushworth
or Julia. \textit{That} will never do, believe me. Remember, wherever
you are, you must be the lowest and last; and though Miss Crawford
is in a manner at home at the Parsonage, you are not to be taking
place of her. And as to coming away at night, you are to stay just
as long as Edmund chuses. Leave him to settle \textit{that}.''

{}``Yes, ma'am, I should not think of anything else.''

{}``And if it should rain, which I think exceedingly likely, for
I never saw it more threatening for a wet evening in my life, you
must manage as well as you can, and not be expecting the carriage
to be sent for you. I certainly do not go home to-night, and, therefore,
the carriage will not be out on my account; so you must make up your
mind to what may happen, and take your things accordingly.''

Her niece thought it perfectly reasonable. She rated her own claims
to comfort as low even as Mrs.\ Norris could; and when Sir Thomas
soon afterwards, just opening the door, said, {}``Fanny, at what
time would you have the carriage come round?''\ she felt a degree
of astonishment which made it impossible for her to speak.

{}``My dear Sir Thomas!''\ cried Mrs.\ Norris, red with anger,
{}``Fanny can walk.''

{}``Walk!''\ repeated Sir Thomas, in a tone of most unanswerable
dignity, and coming farther into the room. {}``My niece walk to a
dinner engagement at this time of the year! Will twenty minutes after
four suit you?''\ 

{}``Yes, sir,'' was Fanny's humble answer, given with the feelings
almost of a criminal towards Mrs.\ Norris; and not bearing to remain
with her in what might seem a state of triumph, she followed her uncle
out of the room, having staid behind him only long enough to hear
these words spoken in angry agitation\mbox{---}

{}``Quite unnecessary!\ a great deal too kind! But Edmund goes;
true, it is upon Edmund's account. I observed he was hoarse on Thursday
night.''

But this could not impose on Fanny. She felt that the carriage was
for herself, and herself alone: and her uncle's consideration of her,
coming immediately after such representations from her aunt, cost
her some tears of gratitude when she was alone.

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

{}``Now I must look at you, Fanny,'' said Edmund, with the kind
smile of an affectionate brother, {}``and tell you how I like you;
and as well as I can judge by this light, you look very nicely indeed.
What have you got on?''\ 

{}``The new dress that my uncle was so good as to give me on my cousin's
marriage. I hope it is not too fine; but I thought I ought to wear
it as soon as I could, and that I might not have such another opportunity
all the winter. I hope you do not think me too fine.''

{}``A woman can never be too fine while she is all in white. No,
I see no finery about you; nothing but what is perfectly proper. Your
gown seems very pretty. I like these glossy spots. Has not Miss Crawford
a gown something the same?''\ 

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

{}``Heyday!''\ said Edmund, {}``here's company, here's a carriage!\ who
have they got to meet us?''\ And letting down the side-glass to
distinguish, {}``'Tis Crawford's, Crawford's barouche, I protest!
There are his own two men pushing it back into its old quarters. He
is here, of course. This is quite a surprise, Fanny. I shall be very
glad to see him.''

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

In the drawing-room Mr.\ Crawford certainly was, having been just
long enough arrived to be ready for dinner; and the smiles and pleased
looks of the three others standing round him, shewed how welcome was
his sudden resolution of coming to them for a few days on leaving
Bath. A very cordial meeting passed between him and Edmund; and with
the exception of Fanny, the pleasure was general; and even to \textit{her}
there might be some advantage in his presence, since every addition
to the party must rather forward her favourite indulgence of being
suffered to sit silent and unattended to. She was soon aware of this
herself; for though she must submit, as her own propriety of mind
directed, in spite of her aunt Norris's opinion, to being the principal
lady in company, and to all the little distinctions consequent thereon,
she found, while they were at table, such a happy flow of conversation
prevailing, in which she was not required to take any part\mbox{---}there
was so much to be said between the brother and sister about Bath,
so much between the two young men about hunting, so much of politics
between Mr.\ Crawford and Dr.\ Grant, and of everything and all
together between Mr.\ Crawford and Mrs.\ Grant, as to leave her
the fairest prospect of having only to listen in quiet, and of passing
a very agreeable day. She could not compliment the newly arrived gentleman,
however, with any appearance of interest, in a scheme for extending
his stay at Mansfield, and sending for his hunters from Norfolk, which,
suggested by Dr.\ Grant, advised by Edmund, and warmly urged by the
two sisters, was soon in possession of his mind, and which he seemed
to want to be encouraged even by her to resolve on. Her opinion was
sought as to the probable continuance of the open weather, but her
answers were as short and indifferent as civility allowed. She could
not wish him to stay, and would much rather not have him speak to
her.

Her two absent cousins, especially Maria, were much in her thoughts
on seeing him; but no embarrassing remembrance affected \textit{his}
spirits. Here he was again on the same ground where all had passed
before, and apparently as willing to stay and be happy without the
Miss Bertrams, as if he had never known Mansfield in any other state.
She heard them spoken of by him only in a general way, till they were
all re-assembled in the drawing-room, when Edmund, being engaged apart
in some matter of business with Dr.\ Grant, which seemed entirely
to engross them, and Mrs.\ Grant occupied at the tea-table, he began
talking of them with more particularity to his other sister. With
a significant smile, which made Fanny quite hate him, he said, {}``So!
Rushworth and his fair bride are at Brighton, I understand; happy
man!''\ 

{}``Yes, they have been there about a fortnight, Miss Price, have
they not? And Julia is with them.''

{}``And Mr.\ Yates, I presume, is not far off.''

{}``Mr.\ Yates! Oh!\ we hear nothing of Mr.\ Yates. I do not imagine
he figures much in the letters to Mansfield Park; do you, Miss Price?
I think my friend Julia knows better than to entertain her father
with Mr.\ Yates.''

{}``Poor Rushworth and his two-and-forty speeches!''\ continued
Crawford. {}``Nobody can ever forget them. Poor fellow! I see him
now\mbox{---}his toil and his despair. Well, I am much mistaken if
his lovely Maria will ever want him to make two-and-forty speeches
to her''; adding, with a momentary seriousness, {}``She is too good
for him\mbox{---}much too good.'' And then changing his tone again
to one of gentle gallantry, and addressing Fanny, he said, {}``You
were Mr.\ Rushworth's best friend. Your kindness and patience can
never be forgotten, your indefatigable patience in trying to make
it possible for him to learn his part\mbox{---}in trying to give
him a brain which nature had denied\mbox{---}to mix up an understanding
for him out of the superfluity of your own! \textit{He} might not
have sense enough himself to estimate your kindness, but I may venture
to say that it had honour from all the rest of the party.''

Fanny coloured, and said nothing.

{}``It is as a dream, a pleasant dream!''\ he exclaimed, breaking
forth again, after a few minutes' musing. {}``I shall always look
back on our theatricals with exquisite pleasure. There was such an
interest, such an animation, such a spirit diffused. Everybody felt
it. We were all alive. There was employment, hope, solicitude, bustle,
for every hour of the day. Always some little objection, some little
doubt, some little anxiety to be got over. I never was happier.''

With silent indignation Fanny repeated to herself, {}``Never happier!\mbox{---}never
happier than when doing what you must know was not justifiable!\mbox{---}never
happier than when behaving so dishonourably and unfeelingly! Oh!\ what
a corrupted mind!''\ 

{}``We were unlucky, Miss Price,'' he continued, in a lower tone,
to avoid the possibility of being heard by Edmund, and not at all
aware of her feelings, {}``we certainly were very unlucky. Another
week, only one other week, would have been enough for us. I think
if we had had the disposal of events\mbox{---}if Mansfield Park had
had the government of the winds just for a week or two, about the
equinox, there would have been a difference. Not that we would have
endangered his safety by any tremendous weather\mbox{---}but only
by a steady contrary wind, or a calm. I think, Miss Price, we would
have indulged ourselves with a week's calm in the Atlantic at that
season.''

He seemed determined to be answered; and Fanny, averting her face,
said, with a firmer tone than usual, {}``As far as \textit{I} am
concerned, sir, I would not have delayed his return for a day. My
uncle disapproved it all so entirely when he did arrive, that in my
opinion everything had gone quite far enough.''

She had never spoken so much at once to him in her life before, and
never so angrily to any one; and when her speech was over, she trembled
and blushed at her own daring. He was surprised; but after a few moments'
silent consideration of her, replied in a calmer, graver tone, and
as if the candid result of conviction, {}``I believe you are right.
It was more pleasant than prudent. We were getting too noisy.'' And
then turning the conversation, he would have engaged her on some other
subject, but her answers were so shy and reluctant that he could not
advance in any.

Miss Crawford, who had been repeatedly eyeing Dr.\ Grant and Edmund,
now observed, {}``Those gentlemen must have some very interesting
point to discuss.''

{}``The most interesting in the world,'' replied her brother\mbox{---}{}``how
to make money; how to turn a good income into a better. Dr.\ Grant
is giving Bertram instructions about the living he is to step into
so soon. I find he takes orders in a few weeks. They were at it in
the dining-parlour. I am glad to hear Bertram will be so well off.
He will have a very pretty income to make ducks and drakes with, and
earned without much trouble. I apprehend he will not have less than
seven hundred a year. Seven hundred a year is a fine thing for a younger
brother; and as of course he will still live at home, it will be all
for his \textit{menus} \textit{plaisirs}; and a sermon at Christmas
and Easter, I suppose, will be the sum total of sacrifice.''

His sister tried to laugh off her feelings by saying, {}``Nothing
amuses me more than the easy manner with which everybody settles the
abundance of those who have a great deal less than themselves. You
would look rather blank, Henry, if your \textit{menus} \textit{plaisirs}
were to be limited to seven hundred a year.''

{}``Perhaps I might; but all \textit{that} you know is entirely comparative.
Birthright and habit must settle the business. Bertram is certainly
well off for a cadet of even a baronet's family. By the time he is
four or five and twenty he will have seven hundred a year, and nothing
to do for it.''

Miss Crawford \textit{could} have said that there would be a something
to do and to suffer for it, which she could not think lightly of;
but she checked herself and let it pass; and tried to look calm and
unconcerned when the two gentlemen shortly afterwards joined them.

{}``Bertram,'' said Henry Crawford, {}``I shall make a point of
coming to Mansfield to hear you preach your first sermon. I shall
come on purpose to encourage a young beginner. When is it to be? Miss
Price, will not you join me in encouraging your cousin? Will not you
engage to attend with your eyes steadily fixed on him the whole time\mbox{---}as
I shall do\mbox{---}not to lose a word; or only looking off just
to note down any sentence preeminently beautiful? We will provide
ourselves with tablets and a pencil. When will it be? You must preach
at Mansfield, you know, that Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram may hear
you.''

{}``I shall keep clear of you, Crawford, as long as I can,'' said
Edmund; {}``for you would be more likely to disconcert me, and I
should be more sorry to see you trying at it than almost any other
man.''

{}``Will he not feel this?''\ thought Fanny. {}``No, he can feel
nothing as he ought.''

The party being now all united, and the chief talkers attracting each
other, she remained in tranquillity; and as a whist-table was formed
after tea\mbox{---}formed really for the amusement of Dr.\ Grant,
by his attentive wife, though it was not to be supposed so\mbox{---}and
Miss Crawford took her harp, she had nothing to do but to listen;
and her tranquillity remained undisturbed the rest of the evening,
except when Mr.\ Crawford now and then addressed to her a question
or observation, which she could not avoid answering. Miss Crawford
was too much vexed by what had passed to be in a humour for anything
but music. With that she soothed herself and amused her friend.

The assurance of Edmund's being so soon to take orders, coming upon
her like a blow that had been suspended, and still hoped uncertain
and at a distance, was felt with resentment and mortification. She
was very angry with him. She had thought her influence more. She \textit{had}
begun to think of him; she felt that she had, with great regard, with
almost decided intentions; but she would now meet him with his own
cool feelings. It was plain that he could have no serious views, no
true attachment, by fixing himself in a situation which he must know
she would never stoop to. She would learn to match him in his indifference.
She would henceforth admit his attentions without any idea beyond
immediate amusement. If \textit{he} could so command his affections,
\textit{hers} should do her no harm.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XXIV}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XXIV}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER XXIV}

Henry Crawford had quite made up his mind by the next morning to give
another fortnight to Mansfield, and having sent for his hunters, and
written a few lines of explanation to the Admiral, he looked round
at his sister as he sealed and threw the letter from him, and seeing
the coast clear of the rest of the family, said, with a smile, {}``And
how do you think I mean to amuse myself, Mary, on the days that I
do not hunt? I am grown too old to go out more than three times a
week; but I have a plan for the intermediate days, and what do you
think it is?''\ 

{}``To walk and ride with me, to be sure.''

{}``Not exactly, though I shall be happy to do both, but \textit{that}
would be exercise only to my body, and I must take care of my mind.
Besides, \textit{that} would be all recreation and indulgence, without
the wholesome alloy of labour, and I do not like to eat the bread
of idleness. No, my plan is to make Fanny Price in love with me.''

{}``Fanny Price! Nonsense! No, no. You ought to be satisfied with
her two cousins.''

{}``But I cannot be satisfied without Fanny Price, without making
a small hole in Fanny Price's heart. You do not seem properly aware
of her claims to notice. When we talked of her last night, you none
of you seemed sensible of the wonderful improvement that has taken
place in her looks within the last six weeks. You see her every day,
and therefore do not notice it; but I assure you she is quite a different
creature from what she was in the autumn. She was then merely a quiet,
modest, not plain-looking girl, but she is now absolutely pretty.
I used to think she had neither complexion nor countenance; but in
that soft skin of hers, so frequently tinged with a blush as it was
yesterday, there is decided beauty; and from what I observed of her
eyes and mouth, I do not despair of their being capable of expression
enough when she has anything to express. And then, her air, her manner,
her \textit{tout} \textit{ensemble}, is so indescribably improved!
She must be grown two inches, at least, since October.''

{}``Phoo!\ phoo! This is only because there were no tall women to
compare her with, and because she has got a new gown, and you never
saw her so well dressed before. She is just what she was in October,
believe me. The truth is, that she was the only girl in company for
you to notice, and you must have a somebody. I have always thought
her pretty\mbox{---}not strikingly pretty\mbox{---}but `pretty enough,'
as people say; a sort of beauty that grows on one. Her eyes should
be darker, but she has a sweet smile; but as for this wonderful degree
of improvement, I am sure it may all be resolved into a better style
of dress, and your having nobody else to look at; and therefore, if
you do set about a flirtation with her, you never will persuade me
that it is in compliment to her beauty, or that it proceeds from anything
but your own idleness and folly.''

Her brother gave only a smile to this accusation, and soon afterwards
said, {}``I do not quite know what to make of Miss Fanny. I do not
understand her. I could not tell what she would be at yesterday. What
is her character? Is she solemn? Is she queer? Is she prudish? Why
did she draw back and look so grave at me? I could hardly get her
to speak. I never was so long in company with a girl in my life, trying
to entertain her, and succeed so ill! Never met with a girl who looked
so grave on me! I must try to get the better of this. Her looks say,
`I will not like you, I am determined not to like you'; and I say
she shall.''

{}``Foolish fellow! And so this is her attraction after all! This
it is, her not caring about you, which gives her such a soft skin,
and makes her so much taller, and produces all these charms and graces!
I do desire that you will not be making her really unhappy; a \textit{little}
love, perhaps, may animate and do her good, but I will not have you
plunge her deep, for she is as good a little creature as ever lived,
and has a great deal of feeling.''

{}``It can be but for a fortnight,'' said Henry; {}``and if a fortnight
can kill her, she must have a constitution which nothing could save.
No, I will not do her any harm, dear little soul!\ only want her
to look kindly on me, to give me smiles as well as blushes, to keep
a chair for me by herself wherever we are, and be all animation when
I take it and talk to her; to think as I think, be interested in all
my possessions and pleasures, try to keep me longer at Mansfield,
and feel when I go away that she shall be never happy again. I want
nothing more.''

{}``Moderation itself!''\ said Mary. {}``I can have no scruples
now. Well, you will have opportunities enough of endeavouring to recommend
yourself, for we are a great deal together.''

And without attempting any farther remonstrance, she left Fanny to
her fate, a fate which, had not Fanny's heart been guarded in a way
unsuspected by Miss Crawford, might have been a little harder than
she deserved; for although there doubtless are such unconquerable
young ladies of eighteen (or one should not read about them) as are
never to be persuaded into love against their judgment by all that
talent, manner, attention, and flattery can do, I have no inclination
to believe Fanny one of them, or to think that with so much tenderness
of disposition, and so much taste as belonged to her, she could have
escaped heart-whole from the courtship (though the courtship only
of a fortnight) of such a man as Crawford, in spite of there being
some previous ill opinion of him to be overcome, had not her affection
been engaged elsewhere. With all the security which love of another
and disesteem of him could give to the peace of mind he was attacking,
his continued attentions\mbox{---}continued, but not obtrusive, and
adapting themselves more and more to the gentleness and delicacy of
her character\mbox{---}obliged her very soon to dislike him less
than formerly. She had by no means forgotten the past, and she thought
as ill of him as ever; but she felt his powers: he was entertaining;
and his manners were so improved, so polite, so seriously and blamelessly
polite, that it was impossible not to be civil to him in return.

A very few days were enough to effect this; and at the end of those
few days, circumstances arose which had a tendency rather to forward
his views of pleasing her, inasmuch as they gave her a degree of happiness
which must dispose her to be pleased with everybody. William, her
brother, the so long absent and dearly loved brother, was in England
again. She had a letter from him herself, a few hurried happy lines,
written as the ship came up Channel, and sent into Portsmouth with
the first boat that left the \emph{Antwerp} at anchor in Spithead;
and when Crawford walked up with the newspaper in his hand, which
he had hoped would bring the first tidings, he found her trembling
with joy over this letter, and listening with a glowing, grateful
countenance to the kind invitation which her uncle was most collectedly
dictating in reply.

It was but the day before that Crawford had made himself thoroughly
master of the subject, or had in fact become at all aware of her having
such a brother, or his being in such a ship, but the interest then
excited had been very properly lively, determining him on his return
to town to apply for information as to the probable period of the
\emph{Antwerp}'s return from the Mediterranean, \textit{etc}.; and
the good luck which attended his early examination of ship news the
next morning seemed the reward of his ingenuity in finding out such
a method of pleasing her, as well as of his dutiful attention to the
Admiral, in having for many years taken in the paper esteemed to have
the earliest naval intelligence. He proved, however, to be too late.
All those fine first feelings, of which he had hoped to be the exciter,
were already given. But his intention, the kindness of his intention,
was thankfully acknowledged: quite thankfully and warmly, for she
was elevated beyond the common timidity of her mind by the flow of
her love for William.

This dear William would soon be amongst them. There could be no doubt
of his obtaining leave of absence immediately, for he was still only
a midshipman; and as his parents, from living on the spot, must already
have seen him, and be seeing him perhaps daily, his direct holidays
might with justice be instantly given to the sister, who had been
his best correspondent through a period of seven years, and the uncle
who had done most for his support and advancement; and accordingly
the reply to her reply, fixing a very early day for his arrival, came
as soon as possible; and scarcely ten days had passed since Fanny
had been in the agitation of her first dinner-visit, when she found
herself in an agitation of a higher nature, watching in the hall,
in the lobby, on the stairs, for the first sound of the carriage which
was to bring her a brother.

It came happily while she was thus waiting; and there being neither
ceremony nor fearfulness to delay the moment of meeting, she was with
him as he entered the house, and the first minutes of exquisite feeling
had no interruption and no witnesses, unless the servants chiefly
intent upon opening the proper doors could be called such. This was
exactly what Sir Thomas and Edmund had been separately conniving at,
as each proved to the other by the sympathetic alacrity with which
they both advised Mrs.\ Norris's continuing where she was, instead
of rushing out into the hall as soon as the noises of the arrival
reached them.

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

It was long before Fanny could recover from the agitating happiness
of such an hour as was formed by the last thirty minutes of expectation,
and the first of fruition; it was some time even before her happiness
could be said to make her happy, before the disappointment inseparable
from the alteration of person had vanished, and she could see in him
the same William as before, and talk to him, as her heart had been
yearning to do through many a past year. That time, however, did gradually
come, forwarded by an affection on his side as warm as her own, and
much less encumbered by refinement or self-distrust. She was the first
object of his love, but it was a love which his stronger spirits,
and bolder temper, made it as natural for him to express as to feel.
On the morrow they were walking about together with true enjoyment,
and every succeeding morrow renewed a \textit{t\^{e}te-\`{a}-t\^{e}te}
which Sir Thomas could not but observe with complacency, even before
Edmund had pointed it out to him.

Excepting the moments of peculiar delight, which any marked or unlooked-for
instance of Edmund's consideration of her in the last few months had
excited, Fanny had never known so much felicity in her life, as in
this unchecked, equal, fearless intercourse with the brother and friend
who was opening all his heart to her, telling her all his hopes and
fears, plans, and solicitudes respecting that long thought of, dearly
earned, and justly valued blessing of promotion; who could give her
direct and minute information of the father and mother, brothers and
sisters, of whom she very seldom heard; who was interested in all
the comforts and all the little hardships of her home at Mansfield;
ready to think of every member of that home as she directed, or differing
only by a less scrupulous opinion, and more noisy abuse of their aunt
Norris, and with whom (perhaps the dearest indulgence of the whole)
all the evil and good of their earliest years could be gone over again,
and every former united pain and pleasure retraced with the fondest
recollection. An advantage this, a strengthener of love, in which
even the conjugal tie is beneath the fraternal. Children of the same
family, the same blood, with the same first associations and habits,
have some means of enjoyment in their power, which no subsequent connexions
can supply; and it must be by a long and unnatural estrangement, by
a divorce which no subsequent connexion can justify, if such precious
remains of the earliest attachments are ever entirely outlived. Too
often, alas! it is so. Fraternal love, sometimes almost everything,
is at others worse than nothing. But with William and Fanny Price
it was still a sentiment in all its prime and freshness, wounded by
no opposition of interest, cooled by no separate attachment, and feeling
the influence of time and absence only in its increase.

An affection so amiable was advancing each in the opinion of all who
had hearts to value anything good. Henry Crawford was as much struck
with it as any. He honoured the warm-hearted, blunt fondness of the
young sailor, which led him to say, with his hands stretched towards
Fanny's head, {}``Do you know, I begin to like that queer fashion
already, though when I first heard of such things being done in England,
I could not believe it; and when Mrs.\ Brown, and the other women
at the Commissioner's at Gibraltar, appeared in the same trim, I thought
they were mad; but Fanny can reconcile me to anything''; and saw,
with lively admiration, the glow of Fanny's cheek, the brightness
of her eye, the deep interest, the absorbed attention, while her brother
was describing any of the imminent hazards, or terrific scenes, which
such a period at sea must supply.

It was a picture which Henry Crawford had moral taste enough to value.
Fanny's attractions increased\mbox{---}increased twofold; for the
sensibility which beautified her complexion and illumined her countenance
was an attraction in itself. He was no longer in doubt of the capabilities
of her heart. She had feeling, genuine feeling. It would be something
to be loved by such a girl, to excite the first ardours of her young
unsophisticated mind! She interested him more than he had foreseen.
A fortnight was not enough. His stay became indefinite.

William was often called on by his uncle to be the talker. His recitals
were amusing in themselves to Sir Thomas, but the chief object in
seeking them was to understand the reciter, to know the young man
by his histories; and he listened to his clear, simple, spirited details
with full satisfaction, seeing in them the proof of good principles,
professional knowledge, energy, courage, and cheerfulness, everything
that could deserve or promise well. Young as he was, William had already
seen a great deal. He had been in the Mediterranean; in the West Indies;
in the Mediterranean again; had been often taken on shore by the favour
of his captain, and in the course of seven years had known every variety
of danger which sea and war together could offer. With such means
in his power he had a right to be listened to; and though Mrs.\ Norris
could fidget about the room, and disturb everybody in quest of two
needlefuls of thread or a second-hand shirt button, in the midst of
her nephew's account of a shipwreck or an engagement, everybody else
was attentive; and even Lady Bertram could not hear of such horrors
unmoved, or without sometimes lifting her eyes from her work to say,
{}``Dear me!\ how disagreeable! I wonder anybody can ever go to
sea.''

To Henry Crawford they gave a different feeling. He longed to have
been at sea, and seen and done and suffered as much. His heart was
warmed, his fancy fired, and he felt the highest respect for a lad
who, before he was twenty, had gone through such bodily hardships
and given such proofs of mind. The glory of heroism, of usefulness,
of exertion, of endurance, made his own habits of selfish indulgence
appear in shameful contrast; and he wished he had been a William Price,
distinguishing himself and working his way to fortune and consequence
with so much self-respect and happy ardour, instead of what he was!

The wish was rather eager than lasting. He was roused from the reverie
of retrospection and regret produced by it, by some inquiry from Edmund
as to his plans for the next day's hunting; and he found it was as
well to be a man of fortune at once with horses and grooms at his
command. In one respect it was better, as it gave him the means of
conferring a kindness where he wished to oblige. With spirits, courage,
and curiosity up to anything, William expressed an inclination to
hunt; and Crawford could mount him without the slightest inconvenience
to himself, and with only some scruples to obviate in Sir Thomas,
who knew better than his nephew the value of such a loan, and some
alarms to reason away in Fanny. She feared for William; by no means
convinced by all that he could relate of his own horsemanship in various
countries, of the scrambling parties in which he had been engaged,
the rough horses and mules he had ridden, or his many narrow escapes
from dreadful falls, that he was at all equal to the management of
a high-fed hunter in an English fox-chase; nor till he returned safe
and well, without accident or discredit, could she be reconciled to
the risk, or feel any of that obligation to Mr.\ Crawford for lending
the horse which he had fully intended it should produce. When it was
proved, however, to have done William no harm, she could allow it
to be a kindness, and even reward the owner with a smile when the
animal was one minute tendered to his use again; and the next, with
the greatest cordiality, and in a manner not to be resisted, made
over to his use entirely so long as he remained in Northamptonshire.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XXV}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XXV}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER XXV}

The intercourse of the two families was at this period more nearly
restored to what it had been in the autumn, than any member of the
old intimacy had thought ever likely to be again. The return of Henry
Crawford, and the arrival of William Price, had much to do with it,
but much was still owing to Sir Thomas's more than toleration of the
neighbourly attempts at the Parsonage. His mind, now disengaged from
the cares which had pressed on him at first, was at leisure to find
the Grants and their young inmates really worth visiting; and though
infinitely above scheming or contriving for any the most advantageous
matrimonial establishment that could be among the apparent possibilities
of any one most dear to him, and disdaining even as a littleness the
being quick-sighted on such points, he could not avoid perceiving,
in a grand and careless way, that Mr.\ Crawford was somewhat distinguishing
his niece\mbox{---}nor perhaps refrain (though unconsciously) from
giving a more willing assent to invitations on that account.

His readiness, however, in agreeing to dine at the Parsonage, when
the general invitation was at last hazarded, after many debates and
many doubts as to whether it were worth while, {}``because Sir Thomas
seemed so ill inclined, and Lady Bertram was so indolent!''\ proceeded
from good-breeding and goodwill alone, and had nothing to do with
Mr.\ Crawford, but as being one in an agreeable group: for it was
in the course of that very visit that he first began to think that
any one in the habit of such idle observations \textit{would} \textit{have}
\textit{thought} that Mr.\ Crawford was the admirer of Fanny Price.

The meeting was generally felt to be a pleasant one, being composed
in a good proportion of those who would talk and those who would listen;
and the dinner itself was elegant and plentiful, according to the
usual style of the Grants, and too much according to the usual habits
of all to raise any emotion except in Mrs.\ Norris, who could never
behold either the wide table or the number of dishes on it with patience,
and who did always contrive to experience some evil from the passing
of the servants behind her chair, and to bring away some fresh conviction
of its being impossible among so many dishes but that some must be
cold.

In the evening it was found, according to the predetermination of
Mrs.\ Grant and her sister, that after making up the whist-table
there would remain sufficient for a round game, and everybody being
as perfectly complying and without a choice as on such occasions they
always are, speculation was decided on almost as soon as whist; and
Lady Bertram soon found herself in the critical situation of being
applied to for her own choice between the games, and being required
either to draw a card for whist or not. She hesitated. Luckily Sir
Thomas was at hand.

{}``What shall I do, Sir Thomas? Whist and speculation; which will
amuse me most?''\ 

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

{}``Very well,'' was her ladyship's contented answer; {}``then
speculation, if you please, Mrs.\ Grant. I know nothing about it,
but Fanny must teach me.''

Here Fanny interposed, however, with anxious protestations of her
own equal ignorance; she had never played the game nor seen it played
in her life; and Lady Bertram felt a moment's indecision again; but
upon everybody's assuring her that nothing could be so easy, that
it was the easiest game on the cards, and Henry Crawford's stepping
forward with a most earnest request to be allowed to sit between her
ladyship and Miss Price, and teach them both, it was so settled; and
Sir Thomas, Mrs.\ Norris, and Dr.\ and Mrs.\ Grant being seated
at the table of prime intellectual state and dignity, the remaining
six, under Miss Crawford's direction, were arranged round the other.
It was a fine arrangement for Henry Crawford, who was close to Fanny,
and with his hands full of business, having two persons' cards to
manage as well as his own; for though it was impossible for Fanny
not to feel herself mistress of the rules of the game in three minutes,
he had yet to inspirit her play, sharpen her avarice, and harden her
heart, which, especially in any competition with William, was a work
of some difficulty; and as for Lady Bertram, he must continue in charge
of all her fame and fortune through the whole evening; and if quick
enough to keep her from looking at her cards when the deal began,
must direct her in whatever was to be done with them to the end of
it.

He was in high spirits, doing everything with happy ease, and preeminent
in all the lively turns, quick resources, and playful impudence that
could do honour to the game; and the round table was altogether a
very comfortable contrast to the steady sobriety and orderly silence
of the other.

Twice had Sir Thomas inquired into the enjoyment and success of his
lady, but in vain; no pause was long enough for the time his measured
manner needed; and very little of her state could be known till Mrs.\ Grant
was able, at the end of the first rubber, to go to her and pay her
compliments.

{}``I hope your ladyship is pleased with the game.''

{}``Oh dear, yes!\ very entertaining indeed. A very odd game. I
do not know what it is all about. I am never to see my cards; and
Mr.\ Crawford does all the rest.''

{}``Bertram,'' said Crawford, some time afterwards, taking the opportunity
of a little languor in the game, {}``I have never told you what happened
to me yesterday in my ride home.'' They had been hunting together,
and were in the midst of a good run, and at some distance from Mansfield,
when his horse being found to have flung a shoe, Henry Crawford had
been obliged to give up, and make the best of his way back. {}``I
told you I lost my way after passing that old farmhouse with the yew-trees,
because I can never bear to ask; but I have not told you that, with
my usual luck\mbox{---}for I never do wrong without gaining by it\mbox{---}I
found myself in due time in the very place which I had a curiosity
to see. I was suddenly, upon turning the corner of a steepish downy
field, in the midst of a retired little village between gently rising
hills; a small stream before me to be forded, a church standing on
a sort of knoll to my right\mbox{---}which church was strikingly
large and handsome for the place, and not a gentleman or half a gentleman's
house to be seen excepting one\mbox{---}to be presumed the Parsonage\mbox{---}within
a stone's throw of the said knoll and church. I found myself, in short,
in Thornton Lacey.''

{}``It sounds like it,'' said Edmund; {}``but which way did you
turn after passing Sewell's farm?''\ 

{}``I answer no such irrelevant and insidious questions; though were
I to answer all that you could put in the course of an hour, you would
never be able to prove that it was \textit{not} Thornton Lacey\mbox{---}for
such it certainly was.''

{}``You inquired, then?''\ 

{}``No, I never inquire. But I \textit{told} a man mending a hedge
that it was Thornton Lacey, and he agreed to it.''

{}``You have a good memory. I had forgotten having ever told you
half so much of the place.''

Thornton Lacey was the name of his impending living, as Miss Crawford
well knew; and her interest in a negotiation for William Price's knave
increased.

{}``Well,'' continued Edmund, {}``and how did you like what you
saw?''\ 

{}``Very much indeed. You are a lucky fellow. There will be work
for five summers at least before the place is liveable.''

{}``No, no, not so bad as that. The farmyard must be moved, I grant
you; but I am not aware of anything else. The house is by no means
bad, and when the yard is removed, there may be a very tolerable approach
to it.''

{}``The farmyard must be cleared away entirely, and planted up to
shut out the blacksmith's shop. The house must be turned to front
the east instead of the north\mbox{---}the entrance and principal
rooms, I mean, must be on that side, where the view is really very
pretty; I am sure it may be done. And \textit{there} must be your
approach, through what is at present the garden. You must make a new
garden at what is now the back of the house; which will be giving
it the best aspect in the world, sloping to the south-east. The ground
seems precisely formed for it. I rode fifty yards up the lane, between
the church and the house, in order to look about me; and saw how it
might all be. Nothing can be easier. The meadows beyond what \textit{will}
\textit{be} the garden, as well as what now \textit{is}, sweeping
round from the lane I stood in to the north-east, that is, to the
principal road through the village, must be all laid together, of
course; very pretty meadows they are, finely sprinkled with timber.
They belong to the living, I suppose; if not, you must purchase them.
Then the stream\mbox{---}something must be done with the stream;
but I could not quite determine what. I had two or three ideas.''

{}``And I have two or three ideas also,'' said Edmund, {}``and
one of them is, that very little of your plan for Thornton Lacey will
ever be put in practice. I must be satisfied with rather less ornament
and beauty. I think the house and premises may be made comfortable,
and given the air of a gentleman's residence, without any very heavy
expense, and that must suffice me; and, I hope, may suffice all who
care about me.''

Miss Crawford, a little suspicious and resentful of a certain tone
of voice, and a certain half-look attending the last expression of
his hope, made a hasty finish of her dealings with William Price;
and securing his knave at an exorbitant rate, exclaimed, {}``There,
I will stake my last like a woman of spirit. No cold prudence for
me. I am not born to sit still and do nothing. If I lose the game,
it shall not be from not striving for it.''

The game was hers, and only did not pay her for what she had given
to secure it. Another deal proceeded, and Crawford began again about
Thornton Lacey.

{}``My plan may not be the best possible: I had not many minutes
to form it in; but you must do a good deal. The place deserves it,
and you will find yourself not satisfied with much less than it is
capable of.\  (Excuse me, your ladyship must not see your cards.
There, let them lie just before you.) The place deserves it, Bertram.
You talk of giving it the air of a gentleman's residence. \textit{That}
will be done by the removal of the farmyard; for, independent of that
terrible nuisance, I never saw a house of the kind which had in itself
so much the air of a gentleman's residence, so much the look of a
something above a mere parsonage-house\mbox{---}above the expenditure
of a few hundreds a year. It is not a scrambling collection of low
single rooms, with as many roofs as windows; it is not cramped into
the vulgar compactness of a square farmhouse: it is a solid, roomy,
mansion-like looking house, such as one might suppose a respectable
old country family had lived in from generation to generation, through
two centuries at least, and were now spending from two to three thousand
a year in.'' Miss Crawford listened, and Edmund agreed to this. {}``The
air of a gentleman's residence, therefore, you cannot but give it,
if you do anything. But it is capable of much more.\  (Let me see,
Mary; Lady Bertram bids a dozen for that queen; no, no, a dozen is
more than it is worth. Lady Bertram does not bid a dozen. She will
have nothing to say to it. Go on, go on.) By some such improvements
as I have suggested (I do not really require you to proceed upon my
plan, though, by the bye, I doubt anybody's striking out a better)
you may give it a higher character. You may raise it into a \textit{place}.
From being the mere gentleman's residence, it becomes, by judicious
improvement, the residence of a man of education, taste, modern manners,
good connexions. All this may be stamped on it; and that house receive
such an air as to make its owner be set down as the great landholder
of the parish by every creature travelling the road; especially as
there is no real squire's house to dispute the point\mbox{---}a circumstance,
between ourselves, to enhance the value of such a situation in point
of privilege and independence beyond all calculation. \textit{You}
think with me, I hope'' (turning with a softened voice to Fanny).
{}``Have you ever seen the place?''\ 

Fanny gave a quick negative, and tried to hide her interest in the
subject by an eager attention to her brother, who was driving as hard
a bargain, and imposing on her as much as he could; but Crawford pursued
with {}``No, no, you must not part with the queen. You have bought
her too dearly, and your brother does not offer half her value. No,
no, sir, hands off, hands off. Your sister does not part with the
queen. She is quite determined. The game will be yours,'' turning
to her again; {}``it will certainly be yours.''

{}``And Fanny had much rather it were William's,'' said Edmund,
smiling at her. {}``Poor Fanny!\ not allowed to cheat herself as
she wishes!''\ 

{}``Mr.\ Bertram,'' said Miss Crawford, a few minutes afterwards,
{}``you know Henry to be such a capital improver, that you cannot
possibly engage in anything of the sort at Thornton Lacey without
accepting his help. Only think how useful he was at Sotherton! Only
think what grand things were produced there by our all going with
him one hot day in August to drive about the grounds, and see his
genius take fire. There we went, and there we came home again; and
what was done there is not to be told!''\ 

Fanny's eyes were turned on Crawford for a moment with an expression
more than grave\mbox{---}even reproachful; but on catching his, were
instantly withdrawn. With something of consciousness he shook his
head at his sister, and laughingly replied, {}``I cannot say there
was much done at Sotherton; but it was a hot day, and we were all
walking after each other, and bewildered.'' As soon as a general
buzz gave him shelter, he added, in a low voice, directed solely at
Fanny, {}``I should be sorry to have my powers of \textit{planning}
judged of by the day at Sotherton. I see things very differently now.
Do not think of me as I appeared then.''

Sotherton was a word to catch Mrs.\ Norris, and being just then in
the happy leisure which followed securing the odd trick by Sir Thomas's
capital play and her own against Dr.\ and Mrs.\ Grant's great hands,
she called out, in high good-humour, {}``Sotherton! Yes, that is
a place, indeed, and we had a charming day there. William, you are
quite out of luck; but the next time you come, I hope dear Mr.\ and
Mrs.\ Rushworth will be at home, and I am sure I can answer for your
being kindly received by both. Your cousins are not of a sort to forget
their relations, and Mr.\ Rushworth is a most amiable man. They are
at Brighton now, you know; in one of the best houses there, as Mr.\ Rushworth's
fine fortune gives them a right to be. I do not exactly know the distance,
but when you get back to Portsmouth, if it is not very far off, you
ought to go over and pay your respects to them; and I could send a
little parcel by you that I want to get conveyed to your cousins.''

{}``I should be very happy, aunt; but Brighton is almost by Beachey
Head; and if I could get so far, I could not expect to be welcome
in such a smart place as that\mbox{---}poor scrubby midshipman as
I am.''

Mrs.\ Norris was beginning an eager assurance of the affability he
might depend on, when she was stopped by Sir Thomas's saying with
authority, {}``I do not advise your going to Brighton, William, as
I trust you may soon have more convenient opportunities of meeting;
but my daughters would be happy to see their cousins anywhere; and
you will find Mr.\ Rushworth most sincerely disposed to regard all
the connexions of our family as his own.''

{}``I would rather find him private secretary to the First Lord than
anything else,'' was William's only answer, in an undervoice, not
meant to reach far, and the subject dropped.

As yet Sir Thomas had seen nothing to remark in Mr.\ Crawford's behaviour;
but when the whist-table broke up at the end of the second rubber,
and leaving Dr.\ Grant and Mrs.\ Norris to dispute over their last
play, he became a looker-on at the other, he found his niece the object
of attentions, or rather of professions, of a somewhat pointed character.

Henry Crawford was in the first glow of another scheme about Thornton
Lacey; and not being able to catch Edmund's ear, was detailing it
to his fair neighbour with a look of considerable earnestness. His
scheme was to rent the house himself the following winter, that he
might have a home of his own in that neighbourhood; and it was not
merely for the use of it in the hunting-season (as he was then telling
her), though \textit{that} consideration had certainly some weight,
feeling as he did that, in spite of all Dr.\ Grant's very great kindness,
it was impossible for him and his horses to be accommodated where
they now were without material inconvenience; but his attachment to
that neighbourhood did not depend upon one amusement or one season
of the year: he had set his heart upon having a something there that
he could come to at any time, a little homestall at his command, where
all the holidays of his year might be spent, and he might find himself
continuing, improving, and \textit{perfecting} that friendship and
intimacy with the Mansfield Park family which was increasing in value
to him every day. Sir Thomas heard and was not offended. There was
no want of respect in the young man's address; and Fanny's reception
of it was so proper and modest, so calm and uninviting, that he had
nothing to censure in her. She said little, assented only here and
there, and betrayed no inclination either of appropriating any part
of the compliment to herself, or of strengthening his views in favour
of Northamptonshire. Finding by whom he was observed, Henry Crawford
addressed himself on the same subject to Sir Thomas, in a more everyday
tone, but still with feeling.

{}``I want to be your neighbour, Sir Thomas, as you have, perhaps,
heard me telling Miss Price. May I hope for your acquiescence, and
for your not influencing your son against such a tenant?''\ 

Sir Thomas, politely bowing, replied, {}``It is the only way, sir,
in which I could \textit{not} wish you established as a permanent
neighbour; but I hope, and believe, that Edmund will occupy his own
house at Thornton Lacey. Edmund, am I saying too much?''\ 

Edmund, on this appeal, had first to hear what was going on; but,
on understanding the question, was at no loss for an answer.

{}``Certainly, sir, I have no idea but of residence. But, Crawford,
though I refuse you as a tenant, come to me as a friend. Consider
the house as half your own every winter, and we will add to the stables
on your own improved plan, and with all the improvements of your improved
plan that may occur to you this spring.''

{}``We shall be the losers,'' continued Sir Thomas. {}``His going,
though only eight miles, will be an unwelcome contraction of our family
circle; but I should have been deeply mortified if any son of mine
could reconcile himself to doing less. It is perfectly natural that
you should not have thought much on the subject, Mr.\ Crawford. But
a parish has wants and claims which can be known only by a clergyman
constantly resident, and which no proxy can be capable of satisfying
to the same extent. Edmund might, in the common phrase, do the duty
of Thornton, that is, he might read prayers and preach, without giving
up Mansfield Park: he might ride over every Sunday, to a house nominally
inhabited, and go through divine service; he might be the clergyman
of Thornton Lacey every seventh day, for three or four hours, if that
would content him. But it will not. He knows that human nature needs
more lessons than a weekly sermon can convey; and that if he does
not live among his parishioners, and prove himself, by constant attention,
their well-wisher and friend, he does very little either for their
good or his own.''

Mr.\ Crawford bowed his acquiescence.

{}``I repeat again,'' added Sir Thomas, {}``that Thornton Lacey
is the only house in the neighbourhood in which I should \textit{not}
be happy to wait on Mr.\ Crawford as occupier.''

Mr.\ Crawford bowed his thanks.

{}``Sir Thomas,'' said Edmund, {}``undoubtedly understands the
duty of a parish priest. We must hope his son may prove that \textit{he}
knows it too.''

Whatever effect Sir Thomas's little harangue might really produce
on Mr.\ Crawford, it raised some awkward sensations in two of the
others, two of his most attentive listeners\mbox{---}Miss Crawford
and Fanny. One of whom, having never before understood that Thornton
was so soon and so completely to be his home, was pondering with downcast
eyes on what it would be \textit{not} to see Edmund every day; and
the other, startled from the agreeable fancies she had been previously
indulging on the strength of her brother's description, no longer
able, in the picture she had been forming of a future Thornton, to
shut out the church, sink the clergyman, and see only the respectable,
elegant, modernised, and occasional residence of a man of independent
fortune, was considering Sir Thomas, with decided ill-will, as the
destroyer of all this, and suffering the more from that involuntary
forbearance which his character and manner commanded, and from not
daring to relieve herself by a single attempt at throwing ridicule
on his cause.

All the agreeable of \textit{her} speculation was over for that hour.
It was time to have done with cards, if sermons prevailed; and she
was glad to find it necessary to come to a conclusion, and be able
to refresh her spirits by a change of place and neighbour.

The chief of the party were now collected irregularly round the fire,
and waiting the final break-up. William and Fanny were the most detached.
They remained together at the otherwise deserted card-table, talking
very comfortably, and not thinking of the rest, till some of the rest
began to think of them. Henry Crawford's chair was the first to be
given a direction towards them, and he sat silently observing them
for a few minutes; himself, in the meanwhile, observed by Sir Thomas,
who was standing in chat with Dr.\ Grant.

{}``This is the assembly night,'' said William. {}``If I were at
Portsmouth I should be at it, perhaps.''

{}``But you do not wish yourself at Portsmouth, William?''\ 

{}``No, Fanny, that I do not. I shall have enough of Portsmouth and
of dancing too, when I cannot have you. And I do not know that there
would be any good in going to the assembly, for I might not get a
partner. The Portsmouth girls turn up their noses at anybody who has
not a commission. One might as well be nothing as a midshipman. One
\textit{is} nothing, indeed. You remember the Gregorys; they are grown
up amazing fine girls, but they will hardly speak to \textit{me},
because Lucy is courted by a lieutenant.''

{}``Oh!\ shame, shame! But never mind it, William'' (her own cheeks
in a glow of indignation as she spoke). {}``It is not worth minding.
It is no reflection on \textit{you}; it is no more than what the greatest
admirals have all experienced, more or less, in their time. You must
think of that, you must try to make up your mind to it as one of the
hardships which fall to every sailor's share, like bad weather and
hard living, only with this advantage, that there will be an end to
it, that there will come a time when you will have nothing of that
sort to endure. When you are a lieutenant!\ only think, William,
when you are a lieutenant, how little you will care for any nonsense
of this kind.''

{}``I begin to think I shall never be a lieutenant, Fanny. Everybody
gets made but me.''

{}``Oh!\ my dear William, do not talk so; do not be so desponding.
My uncle says nothing, but I am sure he will do everything in his
power to get you made. He knows, as well as you do, of what consequence
it is.''

She was checked by the sight of her uncle much nearer to them than
she had any suspicion of, and each found it necessary to talk of something
else.

{}``Are you fond of dancing, Fanny?''\ 

{}``Yes, very; only I am soon tired.''

{}``I should like to go to a ball with you and see you dance. Have
you never any balls at Northampton? I should like to see you dance,
and I'd dance with you if you \textit{would}, for nobody would know
who I was here, and I should like to be your partner once more. We
used to jump about together many a time, did not we?\ when the hand-organ
was in the street? I am a pretty good dancer in my way, but I dare
say you are a better.'' And turning to his uncle, who was now close
to them, {}``Is not Fanny a very good dancer, sir?''\ 

Fanny, in dismay at such an unprecedented question, did not know which
way to look, or how to be prepared for the answer. Some very grave
reproof, or at least the coldest expression of indifference, must
be coming to distress her brother, and sink her to the ground. But,
on the contrary, it was no worse than, {}``I am sorry to say that
I am unable to answer your question. I have never seen Fanny dance
since she was a little girl; but I trust we shall both think she acquits
herself like a gentlewoman when we do see her, which, perhaps, we
may have an opportunity of doing ere long.''

{}``I have had the pleasure of seeing your sister dance, Mr.\ Price,''
said Henry Crawford, leaning forward, {}``and will engage to answer
every inquiry which you can make on the subject, to your entire satisfaction.
But I believe'' (seeing Fanny looked distressed) {}``it must be
at some other time. There is \textit{one} person in company who does
not like to have Miss Price spoken of.''

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

He passed, however, for an admirer of her dancing; and Sir Thomas,
by no means displeased, prolonged the conversation on dancing in general,
and was so well engaged in describing the balls of Antigua, and listening
to what his nephew could relate of the different modes of dancing
which had fallen within his observation, that he had not heard his
carriage announced, and was first called to the knowledge of it by
the bustle of Mrs.\ Norris.

{}``Come, Fanny, Fanny, what are you about? We are going. Do not
you see your aunt is going? Quick, quick! I cannot bear to keep good
old Wilcox waiting. You should always remember the coachman and horses.
My dear Sir Thomas, we have settled it that the carriage should come
back for you, and Edmund and William.''

Sir Thomas could not dissent, as it had been his own arrangement,
previously communicated to his wife and sister; but \textit{that}
seemed forgotten by Mrs.\ Norris, who must fancy that she settled
it all herself.

Fanny's last feeling in the visit was disappointment: for the shawl
which Edmund was quietly taking from the servant to bring and put
round her shoulders was seized by Mr.\ Crawford's quicker hand, and
she was obliged to be indebted to his more prominent attention.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XXVI}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XXVI}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER XXVI}

William's desire of seeing Fanny dance made more than a momentary
impression on his uncle. The hope of an opportunity, which Sir Thomas
had then given, was not given to be thought of no more. He remained
steadily inclined to gratify so amiable a feeling; to gratify anybody
else who might wish to see Fanny dance, and to give pleasure to the
young people in general; and having thought the matter over, and taken
his resolution in quiet independence, the result of it appeared the
next morning at breakfast, when, after recalling and commending what
his nephew had said, he added, {}``I do not like, William, that you
should leave Northamptonshire without this indulgence. It would give
me pleasure to see you both dance. You spoke of the balls at Northampton.
Your cousins have occasionally attended them; but they would not altogether
suit us now. The fatigue would be too much for your aunt. I believe
we must not think of a Northampton ball. A dance at home would be
more eligible; and if\mbox{---}''

{}``Ah, my dear Sir Thomas!''\ interrupted Mrs.\ Norris, {}``I
knew what was coming. I knew what you were going to say. If dear Julia
were at home, or dearest Mrs.\ Rushworth at Sotherton, to afford
a reason, an occasion for such a thing, you would be tempted to give
the young people a dance at Mansfield. I know you would. If \textit{they}
were at home to grace the ball, a ball you would have this very Christmas.
Thank your uncle, William, thank your uncle!''\ 

{}``My daughters,'' replied Sir Thomas, gravely interposing, {}``have
their pleasures at Brighton, and I hope are very happy; but the dance
which I think of giving at Mansfield will be for their cousins. Could
we be all assembled, our satisfaction would undoubtedly be more complete,
but the absence of some is not to debar the others of amusement.''

Mrs.\ Norris had not another word to say. She saw decision in his
looks, and her surprise and vexation required some minutes' silence
to be settled into composure. A ball at such a time! His daughters
absent and herself not consulted! There was comfort, however, soon
at hand. \textit{She} must be the doer of everything: Lady Bertram
would of course be spared all thought and exertion, and it would all
fall upon \textit{her}. She should have to do the honours of the evening;
and this reflection quickly restored so much of her good-humour as
enabled her to join in with the others, before their happiness and
thanks were all expressed.

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

Lady Bertram was perfectly quiescent and contented, and had no objections
to make. Sir Thomas engaged for its giving her very little trouble;
and she assured him {}``that she was not at all afraid of the trouble;
indeed, she could not imagine there would be any.''

Mrs.\ Norris was ready with her suggestions as to the rooms he would
think fittest to be used, but found it all prearranged; and when she
would have conjectured and hinted about the day, it appeared that
the day was settled too. Sir Thomas had been amusing himself with
shaping a very complete outline of the business; and as soon as she
would listen quietly, could read his list of the families to be invited,
from whom he calculated, with all necessary allowance for the shortness
of the notice, to collect young people enough to form twelve or fourteen
couple: and could detail the considerations which had induced him
to fix on the 22nd as the most eligible day. William was required
to be at Portsmouth on the 24th; the 22nd would therefore be the last
day of his visit; but where the days were so few it would be unwise
to fix on any earlier. Mrs.\ Norris was obliged to be satisfied with
thinking just the same, and with having been on the point of proposing
the 22nd herself, as by far the best day for the purpose.

The ball was now a settled thing, and before the evening a proclaimed
thing to all whom it concerned. Invitations were sent with despatch,
and many a young lady went to bed that night with her head full of
happy cares as well as Fanny. To her the cares were sometimes almost
beyond the happiness; for young and inexperienced, with small means
of choice and no confidence in her own taste, the {}``how she should
be dressed'' was a point of painful solicitude; and the almost solitary
ornament in her possession, a very pretty amber cross which William
had brought her from Sicily, was the greatest distress of all, for
she had nothing but a bit of ribbon to fasten it to; and though she
had worn it in that manner once, would it be allowable at such a time
in the midst of all the rich ornaments which she supposed all the
other young ladies would appear in? And yet not to wear it! William
had wanted to buy her a gold chain too, but the purchase had been
beyond his means, and therefore not to wear the cross might be mortifying
him. These were anxious considerations; enough to sober her spirits
even under the prospect of a ball given principally for her gratification.

The preparations meanwhile went on, and Lady Bertram continued to
sit on her sofa without any inconvenience from them. She had some
extra visits from the housekeeper, and her maid was rather hurried
in making up a new dress for her: Sir Thomas gave orders, and Mrs.\ Norris
ran about; but all this gave \textit{her} no trouble, and as she had
foreseen, {}``there was, in fact, no trouble in the business.''

Edmund was at this time particularly full of cares: his mind being
deeply occupied in the consideration of two important events now at
hand, which were to fix his fate in life\mbox{---}ordination and
matrimony\mbox{---}events of such a serious character as to make
the ball, which would be very quickly followed by one of them, appear
of less moment in his eyes than in those of any other person in the
house. On the 23rd he was going to a friend near Peterborough, in
the same situation as himself, and they were to receive ordination
in the course of the Christmas week. Half his destiny would then be
determined, but the other half might not be so very smoothly wooed.
His duties would be established, but the wife who was to share, and
animate, and reward those duties, might yet be unattainable. He knew
his own mind, but he was not always perfectly assured of knowing Miss
Crawford's. There were points on which they did not quite agree; there
were moments in which she did not seem propitious; and though trusting
altogether to her affection, so far as to be resolved\mbox{---}almost
resolved\mbox{---}on bringing it to a decision within a very short
time, as soon as the variety of business before him were arranged,
and he knew what he had to offer her, he had many anxious feelings,
many doubting hours as to the result. His conviction of her regard
for him was sometimes very strong; he could look back on a long course
of encouragement, and she was as perfect in disinterested attachment
as in everything else. But at other times doubt and alarm intermingled
with his hopes; and when he thought of her acknowledged disinclination
for privacy and retirement, her decided preference of a London life,
what could he expect but a determined rejection?\ unless it were
an acceptance even more to be deprecated, demanding such sacrifices
of situation and employment on his side as conscience must forbid.

The issue of all depended on one question. Did she love him well enough
to forego what had used to be essential points? Did she love him well
enough to make them no longer essential? And this question, which
he was continually repeating to himself, though oftenest answered
with a {}``Yes,'' had sometimes its {}``No.''

Miss Crawford was soon to leave Mansfield, and on this circumstance
the {}``no'' and the {}``yes'' had been very recently in alternation.
He had seen her eyes sparkle as she spoke of the dear friend's letter,
which claimed a long visit from her in London, and of the kindness
of Henry, in engaging to remain where he was till January, that he
might convey her thither; he had heard her speak of the pleasure of
such a journey with an animation which had {}``no'' in every tone.
But this had occurred on the first day of its being settled, within
the first hour of the burst of such enjoyment, when nothing but the
friends she was to visit was before her. He had since heard her express
herself differently, with other feelings, more chequered feelings:
he had heard her tell Mrs.\ Grant that she should leave her with
regret; that she began to believe neither the friends nor the pleasures
she was going to were worth those she left behind; and that though
she felt she must go, and knew she should enjoy herself when once
away, she was already looking forward to being at Mansfield again.
Was there not a {}``yes'' in all this?

With such matters to ponder over, and arrange, and re-arrange, Edmund
could not, on his own account, think very much of the evening which
the rest of the family were looking forward to with a more equal degree
of strong interest. Independent of his two cousins' enjoyment in it,
the evening was to him of no higher value than any other appointed
meeting of the two families might be. In every meeting there was a
hope of receiving farther confirmation of Miss Crawford's attachment;
but the whirl of a ballroom, perhaps, was not particularly favourable
to the excitement or expression of serious feelings. To engage her
early for the two first dances was all the command of individual happiness
which he felt in his power, and the only preparation for the ball
which he could enter into, in spite of all that was passing around
him on the subject, from morning till night.

Thursday was the day of the ball; and on Wednesday morning Fanny,
still unable to satisfy herself as to what she ought to wear, determined
to seek the counsel of the more enlightened, and apply to Mrs.\ Grant
and her sister, whose acknowledged taste would certainly bear her
blameless; and as Edmund and William were gone to Northampton, and
she had reason to think Mr.\ Crawford likewise out, she walked down
to the Parsonage without much fear of wanting an opportunity for private
discussion; and the privacy of such a discussion was a most important
part of it to Fanny, being more than half-ashamed of her own solicitude.

She met Miss Crawford within a few yards of the Parsonage, just setting
out to call on her, and as it seemed to her that her friend, though
obliged to insist on turning back, was unwilling to lose her walk,
she explained her business at once, and observed, that if she would
be so kind as to give her opinion, it might be all talked over as
well without doors as within. Miss Crawford appeared gratified by
the application, and after a moment's thought, urged Fanny's returning
with her in a much more cordial manner than before, and proposed their
going up into her room, where they might have a comfortable coze,
without disturbing Dr.\ and Mrs.\ Grant, who were together in the
drawing-room. It was just the plan to suit Fanny; and with a great
deal of gratitude on her side for such ready and kind attention, they
proceeded indoors, and upstairs, and were soon deep in the interesting
subject. Miss Crawford, pleased with the appeal, gave her all her
best judgment and taste, made everything easy by her suggestions,
and tried to make everything agreeable by her encouragement. The dress
being settled in all its grander parts\mbox{---}{}``But what shall
you have by way of necklace?''\ said Miss Crawford. {}``Shall not
you wear your brother's cross?''\ And as she spoke she was undoing
a small parcel, which Fanny had observed in her hand when they met.
Fanny acknowledged her wishes and doubts on this point: she did not
know how either to wear the cross, or to refrain from wearing it.
She was answered by having a small trinket-box placed before her,
and being requested to chuse from among several gold chains and necklaces.
Such had been the parcel with which Miss Crawford was provided, and
such the object of her intended visit: and in the kindest manner she
now urged Fanny's taking one for the cross and to keep for her sake,
saying everything she could think of to obviate the scruples which
were making Fanny start back at first with a look of horror at the
proposal.

{}``You see what a collection I have,'' said she; {}``more by half
than I ever use or think of. I do not offer them as new. I offer nothing
but an old necklace. You must forgive the liberty, and oblige me.''

Fanny still resisted, and from her heart. The gift was too valuable.
But Miss Crawford persevered, and argued the case with so much affectionate
earnestness through all the heads of William and the cross, and the
ball, and herself, as to be finally successful. Fanny found herself
obliged to yield, that she might not be accused of pride or indifference,
or some other littleness; and having with modest reluctance given
her consent, proceeded to make the selection. She looked and looked,
longing to know which might be least valuable; and was determined
in her choice at last, by fancying there was one necklace more frequently
placed before her eyes than the rest. It was of gold, prettily worked;
and though Fanny would have preferred a longer and a plainer chain
as more adapted for her purpose, she hoped, in fixing on this, to
be chusing what Miss Crawford least wished to keep. Miss Crawford
smiled her perfect approbation; and hastened to complete the gift
by putting the necklace round her, and making her see how well it
looked. Fanny had not a word to say against its becomingness, and,
excepting what remained of her scruples, was exceedingly pleased with
an acquisition so very apropos. She would rather, perhaps, have been
obliged to some other person. But this was an unworthy feeling. Miss
Crawford had anticipated her wants with a kindness which proved her
a real friend. {}``When I wear this necklace I shall always think
of you,'' said she, {}``and feel how very kind you were.''

{}``You must think of somebody else too, when you wear that necklace,''
replied Miss Crawford. {}``You must think of Henry, for it was his
choice in the first place. He gave it to me, and with the necklace
I make over to you all the duty of remembering the original giver.
It is to be a family remembrancer. The sister is not to be in your
mind without bringing the brother too.''

Fanny, in great astonishment and confusion, would have returned the
present instantly. To take what had been the gift of another person,
of a brother too, impossible!\ it must not be!\ and with an eagerness
and embarrassment quite diverting to her companion, she laid down
the necklace again on its cotton, and seemed resolved either to take
another or none at all. Miss Crawford thought she had never seen a
prettier consciousness. {}``My dear child,'' said she, laughing,
{}``what are you afraid of? Do you think Henry will claim the necklace
as mine, and fancy you did not come honestly by it?\ or are you imagining
he would be too much flattered by seeing round your lovely throat
an ornament which his money purchased three years ago, before he knew
there was such a throat in the world?\ or perhaps''---looking archly\mbox{---}{}``you
suspect a confederacy between us, and that what I am now doing is
with his knowledge and at his desire?''\


With the deepest blushes Fanny protested against such a thought.

{}``Well, then,'' replied Miss Crawford more seriously, but without
at all believing her, {}``to convince me that you suspect no trick,
and are as unsuspicious of compliment as I have always found you,
take the necklace and say no more about it. Its being a gift of my
brother's need not make the smallest difference in your accepting
it, as I assure you it makes none in my willingness to part with it.
He is always giving me something or other. I have such innumerable
presents from him that it is quite impossible for me to value or for
him to remember half. And as for this necklace, I do not suppose I
have worn it six times: it is very pretty, but I never think of it;
and though you would be most heartily welcome to any other in my trinket-box,
you have happened to fix on the very one which, if I have a choice,
I would rather part with and see in your possession than any other.
Say no more against it, I entreat you. Such a trifle is not worth
half so many words.''

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

It was impossible for her to be insensible of Mr.\ Crawford's change
of manners. She had long seen it. He evidently tried to please her:
he was gallant, he was attentive, he was something like what he had
been to her cousins: he wanted, she supposed, to cheat her of her
tranquillity as he had cheated them; and whether he might not have
some concern in this necklace\mbox{---}she could not be convinced
that he had not, for Miss Crawford, complaisant as a sister, was careless
as a woman and a friend.

Reflecting and doubting, and feeling that the possession of what she
had so much wished for did not bring much satisfaction, she now walked
home again, with a change rather than a diminution of cares since
her treading that path before.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XXVII}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XXVII}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER XXVII}

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

{}``Fanny,'' said he directly, leaving his seat and his pen, and
meeting her with something in his hand, {}``I beg your pardon for
being here. I came to look for you, and after waiting a little while
in hope of your coming in, was making use of your inkstand to explain
my errand. You will find the beginning of a note to yourself; but
I can now speak my business, which is merely to beg your acceptance
of this little trifle\mbox{---}a chain for William's cross. You ought
to have had it a week ago, but there has been a delay from my brother's
not being in town by several days so soon as I expected; and I have
only just now received it at Northampton. I hope you will like the
chain itself, Fanny. I endeavoured to consult the simplicity of your
taste; but, at any rate, I know you will be kind to my intentions,
and consider it, as it really is, a token of the love of one of your
oldest friends.''

And so saying, he was hurrying away, before Fanny, overpowered by
a thousand feelings of pain and pleasure, could attempt to speak;
but quickened by one sovereign wish, she then called out, {}``Oh!\ cousin,
stop a moment, pray stop!''\ 

He turned back.

{}``I cannot attempt to thank you,'' she continued, in a very agitated
manner; {}``thanks are out of the question. I feel much more than
I can possibly express. Your goodness in thinking of me in such a
way is beyond\mbox{---}{}``

{}``If that is all you have to say, Fanny'' smiling and turning
away again.

{}``No, no, it is not. I want to consult you.''

Almost unconsciously she had now undone the parcel he had just put
into her hand, and seeing before her, in all the niceness of jewellers'
packing, a plain gold chain, perfectly simple and neat, she could
not help bursting forth again, {}``Oh, this is beautiful indeed!
This is the very thing, precisely what I wished for! This is the only
ornament I have ever had a desire to possess. It will exactly suit
my cross. They must and shall be worn together. It comes, too, in
such an acceptable moment. Oh, cousin, you do not know how acceptable
it is.''

{}``My dear Fanny, you feel these things a great deal too much. I
am most happy that you like the chain, and that it should be here
in time for to-morrow; but your thanks are far beyond the occasion.
Believe me, I have no pleasure in the world superior to that of contributing
to yours. No, I can safely say, I have no pleasure so complete, so
unalloyed. It is without a drawback.''

Upon such expressions of affection Fanny could have lived an hour
without saying another word; but Edmund, after waiting a moment, obliged
her to bring down her mind from its heavenly flight by saying, {}``But
what is it that you want to consult me about?''\ 

It was about the necklace, which she was now most earnestly longing
to return, and hoped to obtain his approbation of her doing. She gave
the history of her recent visit, and now her raptures might well be
over; for Edmund was so struck with the circumstance, so delighted
with what Miss Crawford had done, so gratified by such a coincidence
of conduct between them, that Fanny could not but admit the superior
power of one pleasure over his own mind, though it might have its
drawback. It was some time before she could get his attention to her
plan, or any answer to her demand of his opinion: he was in a reverie
of fond reflection, uttering only now and then a few half-sentences
of praise; but when he did awake and understand, he was very decided
in opposing what she wished.

{}``Return the necklace! No, my dear Fanny, upon no account. It would
be mortifying her severely. There can hardly be a more unpleasant
sensation than the having anything returned on our hands which we
have given with a reasonable hope of its contributing to the comfort
of a friend. Why should she lose a pleasure which she has shewn herself
so deserving of?''\ 

{}``If it had been given to me in the first instance,'' said Fanny,
{}``I should not have thought of returning it; but being her brother's
present, is not it fair to suppose that she would rather not part
with it, when it is not wanted?''\ 

{}``She must not suppose it not wanted, not acceptable, at least:
and its having been originally her brother's gift makes no difference;
for as she was not prevented from offering, nor you from taking it
on that account, it ought not to prevent you from keeping it. No doubt
it is handsomer than mine, and fitter for a ballroom.''

{}``No, it is not handsomer, not at all handsomer in its way, and,
for my purpose, not half so fit. The chain will agree with William's
cross beyond all comparison better than the necklace.''

{}``For one night, Fanny, for only one night, if it \textit{be} a
sacrifice; I am sure you will, upon consideration, make that sacrifice
rather than give pain to one who has been so studious of your comfort.
Miss Crawford's attentions to you have been\mbox{---}not more than
you were justly entitled to\mbox{---}I am the last person to think
that \textit{could} \textit{be}, but they have been invariable; and
to be returning them with what must have something the \textit{air}
of ingratitude, though I know it could never have the \textit{meaning},
is not in your nature, I am sure. Wear the necklace, as you are engaged
to do, to-morrow evening, and let the chain, which was not ordered
with any reference to the ball, be kept for commoner occasions. This
is my advice. I would not have the shadow of a coolness between the
two whose intimacy I have been observing with the greatest pleasure,
and in whose characters there is so much general resemblance in true
generosity and natural delicacy as to make the few slight differences,
resulting principally from situation, no reasonable hindrance to a
perfect friendship. I would not have the shadow of a coolness arise,''
he repeated, his voice sinking a little, {}``between the two dearest
objects I have on earth.''

He was gone as he spoke; and Fanny remained to tranquillise herself
as she could. She was one of his two dearest\mbox{---}that must support
her. But the other: the first! She had never heard him speak so openly
before, and though it told her no more than what she had long perceived,
it was a stab, for it told of his own convictions and views. They
were decided. He would marry Miss Crawford. It was a stab, in spite
of every long-standing expectation; and she was obliged to repeat
again and again, that she was one of his two dearest, before the words
gave her any sensation. Could she believe Miss Crawford to deserve
him, it would be\mbox{---}oh, how different would it be\mbox{---}how
far more tolerable! But he was deceived in her: he gave her merits
which she had not; her faults were what they had ever been, but he
saw them no longer. Till she had shed many tears over this deception,
Fanny could not subdue her agitation; and the dejection which followed
could only be relieved by the influence of fervent prayers for his
happiness.

It was her intention, as she felt it to be her duty, to try to overcome
all that was excessive, all that bordered on selfishness, in her affection
for Edmund. To call or to fancy it a loss, a disappointment, would
be a presumption for which she had not words strong enough to satisfy
her own humility. To think of him as Miss Crawford might be justified
in thinking, would in her be insanity. To her he could be nothing
under any circumstances; nothing dearer than a friend. Why did such
an idea occur to her even enough to be reprobated and forbidden? It
ought not to have touched on the confines of her imagination. She
would endeavour to be rational, and to deserve the right of judging
of Miss Crawford's character, and the privilege of true solicitude
for him by a sound intellect and an honest heart.

She had all the heroism of principle, and was determined to do her
duty; but having also many of the feelings of youth and nature, let
her not be much wondered at, if, after making all these good resolutions
on the side of self-government, she seized the scrap of paper on which
Edmund had begun writing to her, as a treasure beyond all her hopes,
and reading with the tenderest emotion these words, {}``My very dear
Fanny, you must do me the favour to accept'' locked it up with the
chain, as the dearest part of the gift. It was the only thing approaching
to a letter which she had ever received from him; she might never
receive another; it was impossible that she ever should receive another
so perfectly gratifying in the occasion and the style. Two lines more
prized had never fallen from the pen of the most distinguished author\mbox{---}never
more completely blessed the researches of the fondest biographer.
The enthusiasm of a woman's love is even beyond the biographer's.
To her, the handwriting itself, independent of anything it may convey,
is a blessedness. Never were such characters cut by any other human
being as Edmund's commonest handwriting gave! This specimen, written
in haste as it was, had not a fault; and there was a felicity in the
flow of the first four words, in the arrangement of {}``My very dear
Fanny,'' which she could have looked at for ever.

Having regulated her thoughts and comforted her feelings by this happy
mixture of reason and weakness, she was able in due time to go down
and resume her usual employments near her aunt Bertram, and pay her
the usual observances without any apparent want of spirits.

Thursday, predestined to hope and enjoyment, came; and opened with
more kindness to Fanny than such self-willed, unmanageable days often
volunteer, for soon after breakfast a very friendly note was brought
from Mr.\ Crawford to William, stating that as he found himself obliged
to go to London on the morrow for a few days, he could not help trying
to procure a companion; and therefore hoped that if William could
make up his mind to leave Mansfield half a day earlier than had been
proposed, he would accept a place in his carriage. Mr.\ Crawford
meant to be in town by his uncle's accustomary late dinner-hour, and
William was invited to dine with him at the Admiral's. The proposal
was a very pleasant one to William himself, who enjoyed the idea of
travelling post with four horses, and such a good-humoured, agreeable
friend; and, in likening it to going up with despatches, was saying
at once everything in favour of its happiness and dignity which his
imagination could suggest; and Fanny, from a different motive, was
exceedingly pleased; for the original plan was that William should
go up by the mail from Northampton the following night, which would
not have allowed him an hour's rest before he must have got into a
Portsmouth coach; and though this offer of Mr.\ Crawford's would
rob her of many hours of his company, she was too happy in having
William spared from the fatigue of such a journey, to think of anything
else. Sir Thomas approved of it for another reason. His nephew's introduction
to Admiral Crawford might be of service. The Admiral, he believed,
had interest. Upon the whole, it was a very joyous note. Fanny's spirits
lived on it half the morning, deriving some accession of pleasure
from its writer being himself to go away.

As for the ball, so near at hand, she had too many agitations and
fears to have half the enjoyment in anticipation which she ought to
have had, or must have been supposed to have by the many young ladies
looking forward to the same event in situations more at ease, but
under circumstances of less novelty, less interest, less peculiar
gratification, than would be attributed to her. Miss Price, known
only by name to half the people invited, was now to make her first
appearance, and must be regarded as the queen of the evening. Who
could be happier than Miss Price? But Miss Price had not been brought
up to the trade of \textit{coming} \textit{out}; and had she known
in what light this ball was, in general, considered respecting her,
it would very much have lessened her comfort by increasing the fears
she already had of doing wrong and being looked at. To dance without
much observation or any extraordinary fatigue, to have strength and
partners for about half the evening, to dance a little with Edmund,
and not a great deal with Mr.\ Crawford, to see William enjoy himself,
and be able to keep away from her aunt Norris, was the height of her
ambition, and seemed to comprehend her greatest possibility of happiness.
As these were the best of her hopes, they could not always prevail;
and in the course of a long morning, spent principally with her two
aunts, she was often under the influence of much less sanguine views.
William, determined to make this last day a day of thorough enjoyment,
was out snipe-shooting; Edmund, she had too much reason to suppose,
was at the Parsonage; and left alone to bear the worrying of Mrs.\ Norris,
who was cross because the housekeeper would have her own way with
the supper, and whom \textit{she} could not avoid though the housekeeper
might, Fanny was worn down at last to think everything an evil belonging
to the ball, and when sent off with a parting worry to dress, moved
as languidly towards her own room, and felt as incapable of happiness
as if she had been allowed no share in it.

As she walked slowly upstairs she thought of yesterday; it had been
about the same hour that she had returned from the Parsonage, and
found Edmund in the East room. {}``Suppose I were to find him there
again to-day!''\ said she to herself, in a fond indulgence of fancy.

{}``Fanny,'' said a voice at that moment near her. Starting and
looking up, she saw, across the lobby she had just reached, Edmund
himself, standing at the head of a different staircase. He came towards
her. {}``You look tired and fagged, Fanny. You have been walking
too far.''

{}``No, I have not been out at all.''

{}``Then you have had fatigues within doors, which are worse. You
had better have gone out.''

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

{}``I come from Dr.\ Grant's,'' said Edmund presently. {}``You
may guess my errand there, Fanny.'' And he looked so conscious, that
Fanny could think but of one errand, which turned her too sick for
speech. {}``I wished to engage Miss Crawford for the two first dances,''
was the explanation that followed, and brought Fanny to life again,
enabling her, as she found she was expected to speak, to utter something
like an inquiry as to the result.

{}``Yes,'' he answered, {}``she is engaged to me; but'' (with
a smile that did not sit easy) {}``she says it is to be the last
time that she ever will dance with me. She is not serious. I think,
I hope, I am sure she is not serious; but I would rather not hear
it. She never has danced with a clergyman, she says, and she never
\textit{will}. For my own sake, I could wish there had been no ball
just at\mbox{---}I mean not this very week, this very day; to-morrow
I leave home.''

Fanny struggled for speech, and said, {}``I am very sorry that anything
has occurred to distress you. This ought to be a day of pleasure.
My uncle meant it so.''

{}``Oh yes, yes!\ and it will be a day of pleasure. It will all
end right. I am only vexed for a moment. In fact, it is not that I
consider the ball as ill-timed; what does it signify? But, Fanny,''
stopping her, by taking her hand, and speaking low and seriously,
{}``you know what all this means. You see how it is; and could tell
me, perhaps better than I could tell you, how and why I am vexed.
Let me talk to you a little. You are a kind, kind listener. I have
been pained by her manner this morning, and cannot get the better
of it. I know her disposition to be as sweet and faultless as your
own, but the influence of her former companions makes her seem\mbox{---}gives
to her conversation, to her professed opinions, sometimes a tinge
of wrong. She does not \textit{think} evil, but she speaks it, speaks
it in playfulness; and though I know it to be playfulness, it grieves
me to the soul.''

{}``The effect of education,'' said Fanny gently.

Edmund could not but agree to it. {}``Yes, that uncle and aunt! They
have injured the finest mind; for sometimes, Fanny, I own to you,
it does appear more than manner: it appears as if the mind itself
was tainted.''

Fanny imagined this to be an appeal to her judgment, and therefore,
after a moment's consideration, said, {}``If you only want me as
a listener, cousin, I will be as useful as I can; but I am not qualified
for an adviser. Do not ask advice of \textit{me}. I am not competent.''

{}``You are right, Fanny, to protest against such an office, but
you need not be afraid. It is a subject on which I should never ask
advice; it is the sort of subject on which it had better never be
asked; and few, I imagine, do ask it, but when they want to be influenced
against their conscience. I only want to talk to you.''

{}``One thing more. Excuse the liberty; but take care \textit{how}
you talk to me. Do not tell me anything now, which hereafter you may
be sorry for. The time may come\mbox{---}''

The colour rushed into her cheeks as she spoke.

{}``Dearest Fanny!''\ cried Edmund, pressing her hand to his lips
with almost as much warmth as if it had been Miss Crawford's, {}``you
are all considerate thought! But it is unnecessary here. The time
will never come. No such time as you allude to will ever come. I begin
to think it most improbable: the chances grow less and less; and even
if it should, there will be nothing to be remembered by either you
or me that we need be afraid of, for I can never be ashamed of my
own scruples; and if they are removed, it must be by changes that
will only raise her character the more by the recollection of the
faults she once had. You are the only being upon earth to whom I should
say what I have said; but you have always known my opinion of her;
you can bear me witness, Fanny, that I have never been blinded. How
many a time have we talked over her little errors! You need not fear
me; I have almost given up every serious idea of her; but I must be
a blockhead indeed, if, whatever befell me, I could think of your
kindness and sympathy without the sincerest gratitude.''

He had said enough to shake the experience of eighteen. He had said
enough to give Fanny some happier feelings than she had lately known,
and with a brighter look, she answered, {}``Yes, cousin, I am convinced
that \textit{you} would be incapable of anything else, though perhaps
some might not. I cannot be afraid of hearing anything you wish to
say. Do not check yourself. Tell me whatever you like.''

They were now on the second floor, and the appearance of a housemaid
prevented any farther conversation. For Fanny's present comfort it
was concluded, perhaps, at the happiest moment: had he been able to
talk another five minutes, there is no saying that he might not have
talked away all Miss Crawford's faults and his own despondence. But
as it was, they parted with looks on his side of grateful affection,
and with some very precious sensations on hers. She had felt nothing
like it for hours. Since the first joy from Mr.\ Crawford's note
to William had worn away, she had been in a state absolutely the reverse;
there had been no comfort around, no hope within her. Now everything
was smiling. William's good fortune returned again upon her mind,
and seemed of greater value than at first. The ball, too\mbox{---}such
an evening of pleasure before her! It was now a real animation; and
she began to dress for it with much of the happy flutter which belongs
to a ball. All went well: she did not dislike her own looks; and when
she came to the necklaces again, her good fortune seemed complete,
for upon trial the one given her by Miss Crawford would by no means
go through the ring of the cross. She had, to oblige Edmund, resolved
to wear it; but it was too large for the purpose. His, therefore,
must be worn; and having, with delightful feelings, joined the chain
and the cross\mbox{---}those memorials of the two most beloved of
her heart, those dearest tokens so formed for each other by everything
real and imaginary\mbox{---}and put them round her neck, and seen
and felt how full of William and Edmund they were, she was able, without
an effort, to resolve on wearing Miss Crawford's necklace too. She
acknowledged it to be right. Miss Crawford had a claim; and when it
was no longer to encroach on, to interfere with the stronger claims,
the truer kindness of another, she could do her justice even with
pleasure to herself. The necklace really looked very well; and Fanny
left her room at last, comfortably satisfied with herself and all
about her.

Her aunt Bertram had recollected her on this occasion with an unusual
degree of wakefulness. It had really occurred to her, unprompted,
that Fanny, preparing for a ball, might be glad of better help than
the upper housemaid's, and when dressed herself, she actually sent
her own maid to assist her; too late, of course, to be of any use.
Mrs.\ Chapman had just reached the attic floor, when Miss Price came
out of her room completely dressed, and only civilities were necessary;
but Fanny felt her aunt's attention almost as much as Lady Bertram
or Mrs.\ Chapman could do themselves.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XXVIII}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XXVIII}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER XXVIII}

Her uncle and both her aunts were in the drawing-room when Fanny went
down. To the former she was an interesting object, and he saw with
pleasure the general elegance of her appearance, and her being in
remarkably good looks. The neatness and propriety of her dress was
all that he would allow himself to commend in her presence, but upon
her leaving the room again soon afterwards, he spoke of her beauty
with very decided praise.

{}``Yes,'' said Lady Bertram, {}``she looks very well. I sent Chapman
to her.''

{}``Look well! Oh, yes!''\ cried Mrs.\ Norris, {}``she has good
reason to look well with all her advantages: brought up in this family
as she has been, with all the benefit of her cousins' manners before
her. Only think, my dear Sir Thomas, what extraordinary advantages
you and I have been the means of giving her. The very gown you have
been taking notice of is your own generous present to her when dear
Mrs.\ Rushworth married. What would she have been if we had not taken
her by the hand?''\ 

Sir Thomas said no more; but when they sat down to table the eyes
of the two young men assured him that the subject might be gently
touched again, when the ladies withdrew, with more success. Fanny
saw that she was approved; and the consciousness of looking well made
her look still better. From a variety of causes she was happy, and
she was soon made still happier; for in following her aunts out of
the room, Edmund, who was holding open the door, said, as she passed
him, {}``You must dance with me, Fanny; you must keep two dances
for me; any two that you like, except the first.'' She had nothing
more to wish for. She had hardly ever been in a state so nearly approaching
high spirits in her life. Her cousins' former gaiety on the day of
a ball was no longer surprising to her; she felt it to be indeed very
charming, and was actually practising her steps about the drawing-room
as long as she could be safe from the notice of her aunt Norris, who
was entirely taken up at first in fresh arranging and injuring the
noble fire which the butler had prepared.

Half an hour followed that would have been at least languid under
any other circumstances, but Fanny's happiness still prevailed. It
was but to think of her conversation with Edmund, and what was the
restlessness of Mrs.\ Norris? What were the yawns of Lady Bertram?

The gentlemen joined them; and soon after began the sweet expectation
of a carriage, when a general spirit of ease and enjoyment seemed
diffused, and they all stood about and talked and laughed, and every
moment had its pleasure and its hope. Fanny felt that there must be
a struggle in Edmund's cheerfulness, but it was delightful to see
the effort so successfully made.

When the carriages were really heard, when the guests began really
to assemble, her own gaiety of heart was much subdued: the sight of
so many strangers threw her back into herself; and besides the gravity
and formality of the first great circle, which the manners of neither
Sir Thomas nor Lady Bertram were of a kind to do away, she found herself
occasionally called on to endure something worse. She was introduced
here and there by her uncle, and forced to be spoken to, and to curtsey,
and speak again. This was a hard duty, and she was never summoned
to it without looking at William, as he walked about at his ease in
the background of the scene, and longing to be with him.

The entrance of the Grants and Crawfords was a favourable epoch. The
stiffness of the meeting soon gave way before their popular manners
and more diffused intimacies: little groups were formed, and everybody
grew comfortable. Fanny felt the advantage; and, drawing back from
the toils of civility, would have been again most happy, could she
have kept her eyes from wandering between Edmund and Mary Crawford.
\textit{She} looked all loveliness\mbox{---}and what might not be
the end of it? Her own musings were brought to an end on perceiving
Mr.\ Crawford before her, and her thoughts were put into another
channel by his engaging her almost instantly for the first two dances.
Her happiness on this occasion was very much \textit{a} \textit{la}
\textit{mortal}, finely chequered. To be secure of a partner at first
was a most essential good\mbox{---}for the moment of beginning was
now growing seriously near; and she so little understood her own claims
as to think that if Mr.\ Crawford had not asked her, she must have
been the last to be sought after, and should have received a partner
only through a series of inquiry, and bustle, and interference, which
would have been terrible; but at the same time there was a pointedness
in his manner of asking her which she did not like, and she saw his
eye glancing for a moment at her necklace, with a smile\mbox{---}she
thought there was a smile\mbox{---}which made her blush and feel
wretched. And though there was no second glance to disturb her, though
his object seemed then to be only quietly agreeable, she could not
get the better of her embarrassment, heightened as it was by the idea
of his perceiving it, and had no composure till he turned away to
some one else. Then she could gradually rise up to the genuine satisfaction
of having a partner, a voluntary partner, secured against the dancing
began.

When the company were moving into the ballroom, she found herself
for the first time near Miss Crawford, whose eyes and smiles were
immediately and more unequivocally directed as her brother's had been,
and who was beginning to speak on the subject, when Fanny, anxious
to get the story over, hastened to give the explanation of the second
necklace: the real chain. Miss Crawford listened; and all her intended
compliments and insinuations to Fanny were forgotten: she felt only
one thing; and her eyes, bright as they had been before, shewing they
could yet be brighter, she exclaimed with eager pleasure, {}``Did
he? Did Edmund? That was like himself. No other man would have thought
of it. I honour him beyond expression.'' And she looked around as
if longing to tell him so. He was not near, he was attending a party
of ladies out of the room; and Mrs.\ Grant coming up to the two girls,
and taking an arm of each, they followed with the rest.

Fanny's heart sunk, but there was no leisure for thinking long even
of Miss Crawford's feelings. They were in the ballroom, the violins
were playing, and her mind was in a flutter that forbade its fixing
on anything serious. She must watch the general arrangements, and
see how everything was done.

In a few minutes Sir Thomas came to her, and asked if she were engaged;
and the {}``Yes, sir; to Mr.\ Crawford,'' was exactly what he had
intended to hear. Mr.\ Crawford was not far off; Sir Thomas brought
him to her, saying something which discovered to Fanny, that \textit{she}
was to lead the way and open the ball; an idea that had never occurred
to her before. Whenever she had thought of the minutiae of the evening,
it had been as a matter of course that Edmund would begin with Miss
Crawford; and the impression was so strong, that though \textit{her}
\textit{uncle} spoke the contrary, she could not help an exclamation
of surprise, a hint of her unfitness, an entreaty even to be excused.
To be urging her opinion against Sir Thomas's was a proof of the extremity
of the case; but such was her horror at the first suggestion, that
she could actually look him in the face and say that she hoped it
might be settled otherwise; in vain, however: Sir Thomas smiled, tried
to encourage her, and then looked too serious, and said too decidedly,
{}``It must be so, my dear,'' for her to hazard another word; and
she found herself the next moment conducted by Mr.\ Crawford to the
top of the room, and standing there to be joined by the rest of the
dancers, couple after couple, as they were formed.

She could hardly believe it. To be placed above so many elegant young
women! The distinction was too great. It was treating her like her
cousins! And her thoughts flew to those absent cousins with most unfeigned
and truly tender regret, that they were not at home to take their
own place in the room, and have their share of a pleasure which would
have been so very delightful to them. So often as she had heard them
wish for a ball at home as the greatest of all felicities! And to
have them away when it was given\mbox{---}and for \textit{her} to
be opening the ball\mbox{---}and with Mr.\ Crawford too! She hoped
they would not envy her that distinction \textit{now}; but when she
looked back to the state of things in the autumn, to what they had
all been to each other when once dancing in that house before, the
present arrangement was almost more than she could understand herself.

The ball began. It was rather honour than happiness to Fanny, for
the first dance at least: her partner was in excellent spirits, and
tried to impart them to her; but she was a great deal too much frightened
to have any enjoyment till she could suppose herself no longer looked
at. Young, pretty, and gentle, however, she had no awkwardnesses that
were not as good as graces, and there were few persons present that
were not disposed to praise her. She was attractive, she was modest,
she was Sir Thomas's niece, and she was soon said to be admired by
Mr.\ Crawford. It was enough to give her general favour. Sir Thomas
himself was watching her progress down the dance with much complacency;
he was proud of his niece; and without attributing all her personal
beauty, as Mrs.\ Norris seemed to do, to her transplantation to Mansfield,
he was pleased with himself for having supplied everything else: education
and manners she owed to him.

Miss Crawford saw much of Sir Thomas's thoughts as he stood, and having,
in spite of all his wrongs towards her, a general prevailing desire
of recommending herself to him, took an opportunity of stepping aside
to say something agreeable of Fanny. Her praise was warm, and he received
it as she could wish, joining in it as far as discretion, and politeness,
and slowness of speech would allow, and certainly appearing to greater
advantage on the subject than his lady did soon afterwards, when Mary,
perceiving her on a sofa very near, turned round before she began
to dance, to compliment her on Miss Price's looks.

{}``Yes, she does look very well,'' was Lady Bertram's placid reply.
{}``Chapman helped her to dress. I sent Chapman to her.'' Not but
that she was really pleased to have Fanny admired; but she was so
much more struck with her own kindness in sending Chapman to her,
that she could not get it out of her head.

Miss Crawford knew Mrs.\ Norris too well to think of gratifying \textit{her}
by commendation of Fanny; to her, it was as the occasion offered\mbox{---}{}``Ah!\ ma'am,
how much we want dear Mrs.\ Rushworth and Julia to-night!''\  and
Mrs.\ Norris paid her with as many smiles and courteous words as
she had time for, amid so much occupation as she found for herself
in making up card-tables, giving hints to Sir Thomas, and trying to
move all the chaperons to a better part of the room.

Miss Crawford blundered most towards Fanny herself in her intentions
to please. She meant to be giving her little heart a happy flutter,
and filling her with sensations of delightful self-consequence; and,
misinterpreting Fanny's blushes, still thought she must be doing so
when she went to her after the two first dances, and said, with a
significant look, {}``Perhaps \textit{you} can tell me why my brother
goes to town to-morrow? He says he has business there, but will not
tell me what. The first time he ever denied me his confidence! But
this is what we all come to. All are supplanted sooner or later. Now,
I must apply to you for information. Pray, what is Henry going for?''\ 

Fanny protested her ignorance as steadily as her embarrassment allowed.

{}``Well, then,'' replied Miss Crawford, laughing, {}``I must suppose
it to be purely for the pleasure of conveying your brother, and of
talking of you by the way.''

Fanny was confused, but it was the confusion of discontent; while
Miss Crawford wondered she did not smile, and thought her over-anxious,
or thought her odd, or thought her anything rather than insensible
of pleasure in Henry's attentions. Fanny had a good deal of enjoyment
in the course of the evening; but Henry's attentions had very little
to do with it. She would much rather \textit{not} have been asked
by him again so very soon, and she wished she had not been obliged
to suspect that his previous inquiries of Mrs.\ Norris, about the
supper hour, were all for the sake of securing her at that part of
the evening. But it was not to be avoided: he made her feel that she
was the object of all; though she could not say that it was unpleasantly
done, that there was indelicacy or ostentation in his manner; and
sometimes, when he talked of William, he was really not unagreeable,
and shewed even a warmth of heart which did him credit. But still
his attentions made no part of her satisfaction. She was happy whenever
she looked at William, and saw how perfectly he was enjoying himself,
in every five minutes that she could walk about with him and hear
his account of his partners; she was happy in knowing herself admired;
and she was happy in having the two dances with Edmund still to look
forward to, during the greatest part of the evening, her hand being
so eagerly sought after that her indefinite engagement with \textit{him}
was in continual perspective. She was happy even when they did take
place; but not from any flow of spirits on his side, or any such expressions
of tender gallantry as had blessed the morning. His mind was fagged,
and her happiness sprung from being the friend with whom it could
find repose. {}``I am worn out with civility,'' said he. {}``I
have been talking incessantly all night, and with nothing to say.
But with \textit{you}, Fanny, there may be peace. You will not want
to be talked to. Let us have the luxury of silence.'' Fanny would
hardly even speak her agreement. A weariness, arising probably, in
great measure, from the same feelings which he had acknowledged in
the morning, was peculiarly to be respected, and they went down their
two dances together with such sober tranquillity as might satisfy
any looker-on that Sir Thomas had been bringing up no wife for his
younger son.

The evening had afforded Edmund little pleasure. Miss Crawford had
been in gay spirits when they first danced together, but it was not
her gaiety that could do him good: it rather sank than raised his
comfort; and afterwards, for he found himself still impelled to seek
her again, she had absolutely pained him by her manner of speaking
of the profession to which he was now on the point of belonging. They
had talked, and they had been silent; he had reasoned, she had ridiculed;
and they had parted at last with mutual vexation. Fanny, not able
to refrain entirely from observing them, had seen enough to be tolerably
satisfied. It was barbarous to be happy when Edmund was suffering.
Yet some happiness must and would arise from the very conviction that
he did suffer.

When her two dances with him were over, her inclination and strength
for more were pretty well at an end; and Sir Thomas, having seen her
walk rather than dance down the shortening set, breathless, and with
her hand at her side, gave his orders for her sitting down entirely.
From that time Mr.\ Crawford sat down likewise.

{}``Poor Fanny!''\ cried William, coming for a moment to visit
her, and working away his partner's fan as if for life, {}``how soon
she is knocked up! Why, the sport is but just begun. I hope we shall
keep it up these two hours. How can you be tired so soon?''\ 

{}``So soon!\ my good friend,'' said Sir Thomas, producing his
watch with all necessary caution; {}``it is three o'clock, and your
sister is not used to these sort of hours.''

{}``Well, then, Fanny, you shall not get up to-morrow before I go.
Sleep as long as you can, and never mind me.''

{}``Oh!\ William.''

{}``What! Did she think of being up before you set off?''\ 

{}``Oh!\ yes, sir,'' cried Fanny, rising eagerly from her seat
to be nearer her uncle; {}``I must get up and breakfast with him.
It will be the last time, you know; the last morning.''

{}``You had better not. He is to have breakfasted and be gone by
half-past nine. Mr.\ Crawford, I think you call for him at half-past
nine?''\ 

Fanny was too urgent, however, and had too many tears in her eyes
for denial; and it ended in a gracious {}``Well, well!''\ which
was permission.

{}``Yes, half-past nine,'' said Crawford to William as the latter
was leaving them, {}``and I shall be punctual, for there will be
no kind sister to get up for \textit{me}.'' And in a lower tone to
Fanny, {}``I shall have only a desolate house to hurry from. Your
brother will find my ideas of time and his own very different to-morrow.''

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

Shortly afterward, Sir Thomas was again interfering a little with
her inclination, by advising her to go immediately to bed. {}``Advise''
was his word, but it was the advice of absolute power, and she had
only to rise, and, with Mr.\ Crawford's very cordial \emph{adieu}s,
pass quietly away; stopping at the entrance-door, like the Lady of
Branxholm Hall, {}``one moment and no more,'' to view the happy
scene, and take a last look at the five or six determined couple who
were still hard at work; and then, creeping slowly up the principal
staircase, pursued by the ceaseless country-dance, feverish with hopes
and fears, soup and negus, sore-footed and fatigued, restless and
agitated, yet feeling, in spite of everything, that a ball was indeed
delightful.

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


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XXIX}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XXIX}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER XXIX}

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

After seeing William to the last moment, Fanny walked back to the
breakfast-room with a very saddened heart to grieve over the melancholy
change; and there her uncle kindly left her to cry in peace, conceiving,
perhaps, that the deserted chair of each young man might exercise
her tender enthusiasm, and that the remaining cold pork bones and
mustard in William's plate might but divide her feelings with the
broken egg-shells in Mr.\ Crawford's. She sat and cried \textit{con}
\textit{amore} as her uncle intended, but it was \textit{con} \textit{amore}
fraternal and no other. William was gone, and she now felt as if she
had wasted half his visit in idle cares and selfish solicitudes unconnected
with him.

Fanny's disposition was such that she could never even think of her
aunt Norris in the meagreness and cheerlessness of her own small house,
without reproaching herself for some little want of attention to her
when they had been last together; much less could her feelings acquit
her of having done and said and thought everything by William that
was due to him for a whole fortnight.

It was a heavy, melancholy day. Soon after the second breakfast, Edmund
bade them good-bye for a week, and mounted his horse for Peterborough,
and then all were gone. Nothing remained of last night but remembrances,
which she had nobody to share in. She talked to her aunt Bertram\mbox{---}she
must talk to somebody of the ball; but her aunt had seen so little
of what had passed, and had so little curiosity, that it was heavy
work. Lady Bertram was not certain of anybody's dress or anybody's
place at supper but her own. {}``She could not recollect what it
was that she had heard about one of the Miss Maddoxes, or what it
was that Lady Prescott had noticed in Fanny: she was not sure whether
Colonel Harrison had been talking of Mr.\ Crawford or of William
when he said he was the finest young man in the room\mbox{---}somebody
had whispered something to her; she had forgot to ask Sir Thomas what
it could be.'' And these were her longest speeches and clearest communications:
the rest was only a languid {}``Yes, yes; very well; did you?\ did
he? I did not see \textit{that}; I should not know one from the other.''
This was very bad. It was only better than Mrs.\ Norris's sharp answers
would have been; but she being gone home with all the supernumerary
jellies to nurse a sick maid, there was peace and good-humour in their
little party, though it could not boast much beside.

The evening was heavy like the day. {}``I cannot think what is the
matter with me,'' said Lady Bertram, when the tea-things were removed.
{}``I feel quite stupid. It must be sitting up so late last night.
Fanny, you must do something to keep me awake. I cannot work. Fetch
the cards; I feel so very stupid.''

The cards were brought, and Fanny played at cribbage with her aunt
till bedtime; and as Sir Thomas was reading to himself, no sounds
were heard in the room for the next two hours beyond the reckonings
of the game\mbox{---}{}``And \textit{that} makes thirty-one; four
in hand and eight in crib. You are to deal, ma'am; shall I deal for
you?''\  Fanny thought and thought again of the difference which
twenty-four hours had made in that room, and all that part of the
house. Last night it had been hope and smiles, bustle and motion,
noise and brilliancy, in the drawing-room, and out of the drawing-room,
and everywhere. Now it was languor, and all but solitude.

A good night's rest improved her spirits. She could think of William
the next day more cheerfully; and as the morning afforded her an opportunity
of talking over Thursday night with Mrs.\ Grant and Miss Crawford,
in a very handsome style, with all the heightenings of imagination,
and all the laughs of playfulness which are so essential to the shade
of a departed ball, she could afterwards bring her mind without much
effort into its everyday state, and easily conform to the tranquillity
of the present quiet week.

They were indeed a smaller party than she had ever known there for
a whole day together, and \textit{he} was gone on whom the comfort
and cheerfulness of every family meeting and every meal chiefly depended.
But this must be learned to be endured. He would soon be always gone;
and she was thankful that she could now sit in the same room with
her uncle, hear his voice, receive his questions, and even answer
them, without such wretched feelings as she had formerly known.

{}``We miss our two young men,'' was Sir Thomas's observation on
both the first and second day, as they formed their very reduced circle
after dinner; and in consideration of Fanny's swimming eyes, nothing
more was said on the first day than to drink their good health; but
on the second it led to something farther. William was kindly commended
and his promotion hoped for. {}``And there is no reason to suppose,''
added Sir Thomas, {}``but that his visits to us may now be tolerably
frequent. As to Edmund, we must learn to do without him. This will
be the last winter of his belonging to us, as he has done.''

{}``Yes,'' said Lady Bertram, {}``but I wish he was not going away.
They are all going away, I think. I wish they would stay at home.''

This wish was levelled principally at Julia, who had just applied
for permission to go to town with Maria; and as Sir Thomas thought
it best for each daughter that the permission should be granted, Lady
Bertram, though in her own good-nature she would not have prevented
it, was lamenting the change it made in the prospect of Julia's return,
which would otherwise have taken place about this time. A great deal
of good sense followed on Sir Thomas's side, tending to reconcile
his wife to the arrangement. Everything that a considerate parent
\textit{ought} to feel was advanced for her use; and everything that
an affectionate mother \textit{must} feel in promoting her children's
enjoyment was attributed to her nature. Lady Bertram agreed to it
all with a calm {}``Yes''; and at the end of a quarter of an hour's
silent consideration spontaneously observed, {}``Sir Thomas, I have
been thinking\mbox{---}and I am very glad we took Fanny as we did,
for now the others are away we feel the good of it.''

Sir Thomas immediately improved this compliment by adding, {}``Very
true. We shew Fanny what a good girl we think her by praising her
to her face, she is now a very valuable companion. If we have been
kind to \textit{her}, she is now quite as necessary to \textit{us}.''

{}``Yes,'' said Lady Bertram presently; {}``and it is a comfort
to think that we shall always have \textit{her}.''

Sir Thomas paused, half smiled, glanced at his niece, and then gravely
replied, {}``She will never leave us, I hope, till invited to some
other home that may reasonably promise her greater happiness than
she knows here.''

{}``And \textit{that} is not very likely to be, Sir Thomas. Who should
invite her? Maria might be very glad to see her at Sotherton now and
then, but she would not think of asking her to live there; and I am
sure she is better off here; and besides, I cannot do without her.''

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

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

If she had felt impatience and regret before\mbox{---}if she had
been sorry for what she said, and feared its too strong effect on
him\mbox{---}she now felt and feared it all tenfold more. She had,
moreover, to contend with one disagreeable emotion entirely new to
her\mbox{---}jealousy. His friend Mr.\ Owen had sisters; he might
find them attractive. But, at any rate, his staying away at a time
when, according to all preceding plans, she was to remove to London,
meant something that she could not bear. Had Henry returned, as he
talked of doing, at the end of three or four days, she should now
have been leaving Mansfield. It became absolutely necessary for her
to get to Fanny and try to learn something more. She could not live
any longer in such solitary wretchedness; and she made her way to
the Park, through difficulties of walking which she had deemed unconquerable
a week before, for the chance of hearing a little in addition, for
the sake of at least hearing his name.

The first half-hour was lost, for Fanny and Lady Bertram were together,
and unless she had Fanny to herself she could hope for nothing. But
at last Lady Bertram left the room, and then almost immediately Miss
Crawford thus began, with a voice as well regulated as she could\mbox{---}{}``And
how do \textit{you} like your cousin Edmund's staying away so long?
Being the only young person at home, I consider \textit{you} as the
greatest sufferer. You must miss him. Does his staying longer surprise
you?''\ 

{}``I do not know,'' said Fanny hesitatingly. {}``Yes; I had not
particularly expected it.''

{}``Perhaps he will always stay longer than he talks of. It is the
general way all young men do.''

{}``He did not, the only time he went to see Mr.\ Owen before.''

{}``He finds the house more agreeable \textit{now}. He is a very\mbox{---}a
very pleasing young man himself, and I cannot help being rather concerned
at not seeing him again before I go to London, as will now undoubtedly
be the case. I am looking for Henry every day, and as soon as he comes
there will be nothing to detain me at Mansfield. I should like to
have seen him once more, I confess. But you must give my compliments
to him. Yes; I think it must be compliments. Is not there a something
wanted, Miss Price, in our language\mbox{---}a something between
compliments and\mbox{---}and love\mbox{---}to suit the sort of friendly
acquaintance we have had together? So many months' acquaintance! But
compliments may be sufficient here. Was his letter a long one? Does
he give you much account of what he is doing? Is it Christmas gaieties
that he is staying for?''\ 

{}``I only heard a part of the letter; it was to my uncle; but I
believe it was very short; indeed I am sure it was but a few lines.
All that I heard was that his friend had pressed him to stay longer,
and that he had agreed to do so. A \textit{few} days longer, or \textit{some}
days longer; I am not quite sure which.''

{}``Oh!\ if he wrote to his father; but I thought it might have
been to Lady Bertram or you. But if he wrote to his father, no wonder
he was concise. Who could write chat to Sir Thomas? If he had written
to you, there would have been more particulars. You would have heard
of balls and parties. He would have sent you a description of everything
and everybody. How many Miss Owens are there?''\ 

{}``Three grown up.''

{}``Are they musical?''\ 

{}``I do not at all know. I never heard.''

{}``That is the first question, you know,'' said Miss Crawford,
trying to appear gay and unconcerned, {}``which every woman who plays
herself is sure to ask about another. But it is very foolish to ask
questions about any young ladies\mbox{---}about any three sisters
just grown up; for one knows, without being told, exactly what they
are: all very accomplished and pleasing, and one very pretty. There
is a beauty in every family; it is a regular thing. Two play on the
pianoforte, and one on the harp; and all sing, or would sing if they
were taught, or sing all the better for not being taught; or something
like it.''

{}``I know nothing of the Miss Owens,'' said Fanny calmly.

{}``You know nothing and you care less, as people say. Never did
tone express indifference plainer. Indeed, how can one care for those
one has never seen? Well, when your cousin comes back, he will find
Mansfield very quiet; all the noisy ones gone, your brother and mine
and myself I do not like the idea of leaving Mrs.\ Grant now the
time draws near. She does not like my going.''

Fanny felt obliged to speak. {}``You cannot doubt your being missed
by many,'' said she. {}``You will be very much missed.''

Miss Crawford turned her eye on her, as if wanting to hear or see
more, and then laughingly said, {}``Oh yes!\ missed as every noisy
evil is missed when it is taken away; that is, there is a great difference
felt. But I am not fishing; don't compliment me. If I \textit{am}
missed, it will appear. I may be discovered by those who want to see
me. I shall not be in any doubtful, or distant, or unapproachable
region.''

Now Fanny could not bring herself to speak, and Miss Crawford was
disappointed; for she had hoped to hear some pleasant assurance of
her power from one who she thought must know, and her spirits were
clouded again.

{}``The Miss Owens,'' said she, soon afterwards; {}``suppose you
were to have one of the Miss Owens settled at Thornton Lacey; how
should you like it? Stranger things have happened. I dare say they
are trying for it. And they are quite in the light, for it would be
a very pretty establishment for them. I do not at all wonder or blame
them. It is everybody's duty to do as well for themselves as they
can. Sir Thomas Bertram's son is somebody; and now he is in their
own line. Their father is a clergyman, and their brother is a clergyman,
and they are all clergymen together. He is their lawful property;
he fairly belongs to them. You don't speak, Fanny; Miss Price, you
don't speak. But honestly now, do not you rather expect it than otherwise?''\ 

{}``No,'' said Fanny stoutly, {}``I do not expect it at all.''

{}``Not at all!''\ cried Miss Crawford with alacrity. {}``I wonder
at that. But I dare say you know exactly\mbox{---}I always imagine
you are\mbox{---}perhaps you do not think him likely to marry at
all\mbox{---}or not at present.''

{}``No, I do not,'' said Fanny softly, hoping she did not err either
in the belief or the acknowledgment of it.

Her companion looked at her keenly; and gathering greater spirit from
the blush soon produced from such a look, only said, {}``He is best
off as he is,'' and turned the subject.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XXX}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XXX}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER XXX}

Miss Crawford's uneasiness was much lightened by this conversation,
and she walked home again in spirits which might have defied almost
another week of the same small party in the same bad weather, had
they been put to the proof; but as that very evening brought her brother
down from London again in quite, or more than quite, his usual cheerfulness,
she had nothing farther to try her own. His still refusing to tell
her what he had gone for was but the promotion of gaiety; a day before
it might have irritated, but now it was a pleasant joke\mbox{---}suspected
only of concealing something planned as a pleasant surprise to herself.
And the next day \textit{did} bring a surprise to her. Henry had said
he should just go and ask the Bertrams how they did, and be back in
ten minutes, but he was gone above an hour; and when his sister, who
had been waiting for him to walk with her in the garden, met him at
last most impatiently in the sweep, and cried out, {}``My dear Henry,
where can you have been all this time?''\ he had only to say that
he had been sitting with Lady Bertram and Fanny.

{}``Sitting with them an hour and a half!''\ exclaimed Mary.

But this was only the beginning of her surprise.

{}``Yes, Mary,'' said he, drawing her arm within his, and walking
along the sweep as if not knowing where he was: {}``I could not get
away sooner; Fanny looked so lovely! I am quite determined, Mary.
My mind is entirely made up. Will it astonish you? No: you must be
aware that I am quite determined to marry Fanny Price.''

The surprise was now complete; for, in spite of whatever his consciousness
might suggest, a suspicion of his having any such views had never
entered his sister's imagination; and she looked so truly the astonishment
she felt, that he was obliged to repeat what he had said, and more
fully and more solemnly. The conviction of his determination once
admitted, it was not unwelcome. There was even pleasure with the surprise.
Mary was in a state of mind to rejoice in a connexion with the Bertram
family, and to be not displeased with her brother's marrying a little
beneath him.

{}``Yes, Mary,'' was Henry's concluding assurance. {}``I am fairly
caught. You know with what idle designs I began; but this is the end
of them. I have, I flatter myself, made no inconsiderable progress
in her affections; but my own are entirely fixed.''

{}``Lucky, lucky girl!''\ cried Mary, as soon as she could speak;
{}``what a match for her! My dearest Henry, this must be my \textit{first}
feeling; but my \textit{second}, which you shall have as sincerely,
is, that I approve your choice from my soul, and foresee your happiness
as heartily as I wish and desire it. You will have a sweet little
wife; all gratitude and devotion. Exactly what you deserve. What an
amazing match for her! Mrs.\ Norris often talks of her luck; what
will she say now? The delight of all the family, indeed! And she has
some \textit{true} friends in it! How \textit{they} will rejoice!
But tell me all about it! Talk to me for ever. When did you begin
to think seriously about her?''\ 

Nothing could be more impossible than to answer such a question, though
nothing could be more agreeable than to have it asked. {}``How the
pleasing plague had stolen on him'' he could not say; and before
he had expressed the same sentiment with a little variation of words
three times over, his sister eagerly interrupted him with, {}``Ah,
my dear Henry, and this is what took you to London! This was your
business! You chose to consult the Admiral before you made up your
mind.''

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

{}``When Fanny is known to him,'' continued Henry, {}``he will
doat on her. She is exactly the woman to do away every prejudice of
such a man as the Admiral, for she he would describe, if indeed he
has now delicacy of language enough to embody his own ideas. But till
it is absolutely settled\mbox{---}settled beyond all interference,
he shall know nothing of the matter. No, Mary, you are quite mistaken.
You have not discovered my business yet.''

{}``Well, well, I am satisfied. I know now to whom it must relate,
and am in no hurry for the rest. Fanny Price!\ wonderful, quite wonderful!
That Mansfield should have done so much for\mbox{---}that \textit{you}
should have found your fate in Mansfield! But you are quite right;
you could not have chosen better. There is not a better girl in the
world, and you do not want for fortune; and as to her connexions,
they are more than good. The Bertrams are undoubtedly some of the
first people in this country. She is niece to Sir Thomas Bertram;
that will be enough for the world. But go on, go on. Tell me more.
What are your plans? Does she know her own happiness?''\ 

{}``No.''

{}``What are you waiting for?''\ 

{}``For\mbox{---}for very little more than opportunity. Mary, she
is not like her cousins; but I think I shall not ask in vain.''

{}``Oh no!\ you cannot. Were you even less pleasing\mbox{---}supposing
her not to love you already (of which, however, I can have little
doubt)\mbox{---}you would be safe. The gentleness and gratitude of
her disposition would secure her all your own immediately. From my
soul I do not think she would marry you \textit{without} love; that
is, if there is a girl in the world capable of being uninfluenced
by ambition, I can suppose it her; but ask her to love you, and she
will never have the heart to refuse.''

As soon as her eagerness could rest in silence, he was as happy to
tell as she could be to listen; and a conversation followed almost
as deeply interesting to her as to himself, though he had in fact
nothing to relate but his own sensations, nothing to dwell on but
Fanny's charms. Fanny's beauty of face and figure, Fanny's graces
of manner and goodness of heart, were the exhaustless theme. The gentleness,
modesty, and sweetness of her character were warmly expatiated on;
that sweetness which makes so essential a part of every woman's worth
in the judgment of man, that though he sometimes loves where it is
not, he can never believe it absent. Her temper he had good reason
to depend on and to praise. He had often seen it tried. Was there
one of the family, excepting Edmund, who had not in some way or other
continually exercised her patience and forbearance? Her affections
were evidently strong. To see her with her brother! What could more
delightfully prove that the warmth of her heart was equal to its gentleness?
What could be more encouraging to a man who had her love in view?
Then, her understanding was beyond every suspicion, quick and clear;
and her manners were the mirror of her own modest and elegant mind.
Nor was this all. Henry Crawford had too much sense not to feel the
worth of good principles in a wife, though he was too little accustomed
to serious reflection to know them by their proper name; but when
he talked of her having such a steadiness and regularity of conduct,
such a high notion of honour, and such an observance of decorum as
might warrant any man in the fullest dependence on her faith and integrity,
he expressed what was inspired by the knowledge of her being well
principled and religious.

{}``I could so wholly and absolutely confide in her,'' said he;
{}``and \textit{that} is what I want.''

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

{}``The more I think of it,'' she cried, {}``the more am I convinced
that you are doing quite right; and though I should never have selected
Fanny Price as the girl most likely to attach you, I am now persuaded
she is the very one to make you happy. Your wicked project upon her
peace turns out a clever thought indeed. You will both find your good
in it.''

{}``It was bad, very bad in me against such a creature; but I did
not know her then; and she shall have no reason to lament the hour
that first put it into my head. I will make her very happy, Mary;
happier than she has ever yet been herself, or ever seen anybody else.
I will not take her from Northamptonshire. I shall let Everingham,
and rent a place in this neighbourhood; perhaps Stanwix Lodge. I shall
let a seven years' lease of Everingham. I am sure of an excellent
tenant at half a word. I could name three people now, who would give
me my own terms and thank me.''

{}``Ha!''\ cried Mary; {}``settle in Northamptonshire! That is
pleasant! Then we shall be all together.''

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

{}``You must give us more than half your time,'' said he. {}``I
cannot admit Mrs.\ Grant to have an equal claim with Fanny and myself,
for we shall both have a right in you. Fanny will be so truly your
sister!''\ 

Mary had only to be grateful and give general assurances; but she
was now very fully purposed to be the guest of neither brother nor
sister many months longer.

{}``You will divide your year between London and Northamptonshire?''\ 

{}``Yes.''

{}``That's right; and in London, of course, a house of your own:
no longer with the Admiral. My dearest Henry, the advantage to you
of getting away from the Admiral before your manners are hurt by the
contagion of his, before you have contracted any of his foolish opinions,
or learned to sit over your dinner as if it were the best blessing
of life! \textit{You} are not sensible of the gain, for your regard
for him has blinded you; but, in my estimation, your marrying early
may be the saving of you. To have seen you grow like the Admiral in
word or deed, look or gesture, would have broken my heart.''

{}``Well, well, we do not think quite alike here. The Admiral has
his faults, but he is a very good man, and has been more than a father
to me. Few fathers would have let me have my own way half so much.
You must not prejudice Fanny against him. I must have them love one
another.''

Mary refrained from saying what she felt, that there could not be
two persons in existence whose characters and manners were less accordant:
time would discover it to him; but she could not help \textit{this}
reflection on the Admiral. {}``Henry, I think so highly of Fanny
Price, that if I could suppose the next Mrs.\ Crawford would have
half the reason which my poor ill-used aunt had to abhor the very
name, I would prevent the marriage, if possible; but I know you: I
know that a wife you \textit{loved} would be the happiest of women,
and that even when you ceased to love, she would yet find in you the
liberality and good-breeding of a gentleman.''

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

{}``Had you seen her this morning, Mary,'' he continued, {}``attending
with such ineffable sweetness and patience to all the demands of her
aunt's stupidity, working with her, and for her, her colour beautifully
heightened as she leant over the work, then returning to her seat
to finish a note which she was previously engaged in writing for that
stupid woman's service, and all this with such unpretending gentleness,
so much as if it were a matter of course that she was not to have
a moment at her own command, her hair arranged as neatly as it always
is, and one little curl falling forward as she wrote, which she now
and then shook back, and in the midst of all this, still speaking
at intervals to \textit{me}, or listening, and as if she liked to
listen, to what I said. Had you seen her so, Mary, you would not have
implied the possibility of her power over my heart ever ceasing.''

{}``My dearest Henry,'' cried Mary, stopping short, and smiling
in his face, {}``how glad I am to see you so much in love! It quite
delights me. But what will Mrs.\ Rushworth and Julia say?''\ 

{}``I care neither what they say nor what they feel. They will now
see what sort of woman it is that can attach me, that can attach a
man of sense. I wish the discovery may do them any good. And they
will now see their cousin treated as she ought to be, and I wish they
may be heartily ashamed of their own abominable neglect and unkindness.
They will be angry,'' he added, after a moment's silence, and in
a cooler tone; {}``Mrs.\ Rushworth will be very angry. It will be
a bitter pill to her; that is, like other bitter pills, it will have
two moments' ill flavour, and then be swallowed and forgotten; for
I am not such a coxcomb as to suppose her feelings more lasting than
other women's, though \textit{I} was the object of them. Yes, Mary,
my Fanny will feel a difference indeed: a daily, hourly difference,
in the behaviour of every being who approaches her; and it will be
the completion of my happiness to know that I am the doer of it, that
I am the person to give the consequence so justly her due. Now she
is dependent, helpless, friendless, neglected, forgotten.''

{}``Nay, Henry, not by all; not forgotten by all; not friendless
or forgotten. Her cousin Edmund never forgets her.''

{}``Edmund! True, I believe he is, generally speaking, kind to her,
and so is Sir Thomas in his way; but it is the way of a rich, superior,
long-worded, arbitrary uncle. What can Sir Thomas and Edmund together
do, what do they \textit{do} for her happiness, comfort, honour, and
dignity in the world, to what I \textit{shall} do?''\ 


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XXXI}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XXXI}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER XXXI}

Henry Crawford was at Mansfield Park again the next morning, and at
an earlier hour than common visiting warrants. The two ladies were
together in the breakfast-room, and, fortunately for him, Lady Bertram
was on the very point of quitting it as he entered. She was almost
at the door, and not chusing by any means to take so much trouble
in vain, she still went on, after a civil reception, a short sentence
about being waited for, and a {}``Let Sir Thomas know'' to the servant.

Henry, overjoyed to have her go, bowed and watched her off, and without
losing another moment, turned instantly to Fanny, and, taking out
some letters, said, with a most animated look, {}``I must acknowledge
myself infinitely obliged to any creature who gives me such an opportunity
of seeing you alone: I have been wishing it more than you can have
any idea. Knowing as I do what your feelings as a sister are, I could
hardly have borne that any one in the house should share with you
in the first knowledge of the news I now bring. He is made. Your brother
is a lieutenant. I have the infinite satisfaction of congratulating
you on your brother's promotion. Here are the letters which announce
it, this moment come to hand. You will, perhaps, like to see them.''

Fanny could not speak, but he did not want her to speak. To see the
expression of her eyes, the change of her complexion, the progress
of her feelings, their doubt, confusion, and felicity, was enough.
She took the letters as he gave them. The first was from the Admiral
to inform his nephew, in a few words, of his having succeeded in the
object he had undertaken, the promotion of young Price, and enclosing
two more, one from the Secretary of the First Lord to a friend, whom
the Admiral had set to work in the business, the other from that friend
to himself, by which it appeared that his lordship had the very great
happiness of attending to the recommendation of Sir Charles; that
Sir Charles was much delighted in having such an opportunity of proving
his regard for Admiral Crawford, and that the circumstance of Mr.\ William
Price's commission as Second Lieutenant of H.M. Sloop \emph{Thrush}
being made out was spreading general joy through a wide circle of
great people.

While her hand was trembling under these letters, her eye running
from one to the other, and her heart swelling with emotion, Crawford
thus continued, with unfeigned eagerness, to express his interest
in the event\mbox{---}

{}``I will not talk of my own happiness,'' said he, {}``great as
it is, for I think only of yours. Compared with you, who has a right
to be happy? I have almost grudged myself my own prior knowledge of
what you ought to have known before all the world. I have not lost
a moment, however. The post was late this morning, but there has not
been since a moment's delay. How impatient, how anxious, how wild
I have been on the subject, I will not attempt to describe; how severely
mortified, how cruelly disappointed, in not having it finished while
I was in London! I was kept there from day to day in the hope of it,
for nothing less dear to me than such an object would have detained
me half the time from Mansfield. But though my uncle entered into
my wishes with all the warmth I could desire, and exerted himself
immediately, there were difficulties from the absence of one friend,
and the engagements of another, which at last I could no longer bear
to stay the end of, and knowing in what good hands I left the cause,
I came away on Monday, trusting that many posts would not pass before
I should be followed by such very letters as these. My uncle, who
is the very best man in the world, has exerted himself, as I knew
he would, after seeing your brother. He was delighted with him. I
would not allow myself yesterday to say how delighted, or to repeat
half that the Admiral said in his praise. I deferred it all till his
praise should be proved the praise of a friend, as this day \textit{does}
prove it. \textit{Now} I may say that even I could not require William
Price to excite a greater interest, or be followed by warmer wishes
and higher commendation, than were most voluntarily bestowed by my
uncle after the evening they had passed together.''

{}``Has this been all \textit{your} doing, then?''\ cried Fanny.
{}``Good heaven!\ how very, very kind! Have you really\mbox{---}was
it by \textit{your} desire? I beg your pardon, but I am bewildered.
Did Admiral Crawford apply? How was it? I am stupefied.''

Henry was most happy to make it more intelligible, by beginning at
an earlier stage, and explaining very particularly what he had done.
His last journey to London had been undertaken with no other view
than that of introducing her brother in Hill Street, and prevailing
on the Admiral to exert whatever interest he might have for getting
him on. This had been his business. He had communicated it to no creature:
he had not breathed a syllable of it even to Mary; while uncertain
of the issue, he could not have borne any participation of his feelings,
but this had been his business; and he spoke with such a glow of what
his solicitude had been, and used such strong expressions, was so
abounding in the \textit{deepest} \textit{interest}, in \textit{twofold}
\textit{motives}, in \textit{views} \textit{and} \textit{wishes} \textit{more}
\textit{than} \textit{could} \textit{be} \textit{told}, that Fanny
could not have remained insensible of his drift, had she been able
to attend; but her heart was so full and her senses still so astonished,
that she could listen but imperfectly even to what he told her of
William, and saying only when he paused, {}``How kind!\ how very
kind! Oh, Mr.\ Crawford, we are infinitely obliged to you! Dearest,
dearest William!''\ She jumped up and moved in haste towards the
door, crying out, {}``I will go to my uncle. My uncle ought to know
it as soon as possible.'' But this could not be suffered. The opportunity
was too fair, and his feelings too impatient. He was after her immediately.
{}``She must not go, she must allow him five minutes longer,'' and
he took her hand and led her back to her seat, and was in the middle
of his farther explanation, before she had suspected for what she
was detained. When she did understand it, however, and found herself
expected to believe that she had created sensations which his heart
had never known before, and that everything he had done for William
was to be placed to the account of his excessive and unequalled attachment
to her, she was exceedingly distressed, and for some moments unable
to speak. She considered it all as nonsense, as mere trifling and
gallantry, which meant only to deceive for the hour; she could not
but feel that it was treating her improperly and unworthily, and in
such a way as she had not deserved; but it was like himself, and entirely
of a piece with what she had seen before; and she would not allow
herself to shew half the displeasure she felt, because he had been
conferring an obligation, which no want of delicacy on his part could
make a trifle to her. While her heart was still bounding with joy
and gratitude on William's behalf, she could not be severely resentful
of anything that injured only herself; and after having twice drawn
back her hand, and twice attempted in vain to turn away from him,
she got up, and said only, with much agitation, {}``Don't, Mr.\ Crawford,
pray don't! I beg you would not. This is a sort of talking which is
very unpleasant to me. I must go away. I cannot bear it.'' But he
was still talking on, describing his affection, soliciting a return,
and, finally, in words so plain as to bear but one meaning even to
her, offering himself, hand, fortune, everything, to her acceptance.
It was so; he had said it. Her astonishment and confusion increased;
and though still not knowing how to suppose him serious, she could
hardly stand. He pressed for an answer.

{}``No, no, no!''\ she cried, hiding her face. {}``This is all
nonsense. Do not distress me. I can hear no more of this. Your kindness
to William makes me more obliged to you than words can express; but
I do not want, I cannot bear, I must not listen to such\mbox{---}No,
no, don't think of me. But you are \textit{not} thinking of me. I
know it is all nothing.''

She had burst away from him, and at that moment Sir Thomas was heard
speaking to a servant in his way towards the room they were in. It
was no time for farther assurances or entreaty, though to part with
her at a moment when her modesty alone seemed, to his sanguine and
preassured mind, to stand in the way of the happiness he sought, was
a cruel necessity. She rushed out at an opposite door from the one
her uncle was approaching, and was walking up and down the East room
ill the utmost confusion of contrary feeling, before Sir Thomas's
politeness or apologies were over, or he had reached the beginning
of the joyful intelligence which his visitor came to communicate.

She was feeling, thinking, trembling about everything; agitated, happy,
miserable, infinitely obliged, absolutely angry. It was all beyond
belief! He was inexcusable, incomprehensible! But such were his habits
that he could do nothing without a mixture of evil. He had previously
made her the happiest of human beings, and now he had insulted\mbox{---}she
knew not what to say, how to class, or how to regard it. She would
not have him be serious, and yet what could excuse the use of such
words and offers, if they meant but to trifle?

But William was a lieutenant.\  \textit{That} was a fact beyond a
doubt, and without an alloy. She would think of it for ever and forget
all the rest. Mr.\ Crawford would certainly never address her so
again: he must have seen how unwelcome it was to her; and in that
case, how gratefully she could esteem him for his friendship to William!

She would not stir farther from the East room than the head of the
great staircase, till she had satisfied herself of Mr.\ Crawford's
having left the house; but when convinced of his being gone, she was
eager to go down and be with her uncle, and have all the happiness
of his joy as well as her own, and all the benefit of his information
or his conjectures as to what would now be William's destination.
Sir Thomas was as joyful as she could desire, and very kind and communicative;
and she had so comfortable a talk with him about William as to make
her feel as if nothing had occurred to vex her, till she found, towards
the close, that Mr.\ Crawford was engaged to return and dine there
that very day. This was a most unwelcome hearing, for though he might
think nothing of what had passed, it would be quite distressing to
her to see him again so soon.

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

Mr.\ Crawford was not only in the room\mbox{---}he was soon close
to her. He had a note to deliver from his sister. Fanny could not
look at him, but there was no consciousness of past folly in his voice.
She opened her note immediately, glad to have anything to do, and
happy, as she read it, to feel that the fidgetings of her aunt Norris,
who was also to dine there, screened her a little from view.

\begin{quote}{}``My dear Fanny,\mbox{---}for so I may now always
call you, to the infinite relief of a tongue that has been stumbling
at \textit{Miss} \textit{Price} for at least the last six weeks\mbox{---}I
cannot let my brother go without sending you a few lines of general
congratulation, and giving my most joyful consent and approval. Go
on, my dear Fanny, and without fear; there can be no difficulties
worth naming. I chuse to suppose that the assurance of my consent
will be something; so you may smile upon him with your sweetest smiles
this afternoon, and send him back to me even happier than he goes.\mbox{---}Yours
affectionately, M.\ C.'' \end{quote}

These were not expressions to do Fanny any good; for though she read
in too much haste and confusion to form the clearest judgment of Miss
Crawford's meaning, it was evident that she meant to compliment her
on her brother's attachment, and even to \textit{appear} to believe
it serious. She did not know what to do, or what to think. There was
wretchedness in the idea of its being serious; there was perplexity
and agitation every way. She was distressed whenever Mr.\ Crawford
spoke to her, and he spoke to her much too often; and she was afraid
there was a something in his voice and manner in addressing her very
different from what they were when he talked to the others. Her comfort
in that day's dinner was quite destroyed: she could hardly eat anything;
and when Sir Thomas good-humouredly observed that joy had taken away
her appetite, she was ready to sink with shame, from the dread of
Mr.\ Crawford's interpretation; for though nothing could have tempted
her to turn her eyes to the right hand, where he sat, she felt that
\textit{his} were immediately directed towards her.

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

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

Mrs.\ Norris seemed as much delighted with the saving it would be
to Sir Thomas as with any part of it. {}``\textit{Now} William would
be able to keep himself, which would make a vast difference to his
uncle, for it was unknown how much he had cost his uncle; and, indeed,
it would make some difference in \textit{her} presents too. She was
very glad that she had given William what she did at parting, very
glad, indeed, that it had been in her power, without material inconvenience,
just at that time to give him something rather considerable; that
is, for \textit{her}, with \textit{her} limited means, for now it
would all be useful in helping to fit up his cabin. She knew he must
be at some expense, that he would have many things to buy, though
to be sure his father and mother would be able to put him in the way
of getting everything very cheap; but she was very glad she had contributed
her mite towards it.''

{}``I am glad you gave him something considerable,'' said Lady Bertram,
with most unsuspicious calmness, {}``for \textit{I} gave him only
\pounds{}10.''

{}``Indeed!''\ cried Mrs.\ Norris, reddening. {}``Upon my word,
he must have gone off with his pockets well lined, and at no expense
for his journey to London either!''\ 

{}``Sir Thomas told me \pounds{}10 would be enough.''

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

{}``It is amazing,'' said she, {}``how much young people cost their
friends, what with bringing them up and putting them out in the world!
They little think how much it comes to, or what their parents, or
their uncles and aunts, pay for them in the course of the year. Now,
here are my sister Price's children; take them all together, I dare
say nobody would believe what a sum they cost Sir Thomas every year,
to say nothing of what \textit{I} do for them.''

{}``Very true, sister, as you say. But, poor things!\ they cannot
help it; and you know it makes very little difference to Sir Thomas.
Fanny, William must not forget my shawl if he goes to the East Indies;
and I shall give him a commission for anything else that is worth
having. I wish he may go to the East Indies, that I may have my shawl.
I think I will have two shawls, Fanny.''

Fanny, meanwhile, speaking only when she could not help it, was very
earnestly trying to understand what Mr.\ and Miss Crawford were at.
There was everything in the world \textit{against} their being serious
but his words and manner. Everything natural, probable, reasonable,
was against it; all their habits and ways of thinking, and all her
own demerits. How could \textit{she} have excited serious attachment
in a man who had seen so many, and been admired by so many, and flirted
with so many, infinitely her superiors; who seemed so little open
to serious impressions, even where pains had been taken to please
him; who thought so slightly, so carelessly, so unfeelingly on all
such points; who was everything to everybody, and seemed to find no
one essential to him? And farther, how could it be supposed that his
sister, with all her high and worldly notions of matrimony, would
be forwarding anything of a serious nature in such a quarter? Nothing
could be more unnatural in either. Fanny was ashamed of her own doubts.
Everything might be possible rather than serious attachment, or serious
approbation of it toward her. She had quite convinced herself of this
before Sir Thomas and Mr.\ Crawford joined them. The difficulty was
in maintaining the conviction quite so absolutely after Mr.\ Crawford
was in the room; for once or twice a look seemed forced on her which
she did not know how to class among the common meaning; in any other
man, at least, she would have said that it meant something very earnest,
very pointed. But she still tried to believe it no more than what
he might often have expressed towards her cousins and fifty other
women.

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

At last\mbox{---}it seemed an at last to Fanny's nervousness, though
not remarkably late\mbox{---}he began to talk of going away; but
the comfort of the sound was impaired by his turning to her the next
moment, and saying, {}``Have you nothing to send to Mary? No answer
to her note? She will be disappointed if she receives nothing from
you. Pray write to her, if it be only a line.''

{}``Oh yes!\ certainly,'' cried Fanny, rising in haste, the haste
of embarrassment and of wanting to get away\mbox{---}{}``I will
write directly.''

She went accordingly to the table, where she was in the habit of writing
for her aunt, and prepared her materials without knowing what in the
world to say. She had read Miss Crawford's note only once, and how
to reply to anything so imperfectly understood was most distressing.
Quite unpractised in such sort of note-writing, had there been time
for scruples and fears as to style she would have felt them in abundance:
but something must be instantly written; and with only one decided
feeling, that of wishing not to appear to think anything really intended,
she wrote thus, in great trembling both of spirits and hand\mbox{---}

\begin{quote}{}``I am very much obliged to you, my dear Miss Crawford,
for your kind congratulations, as far as they relate to my dearest
William. The rest of your note I know means nothing; but I am so unequal
to anything of the sort, that I hope you will excuse my begging you
to take no farther notice. I have seen too much of Mr.\ Crawford
not to understand his manners; if he understood me as well, he would,
I dare say, behave differently. I do not know what I write, but it
would be a great favour of you never to mention the subject again.
With thanks for the honour of your note, I remain, dear Miss Crawford,
\textit{etc}., \textit{etc}.''\end{quote}

The conclusion was scarcely intelligible from increasing fright, for
she found that Mr.\ Crawford, under pretence of receiving the note,
was coming towards her.

{}``You cannot think I mean to hurry you,'' said he, in an undervoice,
perceiving the amazing trepidation with which she made up the note,
{}``you cannot think I have any such object. Do not hurry yourself,
I entreat.''

{}``Oh!\ I thank you; I have quite done, just done; it will be ready
in a moment; I am very much obliged to you; if you will be so good
as to give \textit{that} to Miss Crawford.''

The note was held out, and must be taken; and as she instantly and
with averted eyes walked towards the fireplace, where sat the others,
he had nothing to do but to go in good earnest.

Fanny thought she had never known a day of greater agitation, both
of pain and pleasure; but happily the pleasure was not of a sort to
die with the day; for every day would restore the knowledge of William's
advancement, whereas the pain, she hoped, would return no more. She
had no doubt that her note must appear excessively ill-written, that
the language would disgrace a child, for her distress had allowed
no arrangement; but at least it would assure them both of her being
neither imposed on nor gratified by Mr.\ Crawford's attentions.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XXXII}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XXXII}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER XXXII}

Fanny had by no means forgotten Mr.\ Crawford when she awoke the
next morning; but she remembered the purport of her note, and was
not less sanguine as to its effect than she had been the night before.
If Mr.\ Crawford would but go away! That was what she most earnestly
desired: go and take his sister with him, as he was to do, and as
he returned to Mansfield on purpose to do. And why it was not done
already she could not devise, for Miss Crawford certainly wanted no
delay. Fanny had hoped, in the course of his yesterday's visit, to
hear the day named; but he had only spoken of their journey as what
would take place ere long.

Having so satisfactorily settled the conviction her note would convey,
she could not but be astonished to see Mr.\ Crawford, as she accidentally
did, coming up to the house again, and at an hour as early as the
day before. His coming might have nothing to do with her, but she
must avoid seeing him if possible; and being then on her way upstairs,
she resolved there to remain, during the whole of his visit, unless
actually sent for; and as Mrs.\ Norris was still in the house, there
seemed little danger of her being wanted.

She sat some time in a good deal of agitation, listening, trembling,
and fearing to be sent for every moment; but as no footsteps approached
the East room, she grew gradually composed, could sit down, and be
able to employ herself, and able to hope that Mr.\ Crawford had come
and would go without her being obliged to know anything of the matter.

Nearly half an hour had passed, and she was growing very comfortable,
when suddenly the sound of a step in regular approach was heard; a
heavy step, an unusual step in that part of the house: it was her
uncle's; she knew it as well as his voice; she had trembled at it
as often, and began to tremble again, at the idea of his coming up
to speak to her, whatever might be the subject. It was indeed Sir
Thomas who opened the door and asked if she were there, and if he
might come in. The terror of his former occasional visits to that
room seemed all renewed, and she felt as if he were going to examine
her again in French and English.

She was all attention, however, in placing a chair for him, and trying
to appear honoured; and, in her agitation, had quite overlooked the
deficiencies of her apartment, till he, stopping short as he entered,
said, with much surprise, {}``Why have you no fire to-day?''\ 

There was snow on the ground, and she was sitting in a shawl. She
hesitated.

{}``I am not cold, sir: I never sit here long at this time of year.''

{}``But you have a fire in general?''\ 

{}``No, sir.''

{}``How comes this about? Here must be some mistake. I understood
that you had the use of this room by way of making you perfectly comfortable.
In your bedchamber I know you \textit{cannot} have a fire. Here is
some great misapprehension which must be rectified. It is highly unfit
for you to sit, be it only half an hour a day, without a fire. You
are not strong. You are chilly. Your aunt cannot be aware of this.''

Fanny would rather have been silent; but being obliged to speak, she
could not forbear, in justice to the aunt she loved best, from saying
something in which the words {}``my aunt Norris'' were distinguishable.

{}``I understand,'' cried her uncle, recollecting himself, and not
wanting to hear more: {}``I understand. Your aunt Norris has always
been an advocate, and very judiciously, for young people's being brought
up without unnecessary indulgences; but there should be moderation
in everything. She is also very hardy herself, which of course will
influence her in her opinion of the wants of others. And on another
account, too, I can perfectly comprehend. I know what her sentiments
have always been. The principle was good in itself, but it may have
been, and I believe \textit{has} \textit{been}, carried too far in
your case. I am aware that there has been sometimes, in some points,
a misplaced distinction; but I think too well of you, Fanny, to suppose
you will ever harbour resentment on that account. You have an understanding
which will prevent you from receiving things only in part, and judging
partially by the event. You will take in the whole of the past, you
will consider times, persons, and probabilities, and you will feel
that \textit{they} were not least your friends who were educating
and preparing you for that mediocrity of condition which \textit{seemed}
to be your lot. Though their caution may prove eventually unnecessary,
it was kindly meant; and of this you may be assured, that every advantage
of affluence will be doubled by the little privations and restrictions
that may have been imposed. I am sure you will not disappoint my opinion
of you, by failing at any time to treat your aunt Norris with the
respect and attention that are due to her. But enough of this. Sit
down, my dear. I must speak to you for a few minutes, but I will not
detain you long.''

Fanny obeyed, with eyes cast down and colour rising. After a moment's
pause, Sir Thomas, trying to suppress a smile, went on.

{}``You are not aware, perhaps, that I have had a visitor this morning.
I had not been long in my own room, after breakfast, when Mr.\ Crawford
was shewn in. His errand you may probably conjecture.''

Fanny's colour grew deeper and deeper; and her uncle, perceiving that
she was embarrassed to a degree that made either speaking or looking
up quite impossible, turned away his own eyes, and without any farther
pause proceeded in his account of Mr.\ Crawford's visit.

Mr.\ Crawford's business had been to declare himself the lover of
Fanny, make decided proposals for her, and entreat the sanction of
the uncle, who seemed to stand in the place of her parents; and he
had done it all so well, so openly, so liberally, so properly, that
Sir Thomas, feeling, moreover, his own replies, and his own remarks
to have been very much to the purpose, was exceedingly happy to give
the particulars of their conversation; and little aware of what was
passing in his niece's mind, conceived that by such details he must
be gratifying her far more than himself. He talked, therefore, for
several minutes without Fanny's daring to interrupt him. She had hardly
even attained the wish to do it. Her mind was in too much confusion.
She had changed her position; and, with her eyes fixed intently on
one of the windows, was listening to her uncle in the utmost perturbation
and dismay. For a moment he ceased, but she had barely become conscious
of it, when, rising from his chair, he said, {}``And now, Fanny,
having performed one part of my commission, and shewn you everything
placed on a basis the most assured and satisfactory, I may execute
the remainder by prevailing on you to accompany me downstairs, where,
though I cannot but presume on having been no unacceptable companion
myself, I must submit to your finding one still better worth listening
to. Mr.\ Crawford, as you have perhaps foreseen, is yet in the house.
He is in my room, and hoping to see you there.''

There was a look, a start, an exclamation on hearing this, which astonished
Sir Thomas; but what was his increase of astonishment on hearing her
exclaim\mbox{---}-{}``Oh!\ no, sir, I cannot, indeed I cannot go
down to him. Mr.\ Crawford ought to know\mbox{---}he must know that:
I told him enough yesterday to convince him; he spoke to me on this
subject yesterday, and I told him without disguise that it was very
disagreeable to me, and quite out of my power to return his good opinion.''

{}``I do not catch your meaning,'' said Sir Thomas, sitting down
again. {}``Out of your power to return his good opinion? What is
all this? I know he spoke to you yesterday, and (as far as I understand)
received as much encouragement to proceed as a well-judging young
woman could permit herself to give. I was very much pleased with what
I collected to have been your behaviour on the occasion; it shewed
a discretion highly to be commended. But now, when he has made his
overtures so properly, and honourably\mbox{---}what are your scruples
\textit{now}?''\ 

{}``You are mistaken, sir,'' cried Fanny, forced by the anxiety
of the moment even to tell her uncle that he was wrong; {}``you are
quite mistaken. How could Mr.\ Crawford say such a thing? I gave
him no encouragement yesterday. On the contrary, I told him, I cannot
recollect my exact words, but I am sure I told him that I would not
listen to him, that it was very unpleasant to me in every respect,
and that I begged him never to talk to me in that manner again. I
am sure I said as much as that and more; and I should have said still
more, if I had been quite certain of his meaning anything seriously;
but I did not like to be, I could not bear to be, imputing more than
might be intended. I thought it might all pass for nothing with \textit{him}.''

She could say no more; her breath was almost gone.

{}``Am I to understand,'' said Sir Thomas, after a few moments'
silence, {}``that you mean to \textit{refuse} Mr.\ Crawford?''\ 

{}``Yes, sir.''

{}``Refuse him?''\ 

{}``Yes, sir.''

{}``Refuse Mr.\ Crawford! Upon what plea? For what reason?''\ 

{}``I\mbox{---}I cannot like him, sir, well enough to marry him.''

{}``This is very strange!''\ said Sir Thomas, in a voice of calm
displeasure. {}``There is something in this which my comprehension
does not reach. Here is a young man wishing to pay his addresses to
you, with everything to recommend him: not merely situation in life,
fortune, and character, but with more than common agreeableness, with
address and conversation pleasing to everybody. And he is not an acquaintance
of to-day; you have now known him some time. His sister, moreover,
is your intimate friend, and he has been doing \textit{that} for your
brother, which I should suppose would have been almost sufficient
recommendation to you, had there been no other. It is very uncertain
when my interest might have got William on. He has done it already.''

{}``Yes,'' said Fanny, in a faint voice, and looking down with fresh
shame; and she did feel almost ashamed of herself, after such a picture
as her uncle had drawn, for not liking Mr.\ Crawford.

{}``You must have been aware,'' continued Sir Thomas presently,
{}``you must have been some time aware of a particularity in Mr.\ Crawford's
manners to you. This cannot have taken you by surprise. You must have
observed his attentions; and though you always received them very
properly (I have no accusation to make on that head), I never perceived
them to be unpleasant to you. I am half inclined to think, Fanny,
that you do not quite know your own feelings.''

{}``Oh yes, sir!\ indeed I do. His attentions were always\mbox{---}what
I did not like.''

Sir Thomas looked at her with deeper surprise. {}``This is beyond
me,'' said he. {}``This requires explanation. Young as you are,
and having seen scarcely any one, it is hardly possible that your
affections\mbox{---}''

He paused and eyed her fixedly. He saw her lips formed into a \textit{no},
though the sound was inarticulate, but her face was like scarlet.
That, however, in so modest a girl, might be very compatible with
innocence; and chusing at least to appear satisfied, he quickly added,
{}``No, no, I know \textit{that} is quite out of the question; quite
impossible. Well, there is nothing more to be said.''

And for a few minutes he did say nothing. He was deep in thought.
His niece was deep in thought likewise, trying to harden and prepare
herself against farther questioning. She would rather die than own
the truth; and she hoped, by a little reflection, to fortify herself
beyond betraying it.

{}``Independently of the interest which Mr.\ Crawford's \textit{choice}
seemed to justify'' said Sir Thomas, beginning again, and very composedly,
{}``his wishing to marry at all so early is recommendatory to me.
I am an advocate for early marriages, where there are means in proportion,
and would have every young man, with a sufficient income, settle as
soon after four-and-twenty as he can. This is so much my opinion,
that I am sorry to think how little likely my own eldest son, your
cousin, Mr.\ Bertram, is to marry early; but at present, as far as
I can judge, matrimony makes no part of his plans or thoughts. I wish
he were more likely to fix.'' Here was a glance at Fanny. {}``Edmund,
I consider, from his dispositions and habits, as much more likely
to marry early than his brother.\  \textit{He}, indeed, I have lately
thought, has seen the woman he could love, which, I am convinced,
my eldest son has not. Am I right? Do you agree with me, my dear?''\ 

{}``Yes, sir.''

It was gently, but it was calmly said, and Sir Thomas was easy on
the score of the cousins. But the removal of his alarm did his niece
no service: as her unaccountableness was confirmed his displeasure
increased; and getting up and walking about the room with a frown,
which Fanny could picture to herself, though she dared not lift up
her eyes, he shortly afterwards, and in a voice of authority, said,
{}``Have you any reason, child, to think ill of Mr.\ Crawford's
temper?''\ 

{}``No, sir.''

She longed to add, {}``But of his principles I have''; but her heart
sunk under the appalling prospect of discussion, explanation, and
probably non-conviction. Her ill opinion of him was founded chiefly
on observations, which, for her cousins' sake, she could scarcely
dare mention to their father. Maria and Julia, and especially Maria,
were so closely implicated in Mr.\ Crawford's misconduct, that she
could not give his character, such as she believed it, without betraying
them. She had hoped that, to a man like her uncle, so discerning,
so honourable, so good, the simple acknowledgment of settled \textit{dislike}
on her side would have been sufficient. To her infinite grief she
found it was not.

Sir Thomas came towards the table where she sat in trembling wretchedness,
and with a good deal of cold sternness, said, {}``It is of no use,
I perceive, to talk to you. We had better put an end to this most
mortifying conference. Mr.\ Crawford must not be kept longer waiting.
I will, therefore, only add, as thinking it my duty to mark my opinion
of your conduct, that you have disappointed every expectation I had
formed, and proved yourself of a character the very reverse of what
I had supposed. For I \textit{had}, Fanny, as I think my behaviour
must have shewn, formed a very favourable opinion of you from the
period of my return to England. I had thought you peculiarly free
from wilfulness of temper, self-conceit, and every tendency to that
independence of spirit which prevails so much in modern days, even
in young women, and which in young women is offensive and disgusting
beyond all common offence. But you have now shewn me that you can
be wilful and perverse; that you can and will decide for yourself,
without any consideration or deference for those who have surely some
right to guide you, without even asking their advice. You have shewn
yourself very, very different from anything that I had imagined. The
advantage or disadvantage of your family, of your parents, your brothers
and sisters, never seems to have had a moment's share in your thoughts
on this occasion. How \textit{they} might be benefited, how \textit{they}
must rejoice in such an establishment for you, is nothing to \textit{you}.
You think only of yourself, and because you do not feel for Mr.\ Crawford
exactly what a young heated fancy imagines to be necessary for happiness,
you resolve to refuse him at once, without wishing even for a little
time to consider of it, a little more time for cool consideration,
and for really examining your own inclinations; and are, in a wild
fit of folly, throwing away from you such an opportunity of being
settled in life, eligibly, honourably, nobly settled, as will, probably,
never occur to you again. Here is a young man of sense, of character,
of temper, of manners, and of fortune, exceedingly attached to you,
and seeking your hand in the most handsome and disinterested way;
and let me tell you, Fanny, that you may live eighteen years longer
in the world without being addressed by a man of half Mr.\ Crawford's
estate, or a tenth part of his merits. Gladly would I have bestowed
either of my own daughters on him. Maria is nobly married; but had
Mr.\ Crawford sought Julia's hand, I should have given it to him
with superior and more heartfelt satisfaction than I gave Maria's
to Mr.\ Rushworth.'' After half a moment's pause: {}``And I should
have been very much surprised had either of my daughters, on receiving
a proposal of marriage at any time which might carry with it only
\textit{half} the eligibility of \textit{this}, immediately and peremptorily,
and without paying my opinion or my regard the compliment of any consultation,
put a decided negative on it. I should have been much surprised and
much hurt by such a proceeding. I should have thought it a gross violation
of duty and respect. \textit{You} are not to be judged by the same
rule. You do not owe me the duty of a child. But, Fanny, if your heart
can acquit you of \textit{ingratitude}---''

He ceased. Fanny was by this time crying so bitterly that, angry as
he was, he would not press that article farther. Her heart was almost
broke by such a picture of what she appeared to him; by such accusations,
so heavy, so multiplied, so rising in dreadful gradation! Self-willed,
obstinate, selfish, and ungrateful. He thought her all this. She had
deceived his expectations; she had lost his good opinion. What was
to become of her?

{}``I am very sorry,'' said she inarticulately, through her tears,
{}``I am very sorry indeed.''

{}``Sorry!\ yes, I hope you are sorry; and you will probably have
reason to be long sorry for this day's transactions.''

{}``If it were possible for me to do otherwise'' said she, with
another strong effort; {}``but I am so perfectly convinced that I
could never make him happy, and that I should be miserable myself.''

Another burst of tears; but in spite of that burst, and in spite of
that great black word \textit{miserable}, which served to introduce
it, Sir Thomas began to think a little relenting, a little change
of inclination, might have something to do with it; and to augur favourably
from the personal entreaty of the young man himself. He knew her to
be very timid, and exceedingly nervous; and thought it not improbable
that her mind might be in such a state as a little time, a little
pressing, a little patience, and a little impatience, a judicious
mixture of all on the lover's side, might work their usual effect
on. If the gentleman would but persevere, if he had but love enough
to persevere, Sir Thomas began to have hopes; and these reflections
having passed across his mind and cheered it, {}``Well,'' said he,
in a tone of becoming gravity, but of less anger, {}``well, child,
dry up your tears. There is no use in these tears; they can do no
good. You must now come downstairs with me. Mr.\ Crawford has been
kept waiting too long already. You must give him your own answer:
we cannot expect him to be satisfied with less; and you only can explain
to him the grounds of that misconception of your sentiments, which,
unfortunately for himself, he certainly has imbibed. I am totally
unequal to it.''

But Fanny shewed such reluctance, such misery, at the idea of going
down to him, that Sir Thomas, after a little consideration, judged
it better to indulge her. His hopes from both gentleman and lady suffered
a small depression in consequence; but when he looked at his niece,
and saw the state of feature and complexion which her crying had brought
her into, he thought there might be as much lost as gained by an immediate
interview. With a few words, therefore, of no particular meaning,
he walked off by himself, leaving his poor niece to sit and cry over
what had passed, with very wretched feelings.

Her mind was all disorder. The past, present, future, everything was
terrible. But her uncle's anger gave her the severest pain of all.
Selfish and ungrateful!\ to have appeared so to him! She was miserable
for ever. She had no one to take her part, to counsel, or speak for
her. Her only friend was absent. He might have softened his father;
but all, perhaps all, would think her selfish and ungrateful. She
might have to endure the reproach again and again; she might hear
it, or see it, or know it to exist for ever in every connexion about
her. She could not but feel some resentment against Mr.\ Crawford;
yet, if he really loved her, and were unhappy too! It was all wretchedness
together.

In about a quarter of an hour her uncle returned; she was almost ready
to faint at the sight of him. He spoke calmly, however, without austerity,
without reproach, and she revived a little. There was comfort, too,
in his words, as well as his manner, for he began with, {}``Mr.\ Crawford
is gone: he has just left me. I need not repeat what has passed. I
do not want to add to anything you may now be feeling, by an account
of what he has felt. Suffice it, that he has behaved in the most gentlemanlike
and generous manner, and has confirmed me in a most favourable opinion
of his understanding, heart, and temper. Upon my representation of
what you were suffering, he immediately, and with the greatest delicacy,
ceased to urge to see you for the present.''

Here Fanny, who had looked up, looked down again. {}``Of course,''
continued her uncle, {}``it cannot be supposed but that he should
request to speak with you alone, be it only for five minutes; a request
too natural, a claim too just to be denied. But there is no time fixed;
perhaps to-morrow, or whenever your spirits are composed enough. For
the present you have only to tranquillise yourself. Check these tears;
they do but exhaust you. If, as I am willing to suppose, you wish
to shew me any observance, you will not give way to these emotions,
but endeavour to reason yourself into a stronger frame of mind. I
advise you to go out: the air will do you good; go out for an hour
on the gravel; you will have the shrubbery to yourself, and will be
the better for air and exercise. And, Fanny'' (turning back again
for a moment), {}``I shall make no mention below of what has passed;
I shall not even tell your aunt Bertram. There is no occasion for
spreading the disappointment; say nothing about it yourself.''

This was an order to be most joyfully obeyed; this was an act of kindness
which Fanny felt at her heart. To be spared from her aunt Norris's
interminable reproaches!\ he left her in a glow of gratitude. Anything
might be bearable rather than such reproaches. Even to see Mr.\ Crawford
would be less overpowering.

She walked out directly, as her uncle recommended, and followed his
advice throughout, as far as she could; did check her tears; did earnestly
try to compose her spirits and strengthen her mind. She wished to
prove to him that she did desire his comfort, and sought to regain
his favour; and he had given her another strong motive for exertion,
in keeping the whole affair from the knowledge of her aunts. Not to
excite suspicion by her look or manner was now an object worth attaining;
and she felt equal to almost anything that might save her from her
aunt Norris.

She was struck, quite struck, when, on returning from her walk and
going into the East room again, the first thing which caught her eye
was a fire lighted and burning. A fire!\ it seemed too much; just
at that time to be giving her such an indulgence was exciting even
painful gratitude. She wondered that Sir Thomas could have leisure
to think of such a trifle again; but she soon found, from the voluntary
information of the housemaid, who came in to attend it, that so it
was to be every day. Sir Thomas had given orders for it.

{}``I must be a brute, indeed, if I can be really ungrateful!''\ 
said she, in soliloquy. {}``Heaven defend me from being ungrateful!''\ 

She saw nothing more of her uncle, nor of her aunt Norris, till they
met at dinner. Her uncle's behaviour to her was then as nearly as
possible what it had been before; she was sure he did not mean there
should be any change, and that it was only her own conscience that
could fancy any; but her aunt was soon quarrelling with her; and when
she found how much and how unpleasantly her having only walked out
without her aunt's knowledge could be dwelt on, she felt all the reason
she had to bless the kindness which saved her from the same spirit
of reproach, exerted on a more momentous subject.

{}``If I had known you were going out, I should have got you just
to go as far as my house with some orders for Nanny,'' said she,
{}``which I have since, to my very great inconvenience, been obliged
to go and carry myself. I could very ill spare the time, and you might
have saved me the trouble, if you would only have been so good as
to let us know you were going out. It would have made no difference
to you, I suppose, whether you had walked in the shrubbery or gone
to my house.''

{}``I recommended the shrubbery to Fanny as the driest place,''
said Sir Thomas.

{}``Oh!''\ said Mrs.\ Norris, with a moment's check, {}``that
was very kind of you, Sir Thomas; but you do not know how dry the
path is to my house. Fanny would have had quite as good a walk there,
I assure you, with the advantage of being of some use, and obliging
her aunt: it is all her fault. If she would but have let us know she
was going out but there is a something about Fanny, I have often observed
it before\mbox{---}she likes to go her own way to work; she does
not like to be dictated to; she takes her own independent walk whenever
she can; she certainly has a little spirit of secrecy, and independence,
and nonsense, about her, which I would advise her to get the better
of.''

As a general reflection on Fanny, Sir Thomas thought nothing could
be more unjust, though he had been so lately expressing the same sentiments
himself, and he tried to turn the conversation: tried repeatedly before
he could succeed; for Mrs.\ Norris had not discernment enough to
perceive, either now, or at any other time, to what degree he thought
well of his niece, or how very far he was from wishing to have his
own children's merits set off by the depreciation of hers. She was
talking \textit{at} Fanny, and resenting this private walk half through
the dinner.

It was over, however, at last; and the evening set in with more composure
to Fanny, and more cheerfulness of spirits than she could have hoped
for after so stormy a morning; but she trusted, in the first place,
that she had done right: that her judgment had not misled her. For
the purity of her intentions she could answer; and she was willing
to hope, secondly, that her uncle's displeasure was abating, and would
abate farther as he considered the matter with more impartiality,
and felt, as a good man must feel, how wretched, and how unpardonable,
how hopeless, and how wicked it was to marry without affection.

When the meeting with which she was threatened for the morrow was
past, she could not but flatter herself that the subject would be
finally concluded, and Mr.\ Crawford once gone from Mansfield, that
everything would soon be as if no such subject had existed. She would
not, could not believe, that Mr.\ Crawford's affection for her could
distress him long; his mind was not of that sort. London would soon
bring its cure. In London he would soon learn to wonder at his infatuation,
and be thankful for the right reason in her which had saved him from
its evil consequences.

While Fanny's mind was engaged in these sort of hopes, her uncle was,
soon after tea, called out of the room; an occurrence too common to
strike her, and she thought nothing of it till the butler reappeared
ten minutes afterwards, and advancing decidedly towards herself, said,
{}``Sir Thomas wishes to speak with you, ma'am, in his own room.''
Then it occurred to her what might be going on; a suspicion rushed
over her mind which drove the colour from her cheeks; but instantly
rising, she was preparing to obey, when Mrs.\ Norris called out,
{}``Stay, stay, Fanny!\ what are you about?\ where are you going?\ don't
be in such a hurry. Depend upon it, it is not you who are wanted;
depend upon it, it is me'' (looking at the butler); {}``but you
are so very eager to put yourself forward. What should Sir Thomas
want you for? It is me, Baddeley, you mean; I am coming this moment.
You mean me, Baddeley, I am sure; Sir Thomas wants me, not Miss Price.''

But Baddeley was stout. {}``No, ma'am, it is Miss Price; I am certain
of its being Miss Price.'' And there was a half-smile with the words,
which meant, {}``I do not think you would answer the purpose at all.''

Mrs.\ Norris, much discontented, was obliged to compose herself to
work again; and Fanny, walking off in agitating consciousness, found
herself, as she anticipated, in another minute alone with Mr.\ Crawford.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XXXIII}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XXXIII}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER XXXIII}

The conference was neither so short nor so conclusive as the lady
had designed. The gentleman was not so easily satisfied. He had all
the disposition to persevere that Sir Thomas could wish him. He had
vanity, which strongly inclined him in the first place to think she
did love him, though she might not know it herself; and which, secondly,
when constrained at last to admit that she did know her own present
feelings, convinced him that he should be able in time to make those
feelings what he wished.

He was in love, very much in love; and it was a love which, operating
on an active, sanguine spirit, of more warmth than delicacy, made
her affection appear of greater consequence because it was withheld,
and determined him to have the glory, as well as the felicity, of
forcing her to love him.

He would not despair: he would not desist. He had every well-grounded
reason for solid attachment; he knew her to have all the worth that
could justify the warmest hopes of lasting happiness with her; her
conduct at this very time, by speaking the disinterestedness and delicacy
of her character (qualities which he believed most rare indeed), was
of a sort to heighten all his wishes, and confirm all his resolutions.
He knew not that he had a pre-engaged heart to attack. Of \textit{that}
he had no suspicion. He considered her rather as one who had never
thought on the subject enough to be in danger; who had been guarded
by youth, a youth of mind as lovely as of person; whose modesty had
prevented her from understanding his attentions, and who was still
overpowered by the suddenness of addresses so wholly unexpected, and
the novelty of a situation which her fancy had never taken into account.

Must it not follow of course, that, when he was understood, he should
succeed? He believed it fully. Love such as his, in a man like himself,
must with perseverance secure a return, and at no great distance;
and he had so much delight in the idea of obliging her to love him
in a very short time, that her not loving him now was scarcely regretted.
A little difficulty to be overcome was no evil to Henry Crawford.
He rather derived spirits from it. He had been apt to gain hearts
too easily. His situation was new and animating.

To Fanny, however, who had known too much opposition all her life
to find any charm in it, all this was unintelligible. She found that
he did mean to persevere; but how he could, after such language from
her as she felt herself obliged to use, was not to be understood.
She told him that she did not love him, could not love him, was sure
she never should love him; that such a change was quite impossible;
that the subject was most painful to her; that she must entreat him
never to mention it again, to allow her to leave him at once, and
let it be considered as concluded for ever. And when farther pressed,
had added, that in her opinion their dispositions were so totally
dissimilar as to make mutual affection incompatible; and that they
were unfitted for each other by nature, education, and habit. All
this she had said, and with the earnestness of sincerity; yet this
was not enough, for he immediately denied there being anything uncongenial
in their characters, or anything unfriendly in their situations; and
positively declared, that he would still love, and still hope!

Fanny knew her own meaning, but was no judge of her own manner. Her
manner was incurably gentle; and she was not aware how much it concealed
the sternness of her purpose. Her diffidence, gratitude, and softness
made every expression of indifference seem almost an effort of self-denial;
seem, at least, to be giving nearly as much pain to herself as to
him. Mr.\ Crawford was no longer the Mr.\ Crawford who, as the clandestine,
insidious, treacherous admirer of Maria Bertram, had been her abhorrence,
whom she had hated to see or to speak to, in whom she could believe
no good quality to exist, and whose power, even of being agreeable,
she had barely acknowledged. He was now the Mr.\ Crawford who was
addressing herself with ardent, disinterested love; whose feelings
were apparently become all that was honourable and upright, whose
views of happiness were all fixed on a marriage of attachment; who
was pouring out his sense of her merits, describing and describing
again his affection, proving as far as words could prove it, and in
the language, tone, and spirit of a man of talent too, that he sought
her for her gentleness and her goodness; and to complete the whole,
he was now the Mr.\ Crawford who had procured William's promotion!

Here was a change, and here were claims which could not but operate!
She might have disdained him in all the dignity of angry virtue, in
the grounds of Sotherton, or the theatre at Mansfield Park; but he
approached her now with rights that demanded different treatment.
She must be courteous, and she must be compassionate. She must have
a sensation of being honoured, and whether thinking of herself or
her brother, she must have a strong feeling of gratitude. The effect
of the whole was a manner so pitying and agitated, and words intermingled
with her refusal so expressive of obligation and concern, that to
a temper of vanity and hope like Crawford's, the truth, or at least
the strength of her indifference, might well be questionable; and
he was not so irrational as Fanny considered him, in the professions
of persevering, assiduous, and not desponding attachment which closed
the interview.

It was with reluctance that he suffered her to go; but there was no
look of despair in parting to belie his words, or give her hopes of
his being less unreasonable than he professed himself.

Now she was angry. Some resentment did arise at a perseverance so
selfish and ungenerous. Here was again a want of delicacy and regard
for others which had formerly so struck and disgusted her. Here was
again a something of the same Mr.\ Crawford whom she had so reprobated
before. How evidently was there a gross want of feeling and humanity
where his own pleasure was concerned; and alas!\ how always known
no principle to supply as a duty what the heart was deficient in!
Had her own affections been as free as perhaps they ought to have
been, he never could have engaged them.

So thought Fanny, in good truth and sober sadness, as she sat musing
over that too great indulgence and luxury of a fire upstairs: wondering
at the past and present; wondering at what was yet to come, and in
a nervous agitation which made nothing clear to her but the persuasion
of her being never under any circumstances able to love Mr.\ Crawford,
and the felicity of having a fire to sit over and think of it.

Sir Thomas was obliged, or obliged himself, to wait till the morrow
for a knowledge of what had passed between the young people. He then
saw Mr.\ Crawford, and received his account. The first feeling was
disappointment: he had hoped better things; he had thought that an
hour's entreaty from a young man like Crawford could not have worked
so little change on a gentle-tempered girl like Fanny; but there was
speedy comfort in the determined views and sanguine perseverance of
the lover; and when seeing such confidence of success in the principal,
Sir Thomas was soon able to depend on it himself.

Nothing was omitted, on his side, of civility, compliment, or kindness,
that might assist the plan. Mr.\ Crawford's steadiness was honoured,
and Fanny was praised, and the connexion was still the most desirable
in the world. At Mansfield Park Mr.\ Crawford would always be welcome;
he had only to consult his own judgment and feelings as to the frequency
of his visits, at present or in future. In all his niece's family
and friends, there could be but one opinion, one wish on the subject;
the influence of all who loved her must incline one way.

Everything was said that could encourage, every encouragement received
with grateful joy, and the gentlemen parted the best of friends.

Satisfied that the cause was now on a footing the most proper and
hopeful, Sir Thomas resolved to abstain from all farther importunity
with his niece, and to shew no open interference. Upon her disposition
he believed kindness might be the best way of working. Entreaty should
be from one quarter only. The forbearance of her family on a point,
respecting which she could be in no doubt of their wishes, might be
their surest means of forwarding it. Accordingly, on this principle,
Sir Thomas took the first opportunity of saying to her, with a mild
gravity, intended to be overcoming, {}``Well, Fanny, I have seen
Mr.\ Crawford again, and learn from him exactly how matters stand
between you. He is a most extraordinary young man, and whatever be
the event, you must feel that you have created an attachment of no
common character; though, young as you are, and little acquainted
with the transient, varying, unsteady nature of love, as it generally
exists, you cannot be struck as I am with all that is wonderful in
a perseverance of this sort against discouragement. With him it is
entirely a matter of feeling: he claims no merit in it; perhaps is
entitled to none. Yet, having chosen so well, his constancy has a
respectable stamp. Had his choice been less unexceptionable, I should
have condemned his persevering.''

{}``Indeed, sir,'' said Fanny, {}``I am very sorry that Mr.\ Crawford
should continue to\mbox{---}I know that it is paying me a very great
compliment, and I feel most undeservedly honoured; but I am so perfectly
convinced, and I have told him so, that it never will be in my power\mbox{---}''

{}``My dear,'' interrupted Sir Thomas, {}``there is no occasion
for this. Your feelings are as well known to me as my wishes and regrets
must be to you. There is nothing more to be said or done. From this
hour the subject is never to be revived between us. You will have
nothing to fear, or to be agitated about. You cannot suppose me capable
of trying to persuade you to marry against your inclinations. Your
happiness and advantage are all that I have in view, and nothing is
required of you but to bear with Mr.\ Crawford's endeavours to convince
you that they may not be incompatible with his. He proceeds at his
own risk. You are on safe ground. I have engaged for your seeing him
whenever he calls, as you might have done had nothing of this sort
occurred. You will see him with the rest of us, in the same manner,
and, as much as you can, dismissing the recollection of everything
unpleasant. He leaves Northamptonshire so soon, that even this slight
sacrifice cannot be often demanded. The future must be very uncertain.
And now, my dear Fanny, this subject is closed between us.''

The promised departure was all that Fanny could think of with much
satisfaction. Her uncle's kind expressions, however, and forbearing
manner, were sensibly felt; and when she considered how much of the
truth was unknown to him, she believed she had no right to wonder
at the line of conduct he pursued. He, who had married a daughter
to Mr.\ Rushworth: romantic delicacy was certainly not to be expected
from him. She must do her duty, and trust that time might make her
duty easier than it now was.

She could not, though only eighteen, suppose Mr.\ Crawford's attachment
would hold out for ever; she could not but imagine that steady, unceasing
discouragement from herself would put an end to it in time. How much
time she might, in her own fancy, allot for its dominion, is another
concern. It would not be fair to inquire into a young lady's exact
estimate of her own perfections.

In spite of his intended silence, Sir Thomas found himself once more
obliged to mention the subject to his niece, to prepare her briefly
for its being imparted to her aunts; a measure which he would still
have avoided, if possible, but which became necessary from the totally
opposite feelings of Mr.\ Crawford as to any secrecy of proceeding.
He had no idea of concealment. It was all known at the Parsonage,
where he loved to talk over the future with both his sisters, and
it would be rather gratifying to him to have enlightened witnesses
of the progress of his success. When Sir Thomas understood this, he
felt the necessity of making his own wife and sister-in-law acquainted
with the business without delay; though, on Fanny's account, he almost
dreaded the effect of the communication to Mrs.\ Norris as much as
Fanny herself. He deprecated her mistaken but well-meaning zeal. Sir
Thomas, indeed, was, by this time, not very far from classing Mrs.\ Norris
as one of those well-meaning people who are always doing mistaken
and very disagreeable things.

Mrs.\ Norris, however, relieved him. He pressed for the strictest
forbearance and silence towards their niece; she not only promised,
but did observe it. She only looked her increased ill-will. Angry
she was: bitterly angry; but she was more angry with Fanny for having
received such an offer than for refusing it. It was an injury and
affront to Julia, who ought to have been Mr.\ Crawford's choice;
and, independently of that, she disliked Fanny, because she had neglected
her; and she would have grudged such an elevation to one whom she
had been always trying to depress.

Sir Thomas gave her more credit for discretion on the occasion than
she deserved; and Fanny could have blessed her for allowing her only
to see her displeasure, and not to hear it.

Lady Bertram took it differently. She had been a beauty, and a prosperous
beauty, all her life; and beauty and wealth were all that excited
her respect. To know Fanny to be sought in marriage by a man of fortune,
raised her, therefore, very much in her opinion. By convincing her
that Fanny \textit{was} very pretty, which she had been doubting about
before, and that she would be advantageously married, it made her
feel a sort of credit in calling her niece.

{}``Well, Fanny,'' said she, as soon as they were alone together
afterwards, and she really had known something like impatience to
be alone with her, and her countenance, as she spoke, had extraordinary
animation; {}``Well, Fanny, I have had a very agreeable surprise
this morning. I must just speak of it \textit{once}, I told Sir Thomas
I must \textit{once}, and then I shall have done. I give you joy,
my dear niece.'' And looking at her complacently, she added, {}``Humph,
we certainly are a handsome family!''\ 

Fanny coloured, and doubted at first what to say; when, hoping to
assail her on her vulnerable side, she presently answered\mbox{---}

{}``My dear aunt, \textit{you} cannot wish me to do differently from
what I have done, I am sure.\  \textit{You} cannot wish me to marry;
for you would miss me, should not you? Yes, I am sure you would miss
me too much for that.''

{}``No, my dear, I should not think of missing you, when such an
offer as this comes in your way. I could do very well without you,
if you were married to a man of such good estate as Mr.\ Crawford.
And you must be aware, Fanny, that it is every young woman's duty
to accept such a very unexceptionable offer as this.''

This was almost the only rule of conduct, the only piece of advice,
which Fanny had ever received from her aunt in the course of eight
years and a half. It silenced her. She felt how unprofitable contention
would be. If her aunt's feelings were against her, nothing could be
hoped from attacking her understanding. Lady Bertram was quite talkative.

{}``I will tell you what, Fanny,'' said she, {}``I am sure he fell
in love with you at the ball; I am sure the mischief was done that
evening. You did look remarkably well. Everybody said so. Sir Thomas
said so. And you know you had Chapman to help you to dress. I am very
glad I sent Chapman to you. I shall tell Sir Thomas that I am sure
it was done that evening.'' And still pursuing the same cheerful
thoughts, she soon afterwards added, {}``And will tell you what,
Fanny, which is more than I did for Maria: the next time Pug has a
litter you shall have a puppy.''


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XXXIV}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XXXIV}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER XXXIV}

Edmund had great things to hear on his return. Many surprises were
awaiting him. The first that occurred was not least in interest: the
appearance of Henry Crawford and his sister walking together through
the village as he rode into it. He had concluded\mbox{---}he had
meant them to be far distant. His absence had been extended beyond
a fortnight purposely to avoid Miss Crawford. He was returning to
Mansfield with spirits ready to feed on melancholy remembrances, and
tender associations, when her own fair self was before him, leaning
on her brother's arm, and he found himself receiving a welcome, unquestionably
friendly, from the woman whom, two moments before, he had been thinking
of as seventy miles off, and as farther, much farther, from him in
inclination than any distance could express.

Her reception of him was of a sort which he could not have hoped for,
had he expected to see her. Coming as he did from such a purport fulfilled
as had taken him away, he would have expected anything rather than
a look of satisfaction, and words of simple, pleasant meaning. It
was enough to set his heart in a glow, and to bring him home in the
properest state for feeling the full value of the other joyful surprises
at hand.

William's promotion, with all its particulars, he was soon master
of; and with such a secret provision of comfort within his own breast
to help the joy, he found in it a source of most gratifying sensation
and unvarying cheerfulness all dinner-time.

After dinner, when he and his father were alone, he had Fanny's history;
and then all the great events of the last fortnight, and the present
situation of matters at Mansfield were known to him.

Fanny suspected what was going on. They sat so much longer than usual
in the dining-parlour, that she was sure they must be talking of her;
and when tea at last brought them away, and she was to be seen by
Edmund again, she felt dreadfully guilty. He came to her, sat down
by her, took her hand, and pressed it kindly; and at that moment she
thought that, but for the occupation and the scene which the tea-things
afforded, she must have betrayed her emotion in some unpardonable
excess.

He was not intending, however, by such action, to be conveying to
her that unqualified approbation and encouragement which her hopes
drew from it. It was designed only to express his participation in
all that interested her, and to tell her that he had been hearing
what quickened every feeling of affection. He was, in fact, entirely
on his father's side of the question. His surprise was not so great
as his father's at her refusing Crawford, because, so far from supposing
her to consider him with anything like a preference, he had always
believed it to be rather the reverse, and could imagine her to be
taken perfectly unprepared, but Sir Thomas could not regard the connexion
as more desirable than he did. It had every recommendation to him;
and while honouring her for what she had done under the influence
of her present indifference, honouring her in rather stronger terms
than Sir Thomas could quite echo, he was most earnest in hoping, and
sanguine in believing, that it would be a match at last, and that,
united by mutual affection, it would appear that their dispositions
were as exactly fitted to make them blessed in each other, as he was
now beginning seriously to consider them. Crawford had been too precipitate.
He had not given her time to attach herself. He had begun at the wrong
end. With such powers as his, however, and such a disposition as hers,
Edmund trusted that everything would work out a happy conclusion.
Meanwhile, he saw enough of Fanny's embarrassment to make him scrupulously
guard against exciting it a second time, by any word, or look, or
movement.

Crawford called the next day, and on the score of Edmund's return,
Sir Thomas felt himself more than licensed to ask him to stay dinner;
it was really a necessary compliment. He staid of course, and Edmund
had then ample opportunity for observing how he sped with Fanny, and
what degree of immediate encouragement for him might be extracted
from her manners; and it was so little, so very, very little\mbox{---}every
chance, every possibility of it, resting upon her embarrassment only;
if there was not hope in her confusion, there was hope in nothing
else\mbox{---}that he was almost ready to wonder at his friend's
perseverance. Fanny was worth it all; he held her to be worth every
effort of patience, every exertion of mind, but he did not think he
could have gone on himself with any woman breathing, without something
more to warm his courage than his eyes could discern in hers. He was
very willing to hope that Crawford saw clearer, and this was the most
comfortable conclusion for his friend that he could come to from all
that he observed to pass before, and at, and after dinner.

In the evening a few circumstances occurred which he thought more
promising. When he and Crawford walked into the drawing-room, his
mother and Fanny were sitting as intently and silently at work as
if there were nothing else to care for. Edmund could not help noticing
their apparently deep tranquillity.

{}``We have not been so silent all the time,'' replied his mother.
{}``Fanny has been reading to me, and only put the book down upon
hearing you coming.'' And sure enough there was a book on the table
which had the air of being very recently closed: a volume of Shakespeare.
{}``She often reads to me out of those books; and she was in the
middle of a very fine speech of that man's\mbox{---}what's his name,
Fanny?\mbox{---}when we heard your footsteps.''

Crawford took the volume. {}``Let me have the pleasure of finishing
that speech to your ladyship,'' said he. {}``I shall find it immediately.''
And by carefully giving way to the inclination of the leaves, he did
find it, or within a page or two, quite near enough to satisfy Lady
Bertram, who assured him, as soon as he mentioned the name of Cardinal
Wolsey, that he had got the very speech. Not a look or an offer of
help had Fanny given; not a syllable for or against. All her attention
was for her work. She seemed determined to be interested by nothing
else. But taste was too strong in her. She could not abstract her
mind five minutes: she was forced to listen; his reading was capital,
and her pleasure in good reading extreme. To \textit{good} reading,
however, she had been long used: her uncle read well, her cousins
all, Edmund very well, but in Mr.\ Crawford's reading there was a
variety of excellence beyond what she had ever met with. The King,
the Queen, Buckingham, Wolsey, Cromwell, all were given in turn; for
with the happiest knack, the happiest power of jumping and guessing,
he could always alight at will on the best scene, or the best speeches
of each; and whether it were dignity, or pride, or tenderness, or
remorse, or whatever were to be expressed, he could do it with equal
beauty. It was truly dramatic. His acting had first taught Fanny what
pleasure a play might give, and his reading brought all his acting
before her again; nay, perhaps with greater enjoyment, for it came
unexpectedly, and with no such drawback as she had been used to suffer
in seeing him on the stage with Miss Bertram.

Edmund watched the progress of her attention, and was amused and gratified
by seeing how she gradually slackened in the needlework, which at
the beginning seemed to occupy her totally: how it fell from her hand
while she sat motionless over it, and at last, how the eyes which
had appeared so studiously to avoid him throughout the day were turned
and fixed on Crawford\mbox{---}fixed on him for minutes, fixed on
him, in short, till the attraction drew Crawford's upon her, and the
book was closed, and the charm was broken. Then she was shrinking
again into herself, and blushing and working as hard as ever; but
it had been enough to give Edmund encouragement for his friend, and
as he cordially thanked him, he hoped to be expressing Fanny's secret
feelings too.

{}``That play must be a favourite with you,'' said he; {}``you
read as if you knew it well.''

{}``It will be a favourite, I believe, from this hour,'' replied
Crawford; {}``but I do not think I have had a volume of Shakespeare
in my hand before since I was fifteen. I once saw Henry the Eighth
acted, or I have heard of it from somebody who did, I am not certain
which. But Shakespeare one gets acquainted with without knowing how.
It is a part of an Englishman's constitution. His thoughts and beauties
are so spread abroad that one touches them everywhere; one is intimate
with him by instinct. No man of any brain can open at a good part
of one of his plays without falling into the flow of his meaning immediately.''

{}``No doubt one is familiar with Shakespeare in a degree,'' said
Edmund, {}``from one's earliest years. His celebrated passages are
quoted by everybody; they are in half the books we open, and we all
talk Shakespeare, use his similes, and describe with his descriptions;
but this is totally distinct from giving his sense as you gave it.
To know him in bits and scraps is common enough; to know him pretty
thoroughly is, perhaps, not uncommon; but to read him well aloud is
no everyday talent.''

{}``Sir, you do me honour,'' was Crawford's answer, with a bow of
mock gravity.

Both gentlemen had a glance at Fanny, to see if a word of accordant
praise could be extorted from her; yet both feeling that it could
not be. Her praise had been given in her attention; \textit{that}
must content them.

Lady Bertram's admiration was expressed, and strongly too. {}``It
was really like being at a play,'' said she. {}``I wish Sir Thomas
had been here.''

Crawford was excessively pleased. If Lady Bertram, with all her incompetency
and languor, could feel this, the inference of what her niece, alive
and enlightened as she was, must feel, was elevating.

{}``You have a great turn for acting, I am sure, Mr.\ Crawford,''
said her ladyship soon afterwards; {}``and I will tell you what,
I think you will have a theatre, some time or other, at your house
in Norfolk. I mean when you are settled there. I do indeed. I think
you will fit up a theatre at your house in Norfolk.''

{}``Do you, ma'am?''\ cried he, with quickness. {}``No, no, that
will never be. Your ladyship is quite mistaken. No theatre at Everingham!
Oh no!''\ And he looked at Fanny with an expressive smile, which
evidently meant, {}``That lady will never allow a theatre at Everingham.''

Edmund saw it all, and saw Fanny so determined \textit{not} to see
it, as to make it clear that the voice was enough to convey the full
meaning of the protestation; and such a quick consciousness of compliment,
such a ready comprehension of a hint, he thought, was rather favourable
than not.

The subject of reading aloud was farther discussed. The two young
men were the only talkers, but they, standing by the fire, talked
over the too common neglect of the qualification, the total inattention
to it, in the ordinary school-system for boys, the consequently natural,
yet in some instances almost unnatural, degree of ignorance and uncouthness
of men, of sensible and well-informed men, when suddenly called to
the necessity of reading aloud, which had fallen within their notice,
giving instances of blunders, and failures with their secondary causes,
the want of management of the voice, of proper modulation and emphasis,
of foresight and judgment, all proceeding from the first cause: want
of early attention and habit; and Fanny was listening again with great
entertainment.

{}``Even in my profession,'' said Edmund, with a smile, {}``how
little the art of reading has been studied!\ how little a clear manner,
and good delivery, have been attended to! I speak rather of the past,
however, than the present. There is now a spirit of improvement abroad;
but among those who were ordained twenty, thirty, forty years ago,
the larger number, to judge by their performance, must have thought
reading was reading, and preaching was preaching. It is different
now. The subject is more justly considered. It is felt that distinctness
and energy may have weight in recommending the most solid truths;
and besides, there is more general observation and taste, a more critical
knowledge diffused than formerly; in every congregation there is a
larger proportion who know a little of the matter, and who can judge
and criticise.''

Edmund had already gone through the service once since his ordination;
and upon this being understood, he had a variety of questions from
Crawford as to his feelings and success; questions, which being made,
though with the vivacity of friendly interest and quick taste, without
any touch of that spirit of banter or air of levity which Edmund knew
to be most offensive to Fanny, he had true pleasure in satisfying;
and when Crawford proceeded to ask his opinion and give his own as
to the properest manner in which particular passages in the service
should be delivered, shewing it to be a subject on which he had thought
before, and thought with judgment, Edmund was still more and more
pleased. This would be the way to Fanny's heart. She was not to be
won by all that gallantry and wit and good-nature together could do;
or, at least, she would not be won by them nearly so soon, without
the assistance of sentiment and feeling, and seriousness on serious
subjects.

{}``Our liturgy,'' observed Crawford, {}``has beauties, which not
even a careless, slovenly style of reading can destroy; but it has
also redundancies and repetitions which require good reading not to
be felt. For myself, at least, I must confess being not always so
attentive as I ought to be'' (here was a glance at Fanny); {}``that
nineteen times out of twenty I am thinking how such a prayer ought
to be read, and longing to have it to read myself. Did you speak?''\ 
stepping eagerly to Fanny, and addressing her in a softened voice;
and upon her saying {}``No,'' he added, {}``Are you sure you did
not speak? I saw your lips move. I fancied you might be going to tell
me I ought to be more attentive, and not \textit{allow} my thoughts
to wander. Are not you going to tell me so?''\ 

{}``No, indeed, you know your duty too well for me to\mbox{---}even
supposing\mbox{---}''

She stopt, felt herself getting into a puzzle, and could not be prevailed
on to add another word, not by dint of several minutes of supplication
and waiting. He then returned to his former station, and went on as
if there had been no such tender interruption.

{}``A sermon, well delivered, is more uncommon even than prayers
well read. A sermon, good in itself, is no rare thing. It is more
difficult to speak well than to compose well; that is, the rules and
trick of composition are oftener an object of study. A thoroughly
good sermon, thoroughly well delivered, is a capital gratification.
I can never hear such a one without the greatest admiration and respect,
and more than half a mind to take orders and preach myself. There
is something in the eloquence of the pulpit, when it is really eloquence,
which is entitled to the highest praise and honour. The preacher who
can touch and affect such an heterogeneous mass of hearers, on subjects
limited, and long worn threadbare in all common hands; who can say
anything new or striking, anything that rouses the attention without
offending the taste, or wearing out the feelings of his hearers, is
a man whom one could not, in his public capacity, honour enough. I
should like to be such a man.''

Edmund laughed.

{}``I should indeed. I never listened to a distinguished preacher
in my life without a sort of envy. But then, I must have a London
audience. I could not preach but to the educated; to those who were
capable of estimating my composition. And I do not know that I should
be fond of preaching often; now and then, perhaps once or twice in
the spring, after being anxiously expected for half a dozen Sundays
together; but not for a constancy; it would not do for a constancy.''

Here Fanny, who could not but listen, involuntarily shook her head,
and Crawford was instantly by her side again, entreating to know her
meaning; and as Edmund perceived, by his drawing in a chair, and sitting
down close by her, that it was to be a very thorough attack, that
looks and undertones were to be well tried, he sank as quietly as
possible into a corner, turned his back, and took up a newspaper,
very sincerely wishing that dear little Fanny might be persuaded into
explaining away that shake of the head to the satisfaction of her
ardent lover; and as earnestly trying to bury every sound of the business
from himself in murmurs of his own, over the various advertisements
of {}``A most desirable Estate in South Wales''; {}``To Parents
and Guardians''; and a {}``Capital season'd Hunter.''

Fanny, meanwhile, vexed with herself for not having been as motionless
as she was speechless, and grieved to the heart to see Edmund's arrangements,
was trying by everything in the power of her modest, gentle nature,
to repulse Mr.\ Crawford, and avoid both his looks and inquiries;
and he, unrepulsable, was persisting in both.

{}``What did that shake of the head mean?''\ said he. {}``What
was it meant to express? Disapprobation, I fear. But of what? What
had I been saying to displease you? Did you think me speaking improperly,
lightly, irreverently on the subject? Only tell me if I was. Only
tell me if I was wrong. I want to be set right. Nay, nay, I entreat
you; for one moment put down your work. What did that shake of the
head mean?''\ 

In vain was her {}``Pray, sir, don't; pray, Mr.\ Crawford,'' repeated
twice over; and in vain did she try to move away. In the same low,
eager voice, and the same close neighbourhood, he went on, reurging
the same questions as before. She grew more agitated and displeased.

{}``How can you, sir? You quite astonish me; I wonder how you can\mbox{---}''

{}``Do I astonish you?''\ said he. {}``Do you wonder? Is there
anything in my present entreaty that you do not understand? I will
explain to you instantly all that makes me urge you in this manner,
all that gives me an interest in what you look and do, and excites
my present curiosity. I will not leave you to wonder long.''

In spite of herself, she could not help half a smile, but she said
nothing.

{}``You shook your head at my acknowledging that I should not like
to engage in the duties of a clergyman always for a constancy. Yes,
that was the word. Constancy: I am not afraid of the word. I would
spell it, read it, write it with anybody. I see nothing alarming in
the word. Did you think I ought?''\ 

{}``Perhaps, sir,'' said Fanny, wearied at last into speaking\mbox{---}{}``perhaps,
sir, I thought it was a pity you did not always know yourself as well
as you seemed to do at that moment.''

Crawford, delighted to get her to speak at any rate, was determined
to keep it up; and poor Fanny, who had hoped to silence him by such
an extremity of reproof, found herself sadly mistaken, and that it
was only a change from one object of curiosity and one set of words
to another. He had always something to entreat the explanation of.
The opportunity was too fair. None such had occurred since his seeing
her in her uncle's room, none such might occur again before his leaving
Mansfield. Lady Bertram's being just on the other side of the table
was a trifle, for she might always be considered as only half-awake,
and Edmund's advertisements were still of the first utility.

{}``Well,'' said Crawford, after a course of rapid questions and
reluctant answers; {}``I am happier than I was, because I now understand
more clearly your opinion of me. You think me unsteady: easily swayed
by the whim of the moment, easily tempted, easily put aside. With
such an opinion, no wonder that. But we shall see. It is not by protestations
that I shall endeavour to convince you I am wronged; it is not by
telling you that my affections are steady. My conduct shall speak
for me; absence, distance, time shall speak for me.\  \textit{They}
shall prove that, as far as you can be deserved by anybody, I do deserve
you. You are infinitely my superior in merit; all \textit{that} I
know. You have qualities which I had not before supposed to exist
in such a degree in any human creature. You have some touches of the
angel in you beyond what\mbox{---}not merely beyond what one sees,
because one never sees anything like it\mbox{---}but beyond what
one fancies might be. But still I am not frightened. It is not by
equality of merit that you can be won. That is out of the question.
It is he who sees and worships your merit the strongest, who loves
you most devotedly, that has the best right to a return. There I build
my confidence. By that right I do and will deserve you; and when once
convinced that my attachment is what I declare it, I know you too
well not to entertain the warmest hopes. Yes, dearest, sweetest Fanny.
Nay'' (seeing her draw back displeased), {}``forgive me. Perhaps
I have as yet no right; but by what other name can I call you? Do
you suppose you are ever present to my imagination under any other?
No, it is `Fanny' that I think of all day, and dream of all night.
You have given the name such reality of sweetness, that nothing else
can now be descriptive of you.''

Fanny could hardly have kept her seat any longer, or have refrained
from at least trying to get away in spite of all the too public opposition
she foresaw to it, had it not been for the sound of approaching relief,
the very sound which she had been long watching for, and long thinking
strangely delayed.

The solemn procession, headed by Baddeley, of tea-board, urn, and
cake-bearers, made its appearance, and delivered her from a grievous
imprisonment of body and mind. Mr.\ Crawford was obliged to move.
She was at liberty, she was busy, she was protected.

Edmund was not sorry to be admitted again among the number of those
who might speak and hear. But though the conference had seemed full
long to him, and though on looking at Fanny he saw rather a flush
of vexation, he inclined to hope that so much could not have been
said and listened to without some profit to the speaker.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XXXV}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XXXV}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER XXXV}

Edmund had determined that it belonged entirely to Fanny to chuse
whether her situation with regard to Crawford should be mentioned
between them or not; and that if she did not lead the way, it should
never be touched on by him; but after a day or two of mutual reserve,
he was induced by his father to change his mind, and try what his
influence might do for his friend.

A day, and a very early day, was actually fixed for the Crawfords'
departure; and Sir Thomas thought it might be as well to make one
more effort for the young man before he left Mansfield, that all his
professions and vows of unshaken attachment might have as much hope
to sustain them as possible.

Sir Thomas was most cordially anxious for the perfection of Mr.\ Crawford's
character in that point. He wished him to be a model of constancy;
and fancied the best means of effecting it would be by not trying
him too long.

Edmund was not unwilling to be persuaded to engage in the business;
he wanted to know Fanny's feelings. She had been used to consult him
in every difficulty, and he loved her too well to bear to be denied
her confidence now; he hoped to be of service to her, he thought he
must be of service to her; whom else had she to open her heart to?
If she did not need counsel, she must need the comfort of communication.
Fanny estranged from him, silent and reserved, was an unnatural state
of things; a state which he must break through, and which he could
easily learn to think she was wanting him to break through.

{}``I will speak to her, sir: I will take the first opportunity of
speaking to her alone,'' was the result of such thoughts as these;
and upon Sir Thomas's information of her being at that very time walking
alone in the shrubbery, he instantly joined her.

{}``I am come to walk with you, Fanny,'' said he. {}``Shall I?''\ 
Drawing her arm within his. {}``It is a long while since we have
had a comfortable walk together.''

She assented to it all rather by look than word. Her spirits were
low.

{}``But, Fanny,'' he presently added, {}``in order to have a comfortable
walk, something more is necessary than merely pacing this gravel together.
You must talk to me. I know you have something on your mind. I know
what you are thinking of. You cannot suppose me uninformed. Am I to
hear of it from everybody but Fanny herself?''\ 

Fanny, at once agitated and dejected, replied, {}``If you hear of
it from everybody, cousin, there can be nothing for me to tell.''

{}``Not of facts, perhaps; but of feelings, Fanny. No one but you
can tell me them. I do not mean to press you, however. If it is not
what you wish yourself, I have done. I had thought it might be a relief.''

{}``I am afraid we think too differently for me to find any relief
in talking of what I feel.''

{}``Do you suppose that we think differently? I have no idea of it.
I dare say that, on a comparison of our opinions, they would be found
as much alike as they have been used to be: to the point\mbox{---}I
consider Crawford's proposals as most advantageous and desirable,
if you could return his affection. I consider it as most natural that
all your family should wish you could return it; but that, as you
cannot, you have done exactly as you ought in refusing him. Can there
be any disagreement between us here?''\ 

{}``Oh no! But I thought you blamed me. I thought you were against
me. This is such a comfort!''\ 

{}``This comfort you might have had sooner, Fanny, had you sought
it. But how could you possibly suppose me against you? How could you
imagine me an advocate for marriage without love? Were I even careless
in general on such matters, how could you imagine me so where your
happiness was at stake?''\ 

{}``My uncle thought me wrong, and I knew he had been talking to
you.''

{}``As far as you have gone, Fanny, I think you perfectly right.
I may be sorry, I may be surprised\mbox{---}though hardly \textit{that},
for you had not had time to attach yourself\mbox{---}but I think
you perfectly right. Can it admit of a question? It is disgraceful
to us if it does. You did not love him; nothing could have justified
your accepting him.''

Fanny had not felt so comfortable for days and days.

{}``So far your conduct has been faultless, and they were quite mistaken
who wished you to do otherwise. But the matter does not end here.
Crawford's is no common attachment; he perseveres, with the hope of
creating that regard which had not been created before. This, we know,
must be a work of time. But'' (with an affectionate smile) {}``let
him succeed at last, Fanny, let him succeed at last. You have proved
yourself upright and disinterested, prove yourself grateful and tender-hearted;
and then you will be the perfect model of a woman which I have always
believed you born for.''

{}``Oh!\ never, never, never!\ he never will succeed with me.''
And she spoke with a warmth which quite astonished Edmund, and which
she blushed at the recollection of herself, when she saw his look,
and heard him reply, {}``Never! Fanny!\mbox{---}so very determined
and positive! This is not like yourself, your rational self.''

{}``I mean,'' she cried, sorrowfully correcting herself, {}``that
I \textit{think} I never shall, as far as the future can be answered
for; I think I never shall return his regard.''

{}``I must hope better things. I am aware, more aware than Crawford
can be, that the man who means to make you love him (you having due
notice of his intentions) must have very uphill work, for there are
all your early attachments and habits in battle array; and before
he can get your heart for his own use he has to unfasten it from all
the holds upon things animate and inanimate, which so many years'
growth have confirmed, and which are considerably tightened for the
moment by the very idea of separation. I know that the apprehension
of being forced to quit Mansfield will for a time be arming you against
him. I wish he had not been obliged to tell you what he was trying
for. I wish he had known you as well as I do, Fanny. Between us, I
think we should have won you. My theoretical and his practical knowledge
together could not have failed. He should have worked upon my plans.
I must hope, however, that time, proving him (as I firmly believe
it will) to deserve you by his steady affection, will give him his
reward. I cannot suppose that you have not the \textit{wish} to love
him\mbox{---}the natural wish of gratitude. You must have some feeling
of that sort. You must be sorry for your own indifference.''

{}``We are so totally unlike,'' said Fanny, avoiding a direct answer,
{}``we are so very, very different in all our inclinations and ways,
that I consider it as quite impossible we should ever be tolerably
happy together, even if I \textit{could} like him. There never were
two people more dissimilar. We have not one taste in common. We should
be miserable.''

{}``You are mistaken, Fanny. The dissimilarity is not so strong.
You are quite enough alike. You \textit{have} tastes in common. You
have moral and literary tastes in common. You have both warm hearts
and benevolent feelings; and, Fanny, who that heard him read, and
saw you listen to Shakespeare the other night, will think you unfitted
as companions? You forget yourself: there is a decided difference
in your tempers, I allow. He is lively, you are serious; but so much
the better: his spirits will support yours. It is your disposition
to be easily dejected and to fancy difficulties greater than they
are. His cheerfulness will counteract this. He sees difficulties nowhere:
and his pleasantness and gaiety will be a constant support to you.
Your being so far unlike, Fanny, does not in the smallest degree make
against the probability of your happiness together: do not imagine
it. I am myself convinced that it is rather a favourable circumstance.
I am perfectly persuaded that the tempers had better be unlike: I
mean unlike in the flow of the spirits, in the manners, in the inclination
for much or little company, in the propensity to talk or to be silent,
to be grave or to be gay. Some opposition here is, I am thoroughly
convinced, friendly to matrimonial happiness. I exclude extremes,
of course; and a very close resemblance in all those points would
be the likeliest way to produce an extreme. A counteraction, gentle
and continual, is the best safeguard of manners and conduct.''

Full well could Fanny guess where his thoughts were now: Miss Crawford's
power was all returning. He had been speaking of her cheerfully from
the hour of his coming home. His avoiding her was quite at an end.
He had dined at the Parsonage only the preceding day.

After leaving him to his happier thoughts for some minutes, Fanny,
feeling it due to herself, returned to Mr.\ Crawford, and said, {}``It
is not merely in \textit{temper} that I consider him as totally unsuited
to myself; though, in \textit{that} respect, I think the difference
between us too great, infinitely too great: his spirits often oppress
me; but there is something in him which I object to still more. I
must say, cousin, that I cannot approve his character. I have not
thought well of him from the time of the play. I then saw him behaving,
as it appeared to me, so very improperly and unfeelingly\mbox{---}I
may speak of it now because it is all over\mbox{---}so improperly
by poor Mr.\ Rushworth, not seeming to care how he exposed or hurt
him, and paying attentions to my cousin Maria, which\mbox{---}in
short, at the time of the play, I received an impression which will
never be got over.''

{}``My dear Fanny,'' replied Edmund, scarce\-ly hearing her to
the end, {}``let us not, any of us, be judged by what we appeared
at that period of general folly. The time of the play is a time which
I hate to recollect. Maria was wrong, Crawford was wrong, we were
all wrong together; but none so wrong as myself. Compared with me,
all the rest were blameless. I was playing the fool with my eyes open.''

{}``As a bystander,'' said Fanny, {}``perhaps I saw more than you
did; and I do think that Mr.\ Rushworth was sometimes very jealous.''

{}``Very possibly. No wonder. Nothing could be more improper than
the whole business. I am shocked whenever I think that Maria could
be capable of it; but, if she could undertake the part, we must not
be surprised at the rest.''

{}``Before the play, I am much mistaken if \textit{Julia} did not
think he was paying her attentions.''

{}``Julia! I have heard before from some one of his being in love
with Julia; but I could never see anything of it. And, Fanny, though
I hope I do justice to my sisters' good qualities, I think it very
possible that they might, one or both, be more desirous of being admired
by Crawford, and might shew that desire rather more unguardedly than
was perfectly prudent. I can remember that they were evidently fond
of his society; and with such encouragement, a man like Crawford,
lively, and it may be, a little unthinking, might be led on to\mbox{---}there
could be nothing very striking, because it is clear that he had no
pretensions: his heart was reserved for you. And I must say, that
its being for you has raised him inconceivably in my opinion. It does
him the highest honour; it shews his proper estimation of the blessing
of domestic happiness and pure attachment. It proves him unspoilt
by his uncle. It proves him, in short, everything that I had been
used to wish to believe him, and feared he was not.''

{}``I am persuaded that he does not think, as he ought, on serious
subjects.''

{}``Say, rather, that he has not thought at all upon serious subjects,
which I believe to be a good deal the case. How could it be otherwise,
with such an education and adviser? Under the disadvantages, indeed,
which both have had, is it not wonderful that they should be what
they are? Crawford's \textit{feelings}, I am ready to acknowledge,
have hitherto been too much his guides. Happily, those feelings have
generally been good. You will supply the rest; and a most fortunate
man he is to attach himself to such a creature\mbox{---}to a woman
who, firm as a rock in her own principles, has a gentleness of character
so well adapted to recommend them. He has chosen his partner, indeed,
with rare felicity. He will make you happy, Fanny; I know he will
make you happy; but you will make him everything.''

{}``I would not engage in such a charge,'' cried Fanny, in a shrinking
accent; {}``in such an office of high responsibility!''\ 

{}``As usual, believing yourself unequal to anything!\ fancying
everything too much for you! Well, though I may not be able to persuade
you into different feelings, you will be persuaded into them, I trust.
I confess myself sincerely anxious that you may. I have no common
interest in Crawford's well-doing. Next to your happiness, Fanny,
his has the first claim on me. You are aware of my having no common
interest in Crawford.''

Fanny was too well aware of it to have anything to say; and they walked
on together some fifty yards in mutual silence and abstraction. Edmund
first began again\mbox{---}

{}``I was very much pleased by her manner of speaking of it yesterday,
particularly pleased, because I had not depended upon her seeing everything
in so just a light. I knew she was very fond of you; but yet I was
afraid of her not estimating your worth to her brother quite as it
deserved, and of her regretting that he had not rather fixed on some
woman of distinction or fortune. I was afraid of the bias of those
worldly maxims, which she has been too much used to hear. But it was
very different. She spoke of you, Fanny, just as she ought. She desires
the connexion as warmly as your uncle or myself. We had a long talk
about it. I should not have mentioned the subject, though very anxious
to know her sentiments; but I had not been in the room five minutes
before she began introducing it with all that openness of heart, and
sweet peculiarity of manner, that spirit and ingenuousness which are
so much a part of herself. Mrs.\ Grant laughed at her for her rapidity.''

{}``Was Mrs.\ Grant in the room, then?''\ 

{}``Yes, when I reached the house I found the two sisters together
by themselves; and when once we had begun, we had not done with you,
Fanny, till Crawford and Dr.\ Grant came in.''

{}``It is above a week since I saw Miss Crawford.''

{}``Yes, she laments it; yet owns it may have been best. You will
see her, however, before she goes. She is very angry with you, Fanny;
you must be prepared for that. She calls herself very angry, but you
can imagine her anger. It is the regret and disappointment of a sister,
who thinks her brother has a right to everything he may wish for,
at the first moment. She is hurt, as you would be for William; but
she loves and esteems you with all her heart.''

{}``I knew she would be very angry with me.''

{}``My dearest Fanny,'' cried Edmund, pressing her arm closer to
him, {}``do not let the idea of her anger distress you. It is anger
to be talked of rather than felt. Her heart is made for love and kindness,
not for resentment. I wish you could have overheard her tribute of
praise; I wish you could have seen her countenance, when she said
that you \textit{should} be Henry's wife. And I observed that she
always spoke of you as `Fanny,' which she was never used to do; and
it had a sound of most sisterly cordiality.''

{}``And Mrs.\ Grant, did she say\mbox{---}did she speak; was she
there all the time?''\ 

{}``Yes, she was agreeing exactly with her sister. The surprise of
your refusal, Fanny, seems to have been unbounded. That you could
refuse such a man as Henry Crawford seems more than they can understand.
I said what I could for you; but in good truth, as they stated the
case\mbox{---}you must prove yourself to be in your senses as soon
as you can by a different conduct; nothing else will satisfy them.
But this is teasing you. I have done. Do not turn away from me.''

{}``I \textit{should} have thought,'' said Fanny, after a pause
of recollection and exertion, {}``that every woman must have felt
the possibility of a man's not being approved, not being loved by
some one of her sex at least, let him be ever so generally agreeable.
Let him have all the perfections in the world, I think it ought not
to be set down as certain that a man must be acceptable to every woman
he may happen to like himself. But, even supposing it is so, allowing
Mr.\ Crawford to have all the claims which his sisters think he has,
how was I to be prepared to meet him with any feeling answerable to
his own? He took me wholly by surprise. I had not an idea that his
behaviour to me before had any meaning; and surely I was not to be
teaching myself to like him only because he was taking what seemed
very idle notice of me. In my situation, it would have been the extreme
of vanity to be forming expectations on Mr.\ Crawford. I am sure
his sisters, rating him as they do, must have thought it so, supposing
he had meant nothing. How, then, was I to be\mbox{---}to be in love
with him the moment he said he was with me? How was I to have an attachment
at his service, as soon as it was asked for? His sisters should consider
me as well as him. The higher his deserts, the more improper for me
ever to have thought of him. And, and\mbox{---}we think very differently
of the nature of women, if they can imagine a woman so very soon capable
of returning an affection as this seems to imply.''

{}``My dear, dear Fanny, now I have the truth. I know this to be
the truth; and most worthy of you are such feelings. I had attributed
them to you before. I thought I could understand you. You have now
given exactly the explanation which I ventured to make for you to
your friend and Mrs.\ Grant, and they were both better satisfied,
though your warm-hearted friend was still run away with a little by
the enthusiasm of her fondness for Henry. I told them that you were
of all human creatures the one over whom habit had most power and
novelty least; and that the very circumstance of the novelty of Crawford's
addresses was against him. Their being so new and so recent was all
in their disfavour; that you could tolerate nothing that you were
not used to; and a great deal more to the same purpose, to give them
a knowledge of your character. Miss Crawford made us laugh by her
plans of encouragement for her brother. She meant to urge him to persevere
in the hope of being loved in time, and of having his addresses most
kindly received at the end of about ten years' happy marriage.''

Fanny could with difficulty give the smile that was here asked for.
Her feelings were all in revolt. She feared she had been doing wrong:
saying too much, overacting the caution which she had been fancying
necessary; in guarding against one evil, laying herself open to another;
and to have Miss Crawford's liveliness repeated to her at such a moment,
and on such a subject, was a bitter aggravation.

Edmund saw weariness and distress in her face, and immediately resolved
to forbear all farther discussion; and not even to mention the name
of Crawford again, except as it might be connected with what \textit{must}
be agreeable to her. On this principle, he soon afterwards observed\mbox{---}{}``They
go on Monday. You are sure, therefore, of seeing your friend either
to-morrow or Sunday. They really go on Monday; and I was within a
trifle of being persuaded to stay at Lessingby till that very day!
I had almost promised it. What a difference it might have made! Those
five or six days more at Lessingby might have been felt all my life.''

{}``You were near staying there?''\ 

{}``Very. I was most kindly pressed, and had nearly consented. Had
I received any letter from Mansfield, to tell me how you were all
going on, I believe I should certainly have staid; but I knew nothing
that had happened here for a fortnight, and felt that I had been away
long enough.''

{}``You spent your time pleasantly there?''\ 

{}``Yes; that is, it was the fault of my own mind if I did not. They
were all very pleasant. I doubt their finding me so. I took uneasiness
with me, and there was no getting rid of it till I was in Mansfield
again.''

{}``The Miss Owens\mbox{---}you liked them, did not you?''\ 

{}``Yes, very well. Pleasant, good-humoured, unaffected girls. But
I am spoilt, Fanny, for common female society. Good-humoured, unaffected
girls will not do for a man who has been used to sensible women. They
are two distinct orders of being. You and Miss Crawford have made
me too nice.''

Still, however, Fanny was oppressed and wearied; he saw it in her
looks, it could not be talked away; and attempting it no more, he
led her directly, with the kind authority of a privileged guardian,
into the house.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XXXVI}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XXXVI}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER XXXVI}

Edmund now believed himself perfectly acquainted with all that Fanny
could tell, or could leave to be conjectured of her sentiments, and
he was satisfied. It had been, as he before presumed, too hasty a
measure on Crawford's side, and time must be given to make the idea
first familiar, and then agreeable to her. She must be used to the
consideration of his being in love with her, and then a return of
affection might not be very distant.

He gave this opinion as the result of the conversation to his father;
and recommended there being nothing more said to her: no farther attempts
to influence or persuade; but that everything should be left to Crawford's
assiduities, and the natural workings of her own mind.

Sir Thomas promised that it should be so. Edmund's account of Fanny's
disposition he could believe to be just; he supposed she had all those
feelings, but he must consider it as very unfortunate that she \textit{had};
for, less willing than his son to trust to the future, he could not
help fearing that if such very long allowances of time and habit were
necessary for her, she might not have persuaded herself into receiving
his addresses properly before the young man's inclination for paying
them were over. There was nothing to be done, however, but to submit
quietly and hope the best.

The promised visit from {}``her friend,'' as Edmund called Miss
Crawford, was a formidable threat to Fanny, and she lived in continual
terror of it. As a sister, so partial and so angry, and so little
scrupulous of what she said, and in another light so triumphant and
secure, she was in every way an object of painful alarm. Her displeasure,
her penetration, and her happiness were all fearful to encounter;
and the dependence of having others present when they met was Fanny's
only support in looking forward to it. She absented herself as little
as possible from Lady Bertram, kept away from the East room, and took
no solitary walk in the shrubbery, in her caution to avoid any sudden
attack.

She succeeded. She was safe in the breakfast-room, with her aunt,
when Miss Crawford did come; and the first misery over, and Miss Crawford
looking and speaking with much less particularity of expression than
she had anticipated, Fanny began to hope there would be nothing worse
to be endured than a half-hour of moderate agitation. But here she
hoped too much; Miss Crawford was not the slave of opportunity. She
was determined to see Fanny alone, and therefore said to her tolerably
soon, in a low voice, {}``I must speak to you for a few minutes somewhere'';
words that Fanny felt all over her, in all her pulses and all her
nerves. Denial was impossible. Her habits of ready submission, on
the contrary, made her almost instantly rise and lead the way out
of the room. She did it with wretched feelings, but it was inevitable.

They were no sooner in the hall than all restraint of countenance
was over on Miss Crawford's side. She immediately shook her head at
Fanny with arch, yet affectionate reproach, and taking her hand, seemed
hardly able to help beginning directly. She said nothing, however,
but, {}``Sad, sad girl! I do not know when I shall have done scolding
you,'' and had discretion enough to reserve the rest till they might
be secure of having four walls to themselves. Fanny naturally turned
upstairs, and took her guest to the apartment which was now always
fit for comfortable use; opening the door, however, with a most aching
heart, and feeling that she had a more distressing scene before her
than ever that spot had yet witnessed. But the evil ready to burst
on her was at least delayed by the sudden change in Miss Crawford's
ideas; by the strong effect on her mind which the finding herself
in the East room again produced.

{}``Ha!''\ she cried, with instant animation, {}``am I here again?
The East room! Once only was I in this room before''; and after stopping
to look about her, and seemingly to retrace all that had then passed,
she added, {}``Once only before. Do you remember it? I came to rehearse.
Your cousin came too; and we had a rehearsal. You were our audience
and prompter. A delightful rehearsal. I shall never forget it. Here
we were, just in this part of the room: here was your cousin, here
was I, here were the chairs. Oh!\ why will such things ever pass
away?''\ 

Happily for her companion, she wanted no answer. Her mind was entirely
self-engrossed. She was in a reverie of sweet remembrances.

{}``The scene we were rehearsing was so very remarkable! The subject
of it so very\mbox{---}very\mbox{---}what shall I say? He was to
be describing and recommending matrimony to me. I think I see him
now, trying to be as demure and composed as Anhalt ought, through
the two long speeches. `When two sympathetic hearts meet in the marriage
state, matrimony may be called a happy life.' I suppose no time can
ever wear out the impression I have of his looks and voice as he said
those words. It was curious, very curious, that we should have such
a scene to play! If I had the power of recalling any one week of my
existence, it should be that week\mbox{---}that acting week. Say
what you would, Fanny, it should be \textit{that}; for I never knew
such exquisite happiness in any other. His sturdy spirit to bend as
it did! Oh!\ it was sweet beyond expression. But alas, that very
evening destroyed it all. That very evening brought your most unwelcome
uncle. Poor Sir Thomas, who was glad to see you? Yet, Fanny, do not
imagine I would now speak disrespectfully of Sir Thomas, though I
certainly did hate him for many a week. No, I do him justice now.
He is just what the head of such a family should be. Nay, in sober
sadness, I believe I now love you all.'' And having said so, with
a degree of tenderness and consciousness which Fanny had never seen
in her before, and now thought only too becoming, she turned away
for a moment to recover herself. {}``I have had a little fit since
I came into this room, as you may perceive,'' said she presently,
with a playful smile, {}``but it is over now; so let us sit down
and be comfortable; for as to scolding you, Fanny, which I came fully
intending to do, I have not the heart for it when it comes to the
point.'' And embracing her very affectionately, {}``Good, gentle
Fanny!\ when I think of this being the last time of seeing you for
I do not know how long, I feel it quite impossible to do anything
but love you.''

Fanny was affected. She had not foreseen anything of this, and her
feelings could seldom withstand the melancholy influence of the word
{}``last.'' She cried as if she had loved Miss Crawford more than
she possibly could; and Miss Crawford, yet farther softened by the
sight of such emotion, hung about her with fondness, and said, {}``I
hate to leave you. I shall see no one half so amiable where I am going.
Who says we shall not be sisters? I know we shall. I feel that we
are born to be connected; and those tears convince me that you feel
it too, dear Fanny.''

Fanny roused herself, and replying only in part, said, {}``But you
are only going from one set of friends to another. You are going to
a very particular friend.''

{}``Yes, very true. Mrs.\ Fraser has been my intimate friend for
years. But I have not the least inclination to go near her. I can
think only of the friends I am leaving: my excellent sister, yourself,
and the Bertrams in general. You have all so much more \textit{heart}
among you than one finds in the world at large. You all give me a
feeling of being able to trust and confide in you, which in common
intercourse one knows nothing of. I wish I had settled with Mrs.\ Fraser
not to go to her till after Easter, a much better time for the visit,
but now I cannot put her off. And when I have done with her I must
go to her sister, Lady Stornaway, because \textit{she} was rather
my most particular friend of the two, but I have not cared much for
\textit{her} these three years.''

After this speech the two girls sat many minutes silent, each thoughtful:
Fanny meditating on the different sorts of friendship in the world,
Mary on something of less philosophic tendency.\  \textit{She} first
spoke again.

{}``How perfectly I remember my resolving to look for you upstairs,
and setting off to find my way to the East room, without having an
idea whereabouts it was! How well I remember what I was thinking of
as I came along, and my looking in and seeing you here sitting at
this table at work; and then your cousin's astonishment, when he opened
the door, at seeing me here! To be sure, your uncle's returning that
very evening! There never was anything quite like it.''

Another short fit of abstraction followed, when, shaking it off, she
thus attacked her companion.

{}``Why, Fanny, you are absolutely in a reverie. Thinking, I hope,
of one who is always thinking of you. Oh!\ that I could transport
you for a short time into our circle in town, that you might understand
how your power over Henry is thought of there! Oh!\ the envyings
and heartburnings of dozens and dozens; the wonder, the incredulity
that will be felt at hearing what you have done! For as to secrecy,
Henry is quite the hero of an old romance, and glories in his chains.
You should come to London to know how to estimate your conquest. If
you were to see how he is courted, and how I am courted for his sake!
Now, I am well aware that I shall not be half so welcome to Mrs.\ Fraser
in consequence of his situation with you. When she comes to know the
truth she will, very likely, wish me in Northamptonshire again; for
there is a daughter of Mr.\ Fraser, by a first wife, whom she is
wild to get married, and wants Henry to take. Oh!\ she has been trying
for him to such a degree. Innocent and quiet as you sit here, you
cannot have an idea of the \textit{sensation} that you will be occasioning,
of the curiosity there will be to see you, of the endless questions
I shall have to answer! Poor Margaret Fraser will be at me for ever
about your eyes and your teeth, and how you do your hair, and who
makes your shoes. I wish Margaret were married, for my poor friend's
sake, for I look upon the Frasers to be about as unhappy as most other
married people. And yet it was a most desirable match for Janet at
the time. We were all delighted. She could not do otherwise than accept
him, for he was rich, and she had nothing; but he turns out ill-tempered
and \textit{exigeant}, and wants a young woman, a beautiful young
woman of five-and-twenty, to be as steady as himself. And my friend
does not manage him well; she does not seem to know how to make the
best of it. There is a spirit of irritation which, to say nothing
worse, is certainly very ill-bred. In their house I shall call to
mind the conjugal manners of Mansfield Parsonage with respect. Even
Dr.\ Grant does shew a thorough confidence in my sister, and a certain
consideration for her judgment, which makes one feel there \textit{is}
attachment; but of that I shall see nothing with the Frasers. I shall
be at Mansfield for ever, Fanny. My own sister as a wife, Sir Thomas
Bertram as a husband, are my standards of perfection. Poor Janet has
been sadly taken in, and yet there was nothing improper on her side:
she did not run into the match inconsiderately; there was no want
of foresight. She took three days to consider of his proposals, and
during those three days asked the advice of everybody connected with
her whose opinion was worth having, and especially applied to my late
dear aunt, whose knowledge of the world made her judgment very generally
and deservedly looked up to by all the young people of her acquaintance,
and she was decidedly in favour of Mr.\ Fraser. This seems as if
nothing were a security for matrimonial comfort. I have not so much
to say for my friend Flora, who jilted a very nice young man in the
Blues for the sake of that horrid Lord Stornaway, who has about as
much sense, Fanny, as Mr.\ Rushworth, but much worse-looking, and
with a blackguard character. I \textit{had} my doubts at the time
about her being right, for he has not even the air of a gentleman,
and now I am sure she was wrong. By the bye, Flora Ross was dying
for Henry the first winter she came out. But were I to attempt to
tell you of all the women whom I have known to be in love with him,
I should never have done. It is you, only you, insensible Fanny, who
can think of him with anything like indifference. But are you so insensible
as you profess yourself? No, no, I see you are not.''

There was, indeed, so deep a blush over Fanny's face at that moment
as might warrant strong suspicion in a predisposed mind.

{}``Excellent creature! I will not tease you. Everything shall take
its course. But, dear Fanny, you must allow that you were not so absolutely
unprepared to have the question asked as your cousin fancies. It is
not possible but that you must have had some thoughts on the subject,
some surmises as to what might be. You must have seen that he was
trying to please you by every attention in his power. Was not he devoted
to you at the ball? And then before the ball, the necklace! Oh!\ you
received it just as it was meant. You were as conscious as heart could
desire. I remember it perfectly.''

{}``Do you mean, then, that your brother knew of the necklace beforehand?
Oh!\ Miss Crawford, \textit{that} was not fair.''

{}``Knew of it! It was his own doing entirely, his own thought. I
am ashamed to say that it had never entered my head, but I was delighted
to act on his proposal for both your sakes.''

{}``I will not say,'' replied Fanny, {}``that I was not half afraid
at the time of its being so, for there was something in your look
that frightened me, but not at first; I was as unsuspicious of it
at first\mbox{---}indeed, indeed I was. It is as true as that I sit
here. And had I had an idea of it, nothing should have induced me
to accept the necklace. As to your brother's behaviour, certainly
I was sensible of a particularity: I had been sensible of it some
little time, perhaps two or three weeks; but then I considered it
as meaning nothing: I put it down as simply being his way, and was
as far from supposing as from wishing him to have any serious thoughts
of me. I had not, Miss Crawford, been an inattentive observer of what
was passing between him and some part of this family in the summer
and autumn. I was quiet, but I was not blind. I could not but see
that Mr.\ Crawford allowed himself in gallantries which did mean
nothing.''

{}``Ah!\ I cannot deny it. He has now and then been a sad flirt,
and cared very little for the havoc he might be making in young ladies'
affections. I have often scolded him for it, but it is his only fault;
and there is this to be said, that very few young ladies have any
affections worth caring for. And then, Fanny, the glory of fixing
one who has been shot at by so many; of having it in one's power to
pay off the debts of one's sex! Oh!\ I am sure it is not in woman's
nature to refuse such a triumph.''

Fanny shook her head. {}``I cannot think well of a man who sports
with any woman's feelings; and there may often be a great deal more
suffered than a stander-by can judge of.''

{}``I do not defend him. I leave him entirely to your mercy, and
when he has got you at Everingham, I do not care how much you lecture
him. But this I will say, that his fault, the liking to make girls
a little in love with him, is not half so dangerous to a wife's happiness
as a tendency to fall in love himself, which he has never been addicted
to. And I do seriously and truly believe that he is attached to you
in a way that he never was to any woman before; that he loves you
with all his heart, and will love you as nearly for ever as possible.
If any man ever loved a woman for ever, I think Henry will do as much
for you.''

Fanny could not avoid a faint smile, but had nothing to say.

{}``I cannot imagine Henry ever to have been happier,'' continued
Mary presently, {}``than when he had succeeded in getting your brother's
commission.''

She had made a sure push at Fanny's feelings here.

{}``Oh!\ yes. How very, very kind of him.''

{}``I know he must have exerted himself very much, for I know the
parties he had to move. The Admiral hates trouble, and scorns asking
favours; and there are so many young men's claims to be attended to
in the same way, that a friendship and energy, not very determined,
is easily put by. What a happy creature William must be! I wish we
could see him.''

Poor Fanny's mind was thrown into the most distressing of all its
varieties. The recollection of what had been done for William was
always the most powerful disturber of every decision against Mr.\ Crawford;
and she sat thinking deeply of it till Mary, who had been first watching
her complacently, and then musing on something else, suddenly called
her attention by saying: {}``I should like to sit talking with you
here all day, but we must not forget the ladies below, and so good-bye,
my dear, my amiable, my excellent Fanny, for though we shall nominally
part in the breakfast-parlour, I must take leave of you here. And
I do take leave, longing for a happy reunion, and trusting that when
we meet again, it will be under circumstances which may open our hearts
to each other without any remnant or shadow of reserve.''

A very, very kind embrace, and some agitation of manner, accompanied
these words.

{}``I shall see your cousin in town soon: he talks of being there
tolerably soon; and Sir Thomas, I dare say, in the course of the spring;
and your eldest cousin, and the Rushworths, and Julia, I am sure of
meeting again and again, and all but you. I have two favours to ask,
Fanny: one is your correspondence. You must write to me. And the other,
that you will often call on Mrs.\ Grant, and make her amends for
my being gone.''

The first, at least, of these favours Fanny would rather not have
been asked; but it was impossible for her to refuse the correspondence;
it was impossible for her even not to accede to it more readily than
her own judgment authorised. There was no resisting so much apparent
affection. Her disposition was peculiarly calculated to value a fond
treatment, and from having hitherto known so little of it, she was
the more overcome by Miss Crawford's. Besides, there was gratitude
towards her, for having made their \textit{t\^{e}te-\`{a}-t\^{e}te}
so much less painful than her fears had predicted.

It was over, and she had escaped without reproaches and without detection.
Her secret was still her own; and while that was the case, she thought
she could resign herself to almost everything.

In the evening there was another parting. Henry Crawford came and
sat some time with them; and her spirits not being previously in the
strongest state, her heart was softened for a while towards him, because
he really seemed to feel. Quite unlike his usual self, he scarcely
said anything. He was evidently oppressed, and Fanny must grieve for
him, though hoping she might never see him again till he were the
husband of some other woman.

When it came to the moment of parting, he would take her hand, he
would not be denied it; he said nothing, however, or nothing that
she heard, and when he had left the room, she was better pleased that
such a token of friendship had passed.

On the morrow the Crawfords were gone.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XXXVII}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XXXVII}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER XXXVII}

Mr.\ Crawford gone, Sir Thomas's next object was that he should be
missed; and he entertained great hope that his niece would find a
blank in the loss of those attentions which at the time she had felt,
or fancied, an evil. She had tasted of consequence in its most flattering
form; and he did hope that the loss of it, the sinking again into
nothing, would awaken very wholesome regrets in her mind. He watched
her with this idea; but he could hardly tell with what success. He
hardly knew whether there were any difference in her spirits or not.
She was always so gentle and retiring that her emotions were beyond
his discrimination. He did not understand her: he felt that he did
not; and therefore applied to Edmund to tell him how she stood affected
on the present occasion, and whether she were more or less happy than
she had been.

Edmund did not discern any symptoms of regret, and thought his father
a little unreasonable in supposing the first three or four days could
produce any.

What chiefly surprised Edmund was, that Crawford's sister, the friend
and companion who had been so much to her, should not be more visibly
regretted. He wondered that Fanny spoke so seldom of \textit{her},
and had so little voluntarily to say of her concern at this separation.

Alas!\ it was this sister, this friend and companion, who was now
the chief bane of Fanny's comfort. If she could have believed Mary's
future fate as unconnected with Mansfield as she was determined the
brother's should be, if she could have hoped her return thither to
be as distant as she was much inclined to think his, she would have
been light of heart indeed; but the more she recollected and observed,
the more deeply was she convinced that everything was now in a fairer
train for Miss Crawford's marrying Edmund than it had ever been before.
On his side the inclination was stronger, on hers less equivocal.
His objections, the scruples of his integrity, seemed all done away,
nobody could tell how; and the doubts and hesitations of her ambition
were equally got over\mbox{---}and equally without apparent reason.
It could only be imputed to increasing attachment. His good and her
bad feelings yielded to love, and such love must unite them. He was
to go to town as soon as some business relative to Thornton Lacey
were completed\mbox{---}perhaps within a fortnight; he talked of
going, he loved to talk of it; and when once with her again, Fanny
could not doubt the rest. Her acceptance must be as certain as his
offer; and yet there were bad feelings still remaining which made
the prospect of it most sorrowful to her, independently, she believed,
independently of self.

In their very last conversation, Miss Crawford, in spite of some amiable
sensations, and much personal kindness, had still been Miss Crawford;
still shewn a mind led astray and bewildered, and without any suspicion
of being so; darkened, yet fancying itself light. She might love,
but she did not deserve Edmund by any other sentiment. Fanny believed
there was scarcely a second feeling in common between them; and she
may be forgiven by older sages for looking on the chance of Miss Crawford's
future improvement as nearly desperate, for thinking that if Edmund's
influence in this season of love had already done so little in clearing
her judgment, and regulating her notions, his worth would be finally
wasted on her even in years of matrimony.

Experience might have hoped more for any young people so circumstanced,
and impartiality would not have denied to Miss Crawford's nature that
participation of the general nature of women which would lead her
to adopt the opinions of the man she loved and respected as her own.
But as such were Fanny's persuasions, she suffered very much from
them, and could never speak of Miss Crawford without pain.

Sir Thomas, meanwhile, went on with his own hopes and his own observations,
still feeling a right, by all his knowledge of human nature, to expect
to see the effect of the loss of power and consequence on his niece's
spirits, and the past attentions of the lover producing a craving
for their return; and he was soon afterwards able to account for his
not yet completely and indubitably seeing all this, by the prospect
of another visitor, whose approach he could allow to be quite enough
to support the spirits he was watching. William had obtained a ten
days' leave of absence, to be given to Northamptonshire, and was coming,
the happiest of lieutenants, because the latest made, to shew his
happiness and describe his uniform.

He came; and he would have been delighted to shew his uniform there
too, had not cruel custom prohibited its appearance except on duty.
So the uniform remained at Portsmouth, and Edmund conjectured that
before Fanny had any chance of seeing it, all its own freshness and
all the freshness of its wearer's feelings must be worn away. It would
be sunk into a badge of disgrace; for what can be more unbecoming,
or more worthless, than the uniform of a lieutenant, who has been
a lieutenant a year or two, and sees others made commanders before
him? So reasoned Edmund, till his father made him the confidant of
a scheme which placed Fanny's chance of seeing the second lieutenant
of H.M.S. \emph{Thrush} in all his glory in another light.

This scheme was that she should accompany her brother back to Portsmouth,
and spend a little time with her own family. It had occurred to Sir
Thomas, in one of his dignified musings, as a right and desirable
measure; but before he absolutely made up his mind, he consulted his
son. Edmund considered it every way, and saw nothing but what was
right. The thing was good in itself, and could not be done at a better
time; and he had no doubt of it being highly agreeable to Fanny. This
was enough to determine Sir Thomas; and a decisive {}``then so it
shall be'' closed that stage of the business; Sir Thomas retiring
from it with some feelings of satisfaction, and views of good over
and above what he had communicated to his son; for his prime motive
in sending her away had very little to do with the propriety of her
seeing her parents again, and nothing at all with any idea of making
her happy. He certainly wished her to go willingly, but he as certainly
wished her to be heartily sick of home before her visit ended; and
that a little abstinence from the elegancies and luxuries of Mansfield
Park would bring her mind into a sober state, and incline her to a
juster estimate of the value of that home of greater permanence, and
equal comfort, of which she had the offer.

It was a medicinal project upon his niece's understanding, which he
must consider as at present diseased. A residence of eight or nine
years in the abode of wealth and plenty had a little disordered her
powers of comparing and judging. Her father's house would, in all
probability, teach her the value of a good income; and he trusted
that she would be the wiser and happier woman, all her life, for the
experiment he had devised.

Had Fanny been at all addicted to raptures, she must have had a strong
attack of them when she first understood what was intended, when her
uncle first made her the offer of visiting the parents, and brothers,
and sisters, from whom she had been divided almost half her life;
of returning for a couple of months to the scenes of her infancy,
with William for the protector and companion of her journey, and the
certainty of continuing to see William to the last hour of his remaining
on land. Had she ever given way to bursts of delight, it must have
been then, for she was delighted, but her happiness was of a quiet,
deep, heart-swelling sort; and though never a great talker, she was
always more inclined to silence when feeling most strongly. At the
moment she could only thank and accept. Afterwards, when familiarised
with the visions of enjoyment so suddenly opened, she could speak
more largely to William and Edmund of what she felt; but still there
were emotions of tenderness that could not be clothed in words. The
remembrance of all her earliest pleasures, and of what she had suffered
in being torn from them, came over her with renewed strength, and
it seemed as if to be at home again would heal every pain that had
since grown out of the separation. To be in the centre of such a circle,
loved by so many, and more loved by all than she had ever been before;
to feel affection without fear or restraint; to feel herself the equal
of those who surrounded her; to be at peace from all mention of the
Crawfords, safe from every look which could be fancied a reproach
on their account. This was a prospect to be dwelt on with a fondness
that could be but half acknowledged.

Edmund, too\mbox{---}to be two months from \textit{him} (and perhaps
she might be allowed to make her absence three) must do her good.
At a distance, unassailed by his looks or his kindness, and safe from
the perpetual irritation of knowing his heart, and striving to avoid
his confidence, she should be able to reason herself into a properer
state; she should be able to think of him as in London, and arranging
everything there, without wretchedness. What might have been hard
to bear at Mansfield was to become a slight evil at Portsmouth.

The only drawback was the doubt of her aunt Bertram's being comfortable
without her. She was of use to no one else; but \textit{there} she
might be missed to a degree that she did not like to think of; and
that part of the arrangement was, indeed, the hardest for Sir Thomas
to accomplish, and what only \textit{he} could have accomplished at
all.

But he was master at Mansfield Park. When he had really resolved on
any measure, he could always carry it through; and now by dint of
long talking on the subject, explaining and dwelling on the duty of
Fanny's sometimes seeing her family, he did induce his wife to let
her go; obtaining it rather from submission, however, than conviction,
for Lady Bertram was convinced of very little more than that Sir Thomas
thought Fanny ought to go, and therefore that she must. In the calmness
of her own dressing-room, in the impartial flow of her own meditations,
unbiassed by his bewildering statements, she could not acknowledge
any necessity for Fanny's ever going near a father and mother who
had done without her so long, while she was so useful to herself.
And as to the not missing her, which under Mrs.\ Norris's discussion
was the point attempted to be proved, she set herself very steadily
against admitting any such thing.

Sir Thomas had appealed to her reason, conscience, and dignity. He
called it a sacrifice, and demanded it of her goodness and self-command
as such. But Mrs.\ Norris wanted to persuade her that Fanny could
be very well spared\mbox{---}\textit{she} being ready to give up
all her own time to her as requested\mbox{---}and, in short, could
not really be wanted or missed.

{}``That may be, sister,'' was all Lady Bertram's reply. {}``I
dare say you are very right; but I am sure I shall miss her very much.''

The next step was to communicate with Portsmouth. Fanny wrote to offer
herself; and her mother's answer, though short, was so kind\mbox{---}a
few simple lines expressed so natural and motherly a joy in the prospect
of seeing her child again, as to confirm all the daughter's views
of happiness in being with her\mbox{---}convincing her that she should
now find a warm and affectionate friend in the {}``mama'' who had
certainly shewn no remarkable fondness for her formerly; but this
she could easily suppose to have been her own fault or her own fancy.
She had probably alienated love by the helplessness and fretfulness
of a fearful temper, or been unreasonable in wanting a larger share
than any one among so many could deserve. Now, when she knew better
how to be useful, and how to forbear, and when her mother could be
no longer occupied by the incessant demands of a house full of little
children, there would be leisure and inclination for every comfort,
and they should soon be what mother and daughter ought to be to each
other.

William was almost as happy in the plan as his sister. It would be
the greatest pleasure to him to have her there to the last moment
before he sailed, and perhaps find her there still when he came in
from his first cruise. And besides, he wanted her so very much to
see the \emph{Thrush} before she went out of harbour\mbox{---}the
\emph{Thrush} was certainly the finest sloop in the service\mbox{---}and
there were several improvements in the dockyard, too, which he quite
longed to shew her.

He did not scruple to add that her being at home for a while would
be a great advantage to everybody.

{}``I do not know how it is,'' said he; {}``but we seem to want
some of your nice ways and orderliness at my father's. The house is
always in confusion. You will set things going in a better way, I
am sure. You will tell my mother how it all ought to be, and you will
be so useful to Susan, and you will teach Betsey, and make the boys
love and mind you. How right and comfortable it will all be!''\ 

By the time Mrs.\ Price's answer arrived, there remained but a very
few days more to be spent at Mansfield; and for part of one of those
days the young travellers were in a good deal of alarm on the subject
of their journey, for when the mode of it came to be talked of, and
Mrs.\ Norris found that all her anxiety to save her brother-in-law's
money was vain, and that in spite of her wishes and hints for a less
expensive conveyance of Fanny, they were to travel post; when she
saw Sir Thomas actually give William notes for the purpose, she was
struck with the idea of there being room for a third in the carriage,
and suddenly seized with a strong inclination to go with them, to
go and see her poor dear sister Price. She proclaimed her thoughts.
She must say that she had more than half a mind to go with the young
people; it would be such an indulgence to her; she had not seen her
poor dear sister Price for more than twenty years; and it would be
a help to the young people in their journey to have her older head
to manage for them; and she could not help thinking her poor dear
sister Price would feel it very unkind of her not to come by such
an opportunity.

William and Fanny were horror-struck at the idea.

All the comfort of their comfortable journey would be destroyed at
once. With woeful countenances they looked at each other. Their suspense
lasted an hour or two. No one interfered to encourage or dissuade.
Mrs.\ Norris was left to settle the matter by herself; and it ended,
to the infinite joy of her nephew and niece, in the recollection that
she could not possibly be spared from Mansfield Park at present; that
she was a great deal too necessary to Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram
for her to be able to answer it to herself to leave them even for
a week, and therefore must certainly sacrifice every other pleasure
to that of being useful to them.

It had, in fact, occurred to her, that though taken to Portsmouth
for nothing, it would be hardly possible for her to avoid paying her
own expenses back again. So her poor dear sister Price was left to
all the disappointment of her missing such an opportunity, and another
twenty years' absence, perhaps, begun.

Edmund's plans were affected by this Portsmouth journey, this absence
of Fanny's. He too had a sacrifice to make to Mansfield Park as well
as his aunt. He had intended, about this time, to be going to London;
but he could not leave his father and mother just when everybody else
of most importance to their comfort was leaving them; and with an
effort, felt but not boasted of, he delayed for a week or two longer
a journey which he was looking forward to with the hope of its fixing
his happiness for ever.

He told Fanny of it. She knew so much already, that she must know
everything. It made the substance of one other confidential discourse
about Miss Crawford; and Fanny was the more affected from feeling
it to be the last time in which Miss Crawford's name would ever be
mentioned between them with any remains of liberty. Once afterwards
she was alluded to by him. Lady Bertram had been telling her niece
in the evening to write to her soon and often, and promising to be
a good correspondent herself; and Edmund, at a convenient moment,
then added in a whisper, {}``And \textit{I} shall write to you, Fanny,
when I have anything worth writing about, anything to say that I think
you will like to hear, and that you will not hear so soon from any
other quarter.'' Had she doubted his meaning while she listened,
the glow in his face, when she looked up at him, would have been decisive.

For this letter she must try to arm herself. That a letter from Edmund
should be a subject of terror! She began to feel that she had not
yet gone through all the changes of opinion and sentiment which the
progress of time and variation of circumstances occasion in this world
of changes. The vicissitudes of the human mind had not yet been exhausted
by her.

Poor Fanny!\ though going as she did willingly and eagerly, the last
evening at Mansfield Park must still be wretchedness. Her heart was
completely sad at parting. She had tears for every room in the house,
much more for every beloved inhabitant. She clung to her aunt, because
she would miss her; she kissed the hand of her uncle with struggling
sobs, because she had displeased him; and as for Edmund, she could
neither speak, nor look, nor think, when the last moment came with
\textit{him}; and it was not till it was over that she knew he was
giving her the affectionate farewell of a brother.

All this passed overnight, for the journey was to begin very early
in the morning; and when the small, diminished party met at breakfast,
William and Fanny were talked of as already advanced one stage.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XXXVIII}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XXXVIII}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER XXXVIII}

The novelty of travelling, and the happiness of being with William,
soon produced their natural effect on Fanny's spirits, when Mansfield
Park was fairly left behind; and by the time their first stage was
ended, and they were to quit Sir Thomas's carriage, she was able to
take leave of the old coachman, and send back proper messages, with
cheerful looks.

Of pleasant talk between the brother and sister there was no end.
Everything supplied an amusement to the high glee of William's mind,
and he was full of frolic and joke in the intervals of their higher-toned
subjects, all of which ended, if they did not begin, in praise of
the \emph{Thrush}, conjectures how she would be employed, schemes
for an action with some superior force, which (supposing the first
lieutenant out of the way, and William was not very merciful to the
first lieutenant) was to give himself the next step as soon as possible,
or speculations upon prize-money, which was to be generously distributed
at home, with only the reservation of enough to make the little cottage
comfortable, in which he and Fanny were to pass all their middle and
later life together.

Fanny's immediate concerns, as far as they involved Mr.\ Crawford,
made no part of their conversation. William knew what had passed,
and from his heart lamented that his sister's feelings should be so
cold towards a man whom he must consider as the first of human characters;
but he was of an age to be all for love, and therefore unable to blame;
and knowing her wish on the subject, he would not distress her by
the slightest allusion.

She had reason to suppose herself not yet forgotten by Mr.\ Crawford.
She had heard repeatedly from his sister within the three weeks which
had passed since their leaving Mansfield, and in each letter there
had been a few lines from himself, warm and determined like his speeches.
It was a correspondence which Fanny found quite as unpleasant as she
had feared. Miss Crawford's style of writing, lively and affectionate,
was itself an evil, independent of what she was thus forced into reading
from the brother's pen, for Edmund would never rest till she had read
the chief of the letter to him; and then she had to listen to his
admiration of her language, and the warmth of her attachments. There
had, in fact, been so much of message, of allusion, of recollection,
so much of Mansfield in every letter, that Fanny could not but suppose
it meant for him to hear; and to find herself forced into a purpose
of that kind, compelled into a correspondence which was bringing her
the addresses of the man she did not love, and obliging her to administer
to the adverse passion of the man she did, was cruelly mortifying.
Here, too, her present removal promised advantage. When no longer
under the same roof with Edmund, she trusted that Miss Crawford would
have no motive for writing strong enough to overcome the trouble,
and that at Portsmouth their correspondence would dwindle into nothing.

With such thoughts as these, among ten hundred others, Fanny proceeded
in her journey safely and cheerfully, and as expeditiously as could
rationally be hoped in the dirty month of February. They entered Oxford,
but she could take only a hasty glimpse of Edmund's college as they
passed along, and made no stop anywhere till they reached Newbury,
where a comfortable meal, uniting dinner and supper, wound up the
enjoyments and fatigues of the day.

The next morning saw them off again at an early hour; and with no
events, and no delays, they regularly advanced, and were in the environs
of Portsmouth while there was yet daylight for Fanny to look around
her, and wonder at the new buildings. They passed the drawbridge,
and entered the town; and the light was only beginning to fail as,
guided by William's powerful voice, they were rattled into a narrow
street, leading from the High Street, and drawn up before the door
of a small house now inhabited by Mr.\ Price.

Fanny was all agitation and flutter; all hope and apprehension. The
moment they stopped, a trollopy-looking maidservant, seemingly in
waiting for them at the door, stepped forward, and more intent on
telling the news than giving them any help, immediately began with,
{}``The \emph{Thrush} is gone out of harbour, please sir, and one
of the officers has been here to\mbox{---}'' She was interrupted
by a fine tall boy of eleven years old, who, rushing out of the house,
pushed the maid aside, and while William was opening the chaise-door
himself, called out, {}``You are just in time. We have been looking
for you this half-hour. The \emph{Thrush} went out of harbour this
morning. I saw her. It was a beautiful sight. And they think she will
have her orders in a day or two. And Mr.\ Campbell was here at four
o'clock to ask for you: he has got one of the \emph{Thrush}'s boats,
and is going off to her at six, and hoped you would be here in time
to go with him.''

A stare or two at Fanny, as William helped her out of the carriage,
was all the voluntary notice which this brother bestowed; but he made
no objection to her kissing him, though still entirely engaged in
detailing farther particulars of the \emph{Thrush}'s going out of
harbour, in which he had a strong right of interest, being to commence
his career of seamanship in her at this very time.

Another moment and Fanny was in the narrow entrance-passage of the
house, and in her mother's arms, who met her there with looks of true
kindness, and with features which Fanny loved the more, because they
brought her aunt Bertram's before her, and there were her two sisters:
Susan, a well-grown fine girl of fourteen, and Betsey, the youngest
of the family, about five\mbox{---}both glad to see her in their
way, though with no advantage of manner in receiving her. But manner
Fanny did not want. Would they but love her, she should be satisfied.

She was then taken into a parlour, so small that her first conviction
was of its being only a passage-room to something better, and she
stood for a moment expecting to be invited on; but when she saw there
was no other door, and that there were signs of habitation before
her, she called back her thoughts, reproved herself, and grieved lest
they should have been suspected. Her mother, however, could not stay
long enough to suspect anything. She was gone again to the street-door,
to welcome William. {}``Oh!\ my dear William, how glad I am to see
you. But have you heard about the \emph{Thrush}? She is gone out of
harbour already; three days before we had any thought of it; and I
do not know what I am to do about Sam's things, they will never be
ready in time; for she may have her orders to-morrow, perhaps. It
takes me quite unawares. And now you must be off for Spithead too.
Campbell has been here, quite in a worry about you; and now what shall
we do? I thought to have had such a comfortable evening with you,
and here everything comes upon me at once.''

Her son answered cheerfully, telling her that everything was always
for the best; and making light of his own inconvenience in being obliged
to hurry away so soon.

{}``To be sure, I had much rather she had stayed in harbour, that
I might have sat a few hours with you in comfort; but as there is
a boat ashore, I had better go off at once, and there is no help for
it. Whereabouts does the \emph{Thrush} lay at Spithead? Near the \emph{Canopus}?
But no matter; here's Fanny in the parlour, and why should we stay
in the passage? Come, mother, you have hardly looked at your own dear
Fanny yet.''

In they both came, and Mrs.\ Price having kindly kissed her daughter
again, and commented a little on her growth, began with very natural
solicitude to feel for their fatigues and wants as travellers.

{}``Poor dears!\ how tired you must both be!\ and now, what will
you have? I began to think you would never come. Betsey and I have
been watching for you this half-hour. And when did you get anything
to eat? And what would you like to have now? I could not tell whether
you would be for some meat, or only a dish of tea, after your journey,
or else I would have got something ready. And now I am afraid Campbell
will be here before there is time to dress a steak, and we have no
butcher at hand. It is very inconvenient to have no butcher in the
street. We were better off in our last house. Perhaps you would like
some tea as soon as it can be got.''

They both declared they should prefer it to anything. {}``Then, Betsey,
my dear, run into the kitchen and see if Rebecca has put the water
on; and tell her to bring in the tea-things as soon as she can. I
wish we could get the bell mended; but Betsey is a very handy little
messenger.''

Betsey went with alacrity, proud to shew her abilities before her
fine new sister.

{}``Dear me!''\ continued the anxious mother, {}``what a sad fire
we have got, and I dare say you are both starved with cold. Draw your
chair nearer, my dear. I cannot think what Rebecca has been about.
I am sure I told her to bring some coals half an hour ago. Susan,
you should have taken care of the fire.''

{}``I was upstairs, mama, moving my things,'' said Susan, in a fearless,
self-defending tone, which startled Fanny. {}``You know you had but
just settled that my sister Fanny and I should have the other room;
and I could not get Rebecca to give me any help.''

Farther discussion was prevented by various bustles: first, the driver
came to be paid; then there was a squabble between Sam and Rebecca
about the manner of carrying up his sister's trunk, which he would
manage all his own way; and lastly, in walked Mr.\ Price himself,
his own loud voice preceding him, as with something of the oath kind
he kicked away his son's port-manteau and his daughter's bandbox in
the passage, and called out for a candle; no candle was brought, however,
and he walked into the room.

Fanny with doubting feelings had risen to meet him, but sank down
again on finding herself undistinguished in the dusk, and unthought
of. With a friendly shake of his son's hand, and an eager voice, he
instantly began\mbox{---}{}``Ha!\ welcome back, my boy. Glad to
see you. Have you heard the news? The \emph{Thrush} went out of harbour
this morning. Sharp is the word, you see! By G\mbox{------}, you
are just in time! The doctor has been here inquiring for you: he has
got one of the boats, and is to be off for Spithead by six, so you
had better go with him. I have been to Turner's about your mess; it
is all in a way to be done. I should not wonder if you had your orders
to-morrow: but you cannot sail with this wind, if you are to cruise
to the westward; and Captain Walsh thinks you will certainly have
a cruise to the westward, with the \emph{Elephant}. By G\mbox{------},
I wish you may! But old Scholey was saying, just now, that he thought
you would be sent first to the \emph{Texel}. Well, well, we are ready,
whatever happens. But by G\mbox{------}, you lost a fine sight by
not being here in the morning to see the \emph{Thrush} go out of harbour!
I would not have been out of the way for a thousand pounds. Old Scholey
ran in at breakfast-time, to say she had slipped her moorings and
was coming out, I jumped up, and made but two steps to the platform.
If ever there was a perfect beauty afloat, she is one; and there she
lays at Spithead, and anybody in England would take her for an eight-and-twenty.
I was upon the platform two hours this afternoon looking at her. She
lays close to the \emph{Endymion}, between her and the \emph{Cleopatra},
just to the eastward of the sheer hulk.''

{}``Ha!''\ cried William, {}``\textit{that's} just where I should
have put her myself. It's the best berth at Spithead. But here is
my sister, sir; here is Fanny,'' turning and leading her forward;
{}``it is so dark you do not see her.''

With an acknowledgment that he had quite forgot her, Mr.\ Price now
received his daughter; and having given her a cordial hug, and observed
that she was grown into a woman, and he supposed would be wanting
a husband soon, seemed very much inclined to forget her again. Fanny
shrunk back to her seat, with feelings sadly pained by his language
and his smell of spirits; and he talked on only to his son, and only
of the \emph{Thrush}, though William, warmly interested as he was
in that subject, more than once tried to make his father think of
Fanny, and her long absence and long journey.

After sitting some time longer, a candle was obtained; but as there
was still no appearance of tea, nor, from Betsey's reports from the
kitchen, much hope of any under a considerable period, William determined
to go and change his dress, and make the necessary preparations for
his removal on board directly, that he might have his tea in comfort
afterwards.

As he left the room, two rosy-faced boys, ragged and dirty, about
eight and nine years old, rushed into it just released from school,
and coming eagerly to see their sister, and tell that the \emph{Thrush}
was gone out of harbour; Tom and Charles. Charles had been born since
Fanny's going away, but Tom she had often helped to nurse, and now
felt a particular pleasure in seeing again. Both were kissed very
tenderly, but Tom she wanted to keep by her, to try to trace the features
of the baby she had loved, and talked to, of his infant preference
of herself. Tom, however, had no mind for such treatment: he came
home not to stand and be talked to, but to run about and make a noise;
and both boys had soon burst from her, and slammed the parlour-door
till her temples ached.

She had now seen all that were at home; there remained only two brothers
between herself and Susan, one of whom was a clerk in a public office
in London, and the other midshipman on board an Indiaman. But though
she had \textit{seen} all the members of the family, she had not yet
\textit{heard} all the noise they could make. Another quarter of an
hour brought her a great deal more. William was soon calling out from
the landing-place of the second story for his mother and for Rebecca.
He was in distress for something that he had left there, and did not
find again. A key was mislaid, Betsey accused of having got at his
new hat, and some slight, but essential alteration of his uniform
waistcoat, which he had been promised to have done for him, entirely
neglected.

Mrs.\ Price, Rebecca, and Betsey all went up to defend themselves,
all talking together, but Rebecca loudest, and the job was to be done
as well as it could in a great hurry; William trying in vain to send
Betsey down again, or keep her from being troublesome where she was;
the whole of which, as almost every door in the house was open, could
be plainly distinguished in the parlour, except when drowned at intervals
by the superior noise of Sam, Tom, and Charles chasing each other
up and down stairs, and tumbling about and hallooing.

Fanny was almost stunned. The smallness of the house and thinness
of the walls brought everything so close to her, that, added to the
fatigue of her journey, and all her recent agitation, she hardly knew
how to bear it. \textit{Within} the room all was tranquil enough,
for Susan having disappeared with the others, there were soon only
her father and herself remaining; and he, taking out a newspaper,
the accustomary loan of a neighbour, applied himself to studying it,
without seeming to recollect her existence. The solitary candle was
held between himself and the paper, without any reference to her possible
convenience; but she had nothing to do, and was glad to have the light
screened from her aching head, as she sat in bewildered, broken, sorrowful
contemplation.

She was at home. But, alas!\ it was not such a home, she had not
such a welcome, as\mbox{---}she checked herself; she was unreasonable.
What right had she to be of importance to her family? She could have
none, so long lost sight of! William's concerns must be dearest, they
always had been, and he had every right. Yet to have so little said
or asked about herself, to have scarcely an inquiry made after Mansfield!
It did pain her to have Mansfield forgotten; the friends who had done
so much\mbox{---}the dear, dear friends! But here, one subject swallowed
up all the rest. Perhaps it must be so. The destination of the \emph{Thrush}
must be now preeminently interesting. A day or two might shew the
difference.\  \textit{She} only was to blame. Yet she thought it
would not have been so at Mansfield. No, in her uncle's house there
would have been a consideration of times and seasons, a regulation
of subject, a propriety, an attention towards everybody which there
was not here.

The only interruption which thoughts like these received for nearly
half an hour was from a sudden burst of her father's, not at all calculated
to compose them. At a more than ordinary pitch of thumping and hallooing
in the passage, he exclaimed, {}``Devil take those young dogs! How
they are singing out! Ay, Sam's voice louder than all the rest! That
boy is fit for a boatswain. Holla, you there! Sam, stop your confounded
pipe, or I shall be after you.''

This threat was so palpably disregarded, that though within five minutes
afterwards the three boys all burst into the room together and sat
down, Fanny could not consider it as a proof of anything more than
their being for the time thoroughly fagged, which their hot faces
and panting breaths seemed to prove, especially as they were still
kicking each other's shins, and hallooing out at sudden starts immediately
under their father's eye.

The next opening of the door brought something more welcome: it was
for the tea-things, which she had begun almost to despair of seeing
that evening. Susan and an attendant girl, whose inferior appearance
informed Fanny, to her great surprise, that she had previously seen
the upper servant, brought in everything necessary for the meal; Susan
looking, as she put the kettle on the fire and glanced at her sister,
as if divided between the agreeable triumph of shewing her activity
and usefulness, and the dread of being thought to demean herself by
such an office. {}``She had been into the kitchen,'' she said, {}``to
hurry Sally and help make the toast, and spread the bread and butter,
or she did not know when they should have got tea, and she was sure
her sister must want something after her journey.''

Fanny was very thankful. She could not but own that she should be
very glad of a little tea, and Susan immediately set about making
it, as if pleased to have the employment all to herself; and with
only a little unnecessary bustle, and some few injudicious attempts
at keeping her brothers in better order than she could, acquitted
herself very well. Fanny's spirit was as much refreshed as her body;
her head and heart were soon the better for such well-timed kindness.
Susan had an open, sensible countenance; she was like William, and
Fanny hoped to find her like him in disposition and goodwill towards
herself.

In this more placid state of things William reentered, followed not
far behind by his mother and Betsey. He, complete in his lieutenant's
uniform, looking and moving all the taller, firmer, and more graceful
for it, and with the happiest smile over his face, walked up directly
to Fanny, who, rising from her seat, looked at him for a moment in
speechless admiration, and then threw her arms round his neck to sob
out her various emotions of pain and pleasure.

Anxious not to appear unhappy, she soon recovered herself; and wiping
away her tears, was able to notice and admire all the striking parts
of his dress; listening with reviving spirits to his cheerful hopes
of being on shore some part of every day before they sailed, and even
of getting her to Spithead to see the sloop.

The next bustle brought in Mr.\ Campbell, the surgeon of the \emph{Thrush},
a very well-behaved young man, who came to call for his friend, and
for whom there was with some contrivance found a chair, and with some
hasty washing of the young tea-maker's, a cup and saucer; and after
another quarter of an hour of earnest talk between the gentlemen,
noise rising upon noise, and bustle upon bustle, men and boys at last
all in motion together, the moment came for setting off; everything
was ready, William took leave, and all of them were gone; for the
three boys, in spite of their mother's entreaty, determined to see
their brother and Mr.\ Campbell to the sally-port; and Mr.\ Price
walked off at the same time to carry back his neighbour's newspaper.

Something like tranquillity might now be hoped for; and accordingly,
when Rebecca had been prevailed on to carry away the tea-things, and
Mrs.\ Price had walked about the room some time looking for a shirt-sleeve,
which Betsey at last hunted out from a drawer in the kitchen, the
small party of females were pretty well composed, and the mother having
lamented again over the impossibility of getting Sam ready in time,
was at leisure to think of her eldest daughter and the friends she
had come from.

A few inquiries began: but one of the earliest\mbox{---}{}``How
did sister Bertram manage about her servants? Was she as much plagued
as herself to get tolerable servants?''---soon led her mind away
from Northamptonshire, and fixed it on her own domestic grievances,
and the shocking character of all the Portsmouth servants, of whom
she believed her own two were the very worst, engrossed her completely.
The Bertrams were all forgotten in detailing the faults of Rebecca,
against whom Susan had also much to depose, and little Betsey a great
deal more, and who did seem so thoroughly without a single recommendation,
that Fanny could not help modestly presuming that her mother meant
to part with her when her year was up.

{}``Her year!''\ cried Mrs.\ Price; {}``I am sure I hope I shall
be rid of her before she has staid a year, for that will not be up
till November. Servants are come to such a pass, my dear, in Portsmouth,
that it is quite a miracle if one keeps them more than half a year.
I have no hope of ever being settled; and if I was to part with Rebecca,
I should only get something worse. And yet I do not think I am a very
difficult mistress to please; and I am sure the place is easy enough,
for there is always a girl under her, and I often do half the work
myself.''

Fanny was silent; but not from being convinced that there might not
be a remedy found for some of these evils. As she now sat looking
at Betsey, she could not but think particularly of another sister,
a very pretty little girl, whom she had left there not much younger
when she went into Northamptonshire, who had died a few years afterwards.
There had been something remarkably amiable about her. Fanny in those
early days had preferred her to Susan; and when the news of her death
had at last reached Mansfield, had for a short time been quite afflicted.
The sight of Betsey brought the image of little Mary back again, but
she would not have pained her mother by alluding to her for the world.
While considering her with these ideas, Betsey, at a small distance,
was holding out something to catch her eyes, meaning to screen it
at the same time from Susan's.

{}``What have you got there, my love?''\ said Fanny; {}``come
and shew it to me.''

It was a silver knife. Up jumped Susan, claiming it as her own, and
trying to get it away; but the child ran to her mother's protection,
and Susan could only reproach, which she did very warmly, and evidently
hoping to interest Fanny on her side. {}``It was very hard that she
was not to have her \textit{own} knife; it was her own knife; little
sister Mary had left it to her upon her deathbed, and she ought to
have had it to keep herself long ago. But mama kept it from her, and
was always letting Betsey get hold of it; and the end of it would
be that Betsey would spoil it, and get it for her own, though mama
had \textit{promised} her that Betsey should not have it in her own
hands.''

Fanny was quite shocked. Every feeling of duty, honour, and tenderness
was wounded by her sister's speech and her mother's reply.

{}``Now, Susan,'' cried Mrs.\ Price, in a complaining voice, {}``now,
how can you be so cross? You are always quarrelling about that knife.
I wish you would not be so quarrelsome. Poor little Betsey; how cross
Susan is to you! But you should not have taken it out, my dear, when
I sent you to the drawer. You know I told you not to touch it, because
Susan is so cross about it. I must hide it another time, Betsey. Poor
Mary little thought it would be such a bone of contention when she
gave it me to keep, only two hours before she died. Poor little soul!\ she
could but just speak to be heard, and she said so prettily, `Let sister
Susan have my knife, mama, when I am dead and buried.' Poor little
dear!\ she was so fond of it, Fanny, that she would have it lay by
her in bed, all through her illness. It was the gift of her good godmother,
old Mrs.\ Admiral Maxwell, only six weeks before she was taken for
death. Poor little sweet creature! Well, she was taken away from evil
to come. My own Betsey'' (fondling her), {}``\textit{you} have not
the luck of such a good godmother. Aunt Norris lives too far off to
think of such little people as you.''

Fanny had indeed nothing to convey from aunt Norris, but a message
to say she hoped that her god-daughter was a good girl, and learnt
her book. There had been at one moment a slight murmur in the drawing-room
at Mansfield Park about sending her a prayer-book; but no second sound
had been heard of such a purpose. Mrs.\ Norris, however, had gone
home and taken down two old prayer-books of her husband with that
idea; but, upon examination, the ardour of generosity went off. One
was found to have too small a print for a child's eyes, and the other
to be too cumbersome for her to carry about.

Fanny, fatigued and fatigued again, was thankful to accept the first
invitation of going to bed; and before Betsey had finished her cry
at being allowed to sit up only one hour extraordinary in honour of
sister, she was off, leaving all below in confusion and noise again;
the boys begging for toasted cheese, her father calling out for his
rum and water, and Rebecca never where she ought to be.

There was nothing to raise her spirits in the confined and scantily
furnished chamber that she was to share with Susan. The smallness
of the rooms above and below, indeed, and the narrowness of the passage
and staircase, struck her beyond her imagination. She soon learned
to think with respect of her own little attic at Mansfield Park, in
\textit{that} house reckoned too small for anybody's comfort.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XXXIX}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XXXIX}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER XXXIX}

Could Sir Thomas have seen all his niece's feelings, when she wrote
her first letter to her aunt, he would not have despaired; for though
a good night's rest, a pleasant morning, the hope of soon seeing William
again, and the comparatively quiet state of the house, from Tom and
Charles being gone to school, Sam on some project of his own, and
her father on his usual lounges, enabled her to express herself cheerfully
on the subject of home, there were still, to her own perfect consciousness,
many drawbacks suppressed. Could he have seen only half that she felt
before the end of a week, he would have thought Mr.\ Crawford sure
of her, and been delighted with his own sagacity.

Before the week ended, it was all disappointment. In the first place,
William was gone. The \emph{Thrush} had had her orders, the wind had
changed, and he was sailed within four days from their reaching Portsmouth;
and during those days she had seen him only twice, in a short and
hurried way, when he had come ashore on duty. There had been no free
conversation, no walk on the ramparts, no visit to the dockyard, no
acquaintance with the \emph{Thrush}, nothing of all that they had
planned and depended on. Everything in that quarter failed her, except
William's affection. His last thought on leaving home was for her.
He stepped back again to the door to say, {}``Take care of Fanny,
mother. She is tender, and not used to rough it like the rest of us.
I charge you, take care of Fanny.''

William was gone: and the home he had left her in was, Fanny could
not conceal it from herself, in almost every respect the very reverse
of what she could have wished. It was the abode of noise, disorder,
and impropriety. Nobody was in their right place, nothing was done
as it ought to be. She could not respect her parents as she had hoped.
On her father, her confidence had not been sanguine, but he was more
negligent of his family, his habits were worse, and his manners coarser,
than she had been prepared for. He did not want abilities but he had
no curiosity, and no information beyond his profession; he read only
the newspaper and the navy-list; he talked only of the dockyard, the
harbour, Spithead, and the Motherbank; he swore and he drank, he was
dirty and gross. She had never been able to recall anything approaching
to tenderness in his former treatment of herself. There had remained
only a general impression of roughness and loudness; and now he scarcely
ever noticed her, but to make her the object of a coarse joke.

Her disappointment in her mother was greater: \textit{there} she had
hoped much, and found almost nothing. Every flattering scheme of being
of consequence to her soon fell to the ground. Mrs.\ Price was not
unkind; but, instead of gaining on her affection and confidence, and
becoming more and more dear, her daughter never met with greater kindness
from her than on the first day of her arrival. The instinct of nature
was soon satisfied, and Mrs.\ Price's attachment had no other source.
Her heart and her time were already quite full; she had neither leisure
nor affection to bestow on Fanny. Her daughters never had been much
to her. She was fond of her sons, especially of William, but Betsey
was the first of her girls whom she had ever much regarded. To her
she was most injudiciously indulgent. William was her pride; Betsey
her darling; and John, Richard, Sam, Tom, and Charles occupied all
the rest of her maternal solicitude, alternately her worries and her
comforts. These shared her heart: her time was given chiefly to her
house and her servants. Her days were spent in a kind of slow bustle;
all was busy without getting on, always behindhand and lamenting it,
without altering her ways; wishing to be an economist, without contrivance
or regularity; dissatisfied with her servants, without skill to make
them better, and whether helping, or reprimanding, or indulging them,
without any power of engaging their respect.

Of her two sisters, Mrs.\ Price very much more resembled Lady Bertram
than Mrs.\ Norris. She was a manager by necessity, without any of
Mrs.\ Norris's inclination for it, or any of her activity. Her disposition
was naturally easy and indolent, like Lady Bertram's; and a situation
of similar affluence and do-nothingness would have been much more
suited to her capacity than the exertions and self-denials of the
one which her imprudent marriage had placed her in. She might have
made just as good a woman of consequence as Lady Bertram, but Mrs.\ Norris
would have been a more respectable mother of nine children on a small
income.

Much of all this Fanny could not but be sensible of. She might scruple
to make use of the words, but she must and did feel that her mother
was a partial, ill-judging parent, a dawdle, a slattern, who neither
taught nor restrained her children, whose house was the scene of mismanagement
and discomfort from beginning to end, and who had no talent, no conversation,
no affection towards herself; no curiosity to know her better, no
desire of her friendship, and no inclination for her company that
could lessen her sense of such feelings.

Fanny was very anxious to be useful, and not to appear above her home,
or in any way disqualified or disinclined, by her foreign education,
from contributing her help to its comforts, and therefore set about
working for Sam immediately; and by working early and late, with perseverance
and great despatch, did so much that the boy was shipped off at last,
with more than half his linen ready. She had great pleasure in feeling
her usefulness, but could not conceive how they would have managed
without her.

Sam, loud and overbearing as he was, she rather regretted when he
went, for he was clever and intelligent, and glad to be employed in
any errand in the town; and though spurning the remonstrances of Susan,
given as they were, though very reasonable in themselves, with ill-timed
and powerless warmth, was beginning to be influenced by Fanny's services
and gentle persuasions; and she found that the best of the three younger
ones was gone in him: Tom and Charles being at least as many years
as they were his juniors distant from that age of feeling and reason,
which might suggest the expediency of making friends, and of endeavouring
to be less disagreeable. Their sister soon despaired of making the
smallest impression on \textit{them}; they were quite untameable by
any means of address which she had spirits or time to attempt. Every
afternoon brought a return of their riotous games all over the house;
and she very early learned to sigh at the approach of Saturday's constant
half-holiday.

Betsey, too, a spoiled child, trained up to think the alphabet her
greatest enemy, left to be with the servants at her pleasure, and
then encouraged to report any evil of them, she was almost as ready
to despair of being able to love or assist; and of Susan's temper
she had many doubts. Her continual disagreements with her mother,
her rash squabbles with Tom and Charles, and petulance with Betsey,
were at least so distressing to Fanny that, though admitting they
were by no means without provocation, she feared the disposition that
could push them to such length must be far from amiable, and from
affording any repose to herself.

Such was the home which was to put Mansfield out of her head, and
teach her to think of her cousin Edmund with moderated feelings. On
the contrary, she could think of nothing but Mansfield, its beloved
inmates, its happy ways. Everything where she now was in full contrast
to it. The elegance, propriety, regularity, harmony, and perhaps,
above all, the peace and tranquillity of Mansfield, were brought to
her remembrance every hour of the day, by the prevalence of everything
opposite to them \textit{here}.

The living in incessant noise was, to a frame and temper delicate
and nervous like Fanny's, an evil which no superadded elegance or
harmony could have entirely atoned for. It was the greatest misery
of all. At Mansfield, no sounds of contention, no raised voice, no
abrupt bursts, no tread of violence, was ever heard; all proceeded
in a regular course of cheerful orderliness; everybody had their due
importance; everybody's feelings were consulted. If tenderness could
be ever supposed wanting, good sense and good breeding supplied its
place; and as to the little irritations sometimes introduced by aunt
Norris, they were short, they were trifling, they were as a drop of
water to the ocean, compared with the ceaseless tumult of her present
abode. Here everybody was noisy, every voice was loud (excepting,
perhaps, her mother's, which resembled the soft monotony of Lady Bertram's,
only worn into fretfulness). Whatever was wanted was hallooed for,
and the servants hallooed out their excuses from the kitchen. The
doors were in constant banging, the stairs were never at rest, nothing
was done without a clatter, nobody sat still, and nobody could command
attention when they spoke.

In a review of the two houses, as they appeared to her before the
end of a week, Fanny was tempted to apply to them Dr.\ Johnson's
celebrated judgment as to matrimony and celibacy, and say, that though
Mansfield Park might have some pains, Portsmouth could have no pleasures.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XL}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XL}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER XL}

Fanny was right enough in not expecting to hear from Miss Crawford
now at the rapid rate in which their correspondence had begun; Mary's
next letter was after a decidedly longer interval than the last, but
she was not right in supposing that such an interval would be felt
a great relief to herself. Here was another strange revolution of
mind! She was really glad to receive the letter when it did come.
In her present exile from good society, and distance from everything
that had been wont to interest her, a letter from one belonging to
the set where her heart lived, written with affection, and some degree
of elegance, was thoroughly acceptable. The usual plea of increasing
engagements was made in excuse for not having written to her earlier;
\begin{quote}{}``And now that I have begun,'' she continued, {}``my
letter will not be worth your reading, for there will be no little
offering of love at the end, no three or four lines \textit{passionnees}
from the most devoted H.\ C.\ in the world, for Henry is in Norfolk;
business called him to Everingham ten days ago, or perhaps he only
pretended to call, for the sake of being travelling at the same time
that you were. But there he is, and, by the bye, his absence may sufficiently
account for any remissness of his sister's in writing, for there has
been no `Well, Mary, when do you write to Fanny? Is not it time for
you to write to Fanny?'\ to spur me on. At last, after various attempts
at meeting, I have seen your cousins, `dear Julia and dearest Mrs.\ Rushworth';
they found me at home yesterday, and we were glad to see each other
again. We \textit{seemed} \textit{very} glad to see each other, and
I do really think we were a little. We had a vast deal to say. Shall
I tell you how Mrs.\ Rushworth looked when your name was mentioned?
I did not use to think her wanting in self-possession, but she had
not quite enough for the demands of yesterday. Upon the whole, Julia
was in the best looks of the two, at least after you were spoken of.
There was no recovering the complexion from the moment that I spoke
of `Fanny,' and spoke of her as a sister should. But Mrs.\ Rushworth's
day of good looks will come; we have cards for her first party on
the 28th. Then she will be in beauty, for she will open one of the
best houses in Wimpole Street. I was in it two years ago, when it
was Lady Lascelle's, and prefer it to almost any I know in London,
and certainly she will then feel, to use a vulgar phrase, that she
has got her pennyworth for her penny. Henry could not have afforded
her such a house. I hope she will recollect it, and be satisfied,
as well as she may, with moving the queen of a palace, though the
king may appear best in the background; and as I have no desire to
tease her, I shall never \textit{force} your name upon her again.
She will grow sober by degrees. From all that I hear and guess, Baron
Wildenheim's attentions to Julia continue, but I do not know that
he has any serious encouragement. She ought to do better. A poor honourable
is no catch, and I cannot imagine any liking in the case, for take
away his rants, and the poor baron has nothing. What a difference
a vowel makes!\ If his rents were but equal to his rants! Your cousin
Edmund moves slowly; detained, perchance, by parish duties. There
may be some old woman at Thornton Lacey to be converted. I am unwilling
to fancy myself neglected for a \textit{young} one. \emph{Adieu}!\ my
dear sweet Fanny, this is a long letter from London: write me a pretty
one in reply to gladden Henry's eyes, when he comes back, and send
me an account of all the dashing young captains whom you disdain for
his sake.''\end{quote}

There was great food for meditation in this letter, and chiefly for
unpleasant meditation; and yet, with all the uneasiness it supplied,
it connected her with the absent, it told her of people and things
about whom she had never felt so much curiosity as now, and she would
have been glad to have been sure of such a letter every week. Her
correspondence with her aunt Bertram was her only concern of higher
interest.

As for any society in Portsmouth, that could at all make amends for
deficiencies at home, there were none within the circle of her father's
and mother's acquaintance to afford her the smallest satisfaction:
she saw nobody in whose favour she could wish to overcome her own
shyness and reserve. The men appeared to her all coarse, the women
all pert, everybody underbred; and she gave as little contentment
as she received from introductions either to old or new acquaintance.
The young ladies who approached her at first with some respect, in
consideration of her coming from a baronet's family, were soon offended
by what they termed {}``airs''; for, as she neither played on the
pianoforte nor wore fine pelisses, they could, on farther observation,
admit no right of superiority.

The first solid consolation which Fanny received for the evils of
home, the first which her judgment could entirely approve, and which
gave any promise of durability, was in a better knowledge of Susan,
and a hope of being of service to her. Susan had always behaved pleasantly
to herself, but the determined character of her general manners had
astonished and alarmed her, and it was at least a fortnight before
she began to understand a disposition so totally different from her
own. Susan saw that much was wrong at home, and wanted to set it right.
That a girl of fourteen, acting only on her own unassisted reason,
should err in the method of reform, was not wonderful; and Fanny soon
became more disposed to admire the natural light of the mind which
could so early distinguish justly, than to censure severely the faults
of conduct to which it led. Susan was only acting on the same truths,
and pursuing the same system, which her own judgment acknowledged,
but which her more supine and yielding temper would have shrunk from
asserting. Susan tried to be useful, where \textit{she} could only
have gone away and cried; and that Susan was useful she could perceive;
that things, bad as they were, would have been worse but for such
interposition, and that both her mother and Betsey were restrained
from some excesses of very offensive indulgence and vulgarity.

In every argument with her mother, Susan had in point of reason the
advantage, and never was there any maternal tenderness to buy her
off. The blind fondness which was for ever producing evil around her
she had never known. There was no gratitude for affection past or
present to make her better bear with its excesses to the others.

All this became gradually evident, and gradually placed Susan before
her sister as an object of mingled compassion and respect. That her
manner was wrong, however, at times very wrong, her measures often
ill-chosen and ill-timed, and her looks and language very often indefensible,
Fanny could not cease to feel; but she began to hope they might be
rectified. Susan, she found, looked up to her and wished for her good
opinion; and new as anything like an office of authority was to Fanny,
new as it was to imagine herself capable of guiding or informing any
one, she did resolve to give occasional hints to Susan, and endeavour
to exercise for her advantage the juster notions of what was due to
everybody, and what would be wisest for herself, which her own more
favoured education had fixed in her.

Her influence, or at least the consciousness and use of it, originated
in an act of kindness by Susan, which, after many hesitations of delicacy,
she at last worked herself up to. It had very early occurred to her
that a small sum of money might, perhaps, restore peace for ever on
the sore subject of the silver knife, canvassed as it now was continually,
and the riches which she was in possession of herself, her uncle having
given her \pounds{}10 at parting, made her as able as she was willing
to be generous. But she was so wholly unused to confer favours, except
on the very poor, so unpractised in removing evils, or bestowing kindnesses
among her equals, and so fearful of appearing to elevate herself as
a great lady at home, that it took some time to determine that it
would not be unbecoming in her to make such a present. It was made,
however, at last: a silver knife was bought for Betsey, and accepted
with great delight, its newness giving it every advantage over the
other that could be desired; Susan was established in the full possession
of her own, Betsey handsomely declaring that now she had got one so
much prettier herself, she should never want \textit{that} again;
and no reproach seemed conveyed to the equally satisfied mother, which
Fanny had almost feared to be impossible. The deed thoroughly answered:
a source of domestic altercation was entirely done away, and it was
the means of opening Susan's heart to her, and giving her something
more to love and be interested in. Susan shewed that she had delicacy:
pleased as she was to be mistress of property which she had been struggling
for at least two years, she yet feared that her sister's judgment
had been against her, and that a reproof was designed her for having
so struggled as to make the purchase necessary for the tranquillity
of the house.

Her temper was open. She acknowledged her fears, blamed herself for
having contended so warmly; and from that hour Fanny, understanding
the worth of her disposition and perceiving how fully she was inclined
to seek her good opinion and refer to her judgment, began to feel
again the blessing of affection, and to entertain the hope of being
useful to a mind so much in need of help, and so much deserving it.
She gave advice, advice too sound to be resisted by a good understanding,
and given so mildly and considerately as not to irritate an imperfect
temper, and she had the happiness of observing its good effects not
unfrequently. More was not expected by one who, while seeing all the
obligation and expediency of submission and forbearance, saw also
with sympathetic acuteness of feeling all that must be hourly grating
to a girl like Susan. Her greatest wonder on the subject soon became\mbox{---}not
that Susan should have been provoked into disrespect and impatience
against her better knowledge---but that so much better knowledge,
so many good notions should have been hers at all; and that, brought
up in the midst of negligence and error, she should have formed such
proper opinions of what ought to be; she, who had had no cousin Edmund
to direct her thoughts or fix her principles.

The intimacy thus begun between them was a material advantage to each.
By sitting together upstairs, they avoided a great deal of the disturbance
of the house; Fanny had peace, and Susan learned to think it no misfortune
to be quietly employed. They sat without a fire; but that was a privation
familiar even to Fanny, and she suffered the less because reminded
by it of the East room. It was the only point of resemblance. In space,
light, furniture, and prospect, there was nothing alike in the two
apartments; and she often heaved a sigh at the remembrance of all
her books and boxes, and various comforts there. By degrees the girls
came to spend the chief of the morning upstairs, at first only in
working and talking, but after a few days, the remembrance of the
said books grew so potent and stimulative that Fanny found it impossible
not to try for books again. There were none in her father's house;
but wealth is luxurious and daring, and some of hers found its way
to a circulating library. She became a subscriber; amazed at being
anything \textit{in} \textit{propria} \textit{persona}, amazed at
her own doings in every way, to be a renter, a chuser of books! And
to be having any one's improvement in view in her choice! But so it
was. Susan had read nothing, and Fanny longed to give her a share
in her own first pleasures, and inspire a taste for the biography
and poetry which she delighted in herself.

In this occupation she hoped, moreover, to bury some of the recollections
of Mansfield, which were too apt to seize her mind if her fingers
only were busy; and, especially at this time, hoped it might be useful
in diverting her thoughts from pursuing Edmund to London, whither,
on the authority of her aunt's last letter, she knew he was gone.
She had no doubt of what would ensue. The promised notification was
hanging over her head. The postman's knock within the neighbourhood
was beginning to bring its daily terrors, and if reading could banish
the idea for even half an hour, it was something gained.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XLI}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XLI}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER XLI}

A week was gone since Edmund might be supposed in town, and Fanny
had heard nothing of him. There were three different conclusions to
be drawn from his silence, between which her mind was in fluctuation;
each of them at times being held the most probable. Either his going
had been again delayed, or he had yet procured no opportunity of seeing
Miss Crawford alone, or he was too happy for letter-writing!

One morning, about this time, Fanny having now been nearly four weeks
from Mansfield, a point which she never failed to think over and calculate
every day, as she and Susan were preparing to remove, as usual, upstairs,
they were stopped by the knock of a visitor, whom they felt they could
not avoid, from Rebecca's alertness in going to the door, a duty which
always interested her beyond any other.

It was a gentleman's voice; it was a voice that Fanny was just turning
pale about, when Mr.\ Crawford walked into the room.

Good sense, like hers, will always act when really called upon; and
she found that she had been able to name him to her mother, and recall
her remembrance of the name, as that of {}``William's friend,''
though she could not previously have believed herself capable of uttering
a syllable at such a moment. The consciousness of his being known
there only as William's friend was some support. Having introduced
him, however, and being all reseated, the terrors that occurred of
what this visit might lead to were overpowering, and she fancied herself
on the point of fainting away.

While trying to keep herself alive, their visitor, who had at first
approached her with as animated a countenance as ever, was wisely
and kindly keeping his eyes away, and giving her time to recover,
while he devoted himself entirely to her mother, addressing her, and
attending to her with the utmost politeness and propriety, at the
same time with a degree of friendliness, of interest at least, which
was making his manner perfect.

Mrs.\ Price's manners were also at their best. Warmed by the sight
of such a friend to her son, and regulated by the wish of appearing
to advantage before him, she was overflowing with gratitude\mbox{---}artless,
maternal gratitude\mbox{---}which could not be unpleasing. Mr.\ Price
was out, which she regretted very much. Fanny was just recovered enough
to feel that \textit{she} could not regret it; for to her many other
sources of uneasiness was added the severe one of shame for the home
in which he found her. She might scold herself for the weakness, but
there was no scolding it away. She was ashamed, and she would have
been yet more ashamed of her father than of all the rest.

They talked of William, a subject on which Mrs.\ Price could never
tire; and Mr.\ Crawford was as warm in his commendation as even her
heart could wish. She felt that she had never seen so agreeable a
man in her life; and was only astonished to find that, so great and
so agreeable as he was, he should be come down to Portsmouth neither
on a visit to the port-admiral, nor the commissioner, nor yet with
the intention of going over to the island, nor of seeing the dockyard.
Nothing of all that she had been used to think of as the proof of
importance, or the employment of wealth, had brought him to Portsmouth.
He had reached it late the night before, was come for a day or two,
was staying at the Crown, had accidentally met with a navy officer
or two of his acquaintance since his arrival, but had no object of
that kind in coming.

By the time he had given all this information, it was not unreasonable
to suppose that Fanny might be looked at and spoken to; and she was
tolerably able to bear his eye, and hear that he had spent half an
hour with his sister the evening before his leaving London; that she
had sent her best and kindest love, but had had no time for writing;
that he thought himself lucky in seeing Mary for even half an hour,
having spent scarcely twenty-four hours in London, after his return
from Norfolk, before he set off again; that her cousin Edmund was
in town, had been in town, he understood, a few days; that he had
not seen him himself, but that he was well, had left them all well
at Mansfield, and was to dine, as yesterday, with the Frasers.

Fanny listened collectedly, even to the last-mentioned circumstance;
nay, it seemed a relief to her worn mind to be at any certainty; and
the words, {}``then by this time it is all settled,'' passed internally,
without more evidence of emotion than a faint blush.

After talking a little more about Mansfield, a subject in which her
interest was most apparent, Crawford began to hint at the expediency
of an early walk. {}``It was a lovely morning, and at that season
of the year a fine morning so often turned off, that it was wisest
for everybody not to delay their exercise''; and such hints producing
nothing, he soon proceeded to a positive recommendation to Mrs.\ Price
and her daughters to take their walk without loss of time. Now they
came to an understanding. Mrs.\ Price, it appeared, scarcely ever
stirred out of doors, except of a Sunday; she owned she could seldom,
with her large family, find time for a walk. {}``Would she not, then,
persuade her daughters to take advantage of such weather, and allow
him the pleasure of attending them?''\ Mrs.\ Price was greatly
obliged and very complying. {}``Her daughters were very much confined;
Portsmouth was a sad place; they did not often get out; and she knew
they had some errands in the town, which they would be very glad to
do.'' And the consequence was, that Fanny, strange as it was\mbox{---}strange,
awkward, and distressing\mbox{---}found herself and Susan, within
ten minutes, walking towards the High Street with Mr.\ Crawford.

It was soon pain upon pain, confusion upon confusion; for they were
hardly in the High Street before they met her father, whose appearance
was not the better from its being Saturday. He stopt; and, ungentlemanlike
as he looked, Fanny was obliged to introduce him to Mr.\ Crawford.
She could not have a doubt of the manner in which Mr.\ Crawford must
be struck. He must be ashamed and disgusted altogether. He must soon
give her up, and cease to have the smallest inclination for the match;
and yet, though she had been so much wanting his affection to be cured,
this was a sort of cure that would be almost as bad as the complaint;
and I believe there is scarcely a young lady in the United Kingdoms
who would not rather put up with the misfortune of being sought by
a clever, agreeable man, than have him driven away by the vulgarity
of her nearest relations.

Mr.\ Crawford probably could not regard his future father-in-law
with any idea of taking him for a model in dress; but (as Fanny instantly,
and to her great relief, discerned) her father was a very different
man, a very different Mr.\ Price in his behaviour to this most highly
respected stranger, from what he was in his own family at home. His
manners now, though not polished, were more than passable: they were
grateful, animated, manly; his expressions were those of an attached
father, and a sensible man; his loud tones did very well in the open
air, and there was not a single oath to be heard. Such was his instinctive
compliment to the good manners of Mr.\ Crawford; and, be the consequence
what it might, Fanny's immediate feelings were infinitely soothed.

The conclusion of the two gentlemen's civilities was an offer of Mr.\ Price's
to take Mr.\ Crawford into the dockyard, which Mr.\ Crawford, desirous
of accepting as a favour what was intended as such, though he had
seen the dockyard again and again, and hoping to be so much the longer
with Fanny, was very gratefully disposed to avail himself of, if the
Miss Prices were not afraid of the fatigue; and as it was somehow
or other ascertained, or inferred, or at least acted upon, that they
were not at all afraid, to the dockyard they were all to go; and but
for Mr.\ Crawford, Mr.\ Price would have turned thither directly,
without the smallest consideration for his daughters' errands in the
High Street. He took care, however, that they should be allowed to
go to the shops they came out expressly to visit; and it did not delay
them long, for Fanny could so little bear to excite impatience, or
be waited for, that before the gentlemen, as they stood at the door,
could do more than begin upon the last naval regulations, or settle
the number of three-deckers now in commission, their companions were
ready to proceed.

They were then to set forward for the dockyard at once, and the walk
would have been conducted\mbox{---}according to Mr.\ Crawford's
opinion\mbox{---}in a singular manner, had Mr.\ Price been allowed
the entire regulation of it, as the two girls, he found, would have
been left to follow, and keep up with them or not, as they could,
while they walked on together at their own hasty pace. He was able
to introduce some improvement occasionally, though by no means to
the extent he wished; he absolutely would not walk away from them;
and at any crossing or any crowd, when Mr.\ Price was only calling
out, {}``Come, girls; come, Fan; come, Sue, take care of yourselves;
keep a sharp lookout!''\ he would give them his particular attendance.

Once fairly in the dockyard, he began to reckon upon some happy intercourse
with Fanny, as they were very soon joined by a brother lounger of
Mr.\ Price's, who was come to take his daily survey of how things
went on, and who must prove a far more worthy companion than himself;
and after a time the two officers seemed very well satisfied going
about together, and discussing matters of equal and never-failing
interest, while the young people sat down upon some timbers in the
yard, or found a seat on board a vessel in the stocks which they all
went to look at. Fanny was most conveniently in want of rest. Crawford
could not have wished her more fatigued or more ready to sit down;
but he could have wished her sister away. A quick-looking girl of
Susan's age was the very worst third in the world: totally different
from Lady Bertram, all eyes and ears; and there was no introducing
the main point before her. He must content himself with being only
generally agreeable, and letting Susan have her share of entertainment,
with the indulgence, now and then, of a look or hint for the better-informed
and conscious Fanny. Norfolk was what he had mostly to talk of: there
he had been some time, and everything there was rising in importance
from his present schemes. Such a man could come from no place, no
society, without importing something to amuse; his journeys and his
acquaintance were all of use, and Susan was entertained in a way quite
new to her. For Fanny, somewhat more was related than the accidental
agreeableness of the parties he had been in. For her approbation,
the particular reason of his going into Norfolk at all, at this unusual
time of year, was given. It had been real business, relative to the
renewal of a lease in which the welfare of a large and\mbox{---}he
believed\mbox{---}industrious family was at stake. He had suspected
his agent of some underhand dealing; of meaning to bias him against
the deserving; and he had determined to go himself, and thoroughly
investigate the merits of the case. He had gone, had done even more
good than he had foreseen, had been useful to more than his first
plan had comprehended, and was now able to congratulate himself upon
it, and to feel that in performing a duty, he had secured agreeable
recollections for his own mind. He had introduced himself to some
tenants whom he had never seen before; he had begun making acquaintance
with cottages whose very existence, though on his own estate, had
been hitherto unknown to him. This was aimed, and well aimed, at Fanny.
It was pleasing to hear him speak so properly; here he had been acting
as he ought to do. To be the friend of the poor and the oppressed!
Nothing could be more grateful to her; and she was on the point of
giving him an approving look, when it was all frightened off by his
adding a something too pointed of his hoping soon to have an assistant,
a friend, a guide in every plan of utility or charity for Everingham:
a somebody that would make Everingham and all about it a dearer object
than it had ever been yet.

She turned away, and wished he would not say such things. She was
willing to allow he might have more good qualities than she had been
wont to suppose. She began to feel the possibility of his turning
out well at last; but he was and must ever be completely unsuited
to her, and ought not to think of her.

He perceived that enough had been said of Everingham, and that it
would be as well to talk of something else, and turned to Mansfield.
He could not have chosen better; that was a topic to bring back her
attention and her looks almost instantly. It was a real indulgence
to her to hear or to speak of Mansfield. Now so long divided from
everybody who knew the place, she felt it quite the voice of a friend
when he mentioned it, and led the way to her fond exclamations in
praise of its beauties and comforts, and by his honourable tribute
to its inhabitants allowed her to gratify her own heart in the warmest
eulogium, in speaking of her uncle as all that was clever and good,
and her aunt as having the sweetest of all sweet tempers.

He had a great attachment to Mansfield himself; he said so; he looked
forward with the hope of spending much, very much, of his time there;
always there, or in the neighbourhood. He particularly built upon
a very happy summer and autumn there this year; he felt that it would
be so: he depended upon it; a summer and autumn infinitely superior
to the last. As animated, as diversified, as social, but with circumstances
of superiority undescribable.

{}``Mansfield, Sotherton, Thornton Lacey,'' he continued; {}``what
a society will be comprised in those houses! And at Michaelmas, perhaps,
a fourth may be added: some small hunting-box in the vicinity of everything
so dear; for as to any partnership in Thornton Lacey, as Edmund Bertram
once good-humouredly proposed, I hope I foresee two objections: two
fair, excellent, irresistible objections to that plan.''

Fanny was doubly silenced here; though when the moment was passed,
could regret that she had not forced herself into the acknowledged
comprehension of one half of his meaning, and encouraged him to say
something more of his sister and Edmund. It was a subject which she
must learn to speak of, and the weakness that shrunk from it would
soon be quite unpardonable.

When Mr.\ Price and his friend had seen all that they wished, or
had time for, the others were ready to return; and in the course of
their walk back, Mr.\ Crawford contrived a minute's privacy for telling
Fanny that his only business in Portsmouth was to see her; that he
was come down for a couple of days on her account, and hers only,
and because he could not endure a longer total separation. She was
sorry, really sorry; and yet in spite of this and the two or three
other things which she wished he had not said, she thought him altogether
improved since she had seen him; he was much more gentle, obliging,
and attentive to other people's feelings than he had ever been at
Mansfield; she had never seen him so agreeable\mbox{---}so \textit{near}
being agreeable; his behaviour to her father could not offend, and
there was something particularly kind and proper in the notice he
took of Susan. He was decidedly improved. She wished the next day
over, she wished he had come only for one day; but it was not so very
bad as she would have expected: the pleasure of talking of Mansfield
was so very great!

Before they parted, she had to thank him for another pleasure, and
one of no trivial kind. Her father asked him to do them the honour
of taking his mutton with them, and Fanny had time for only one thrill
of horror, before he declared himself prevented by a prior engagement.
He was engaged to dinner already both for that day and the next; he
had met with some acquaintance at the Crown who would not be denied;
he should have the honour, however, of waiting on them again on the
morrow, \textit{etc}., and so they parted\mbox{---}Fanny in a state
of actual felicity from escaping so horrible an evil!

To have had him join their family dinner-party, and see all their
deficiencies, would have been dreadful! Rebecca's cookery and Rebecca's
waiting, and Betsey's eating at table without restraint, and pulling
everything about as she chose, were what Fanny herself was not yet
enough inured to for her often to make a tolerable meal. \textit{She}
was nice only from natural delicacy, but \textit{he} had been brought
up in a school of luxury and epicurism.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XLII}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XLII}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER XLII}

The Prices were just setting off for church the next day when Mr.\ Crawford
appeared again. He came, not to stop, but to join them; he was asked
to go with them to the Garrison chapel, which was exactly what he
had intended, and they all walked thither together.

The family were now seen to advantage. Nature had given them no inconsiderable
share of beauty, and every Sunday dressed them in their cleanest skins
and best attire. Sunday always brought this comfort to Fanny, and
on this Sunday she felt it more than ever. Her poor mother now did
not look so very unworthy of being Lady Bertram's sister as she was
but too apt to look. It often grieved her to the heart to think of
the contrast between them; to think that where nature had made so
little difference, circumstances should have made so much, and that
her mother, as handsome as Lady Bertram, and some years her junior,
should have an appearance so much more worn and faded, so comfortless,
so slatternly, so shabby. But Sunday made her a very creditable and
tolerably cheerful-looking Mrs.\ Price, coming abroad with a fine
family of children, feeling a little respite of her weekly cares,
and only discomposed if she saw her boys run into danger, or Rebecca
pass by with a flower in her hat.

In chapel they were obliged to divide, but Mr.\ Crawford took care
not to be divided from the female branch; and after chapel he still
continued with them, and made one in the family party on the ramparts.

Mrs.\ Price took her weekly walk on the ramparts every fine Sunday
throughout the year, always going directly after morning service and
staying till dinner-time. It was her public place: there she met her
acquaintance, heard a little news, talked over the badness of the
Portsmouth servants, and wound up her spirits for the six days ensuing.

Thither they now went; Mr.\ Crawford most happy to consider the Miss
Prices as his peculiar charge; and before they had been there long,
somehow or other, there was no saying how, Fanny could not have believed
it, but he was walking between them with an arm of each under his,
and she did not know how to prevent or put an end to it. It made her
uncomfortable for a time, but yet there were enjoyments in the day
and in the view which would be felt.

The day was uncommonly lovely. It was really March; but it was April
in its mild air, brisk soft wind, and bright sun, occasionally clouded
for a minute; and everything looked so beautiful under the influence
of such a sky, the effects of the shadows pursuing each other on the
ships at Spithead and the island beyond, with the ever-varying hues
of the sea, now at high water, dancing in its glee and dashing against
the ramparts with so fine a sound, produced altogether such a combination
of charms for Fanny, as made her gradually almost careless of the
circumstances under which she felt them. Nay, had she been without
his arm, she would soon have known that she needed it, for she wanted
strength for a two hours' saunter of this kind, coming, as it generally
did, upon a week's previous inactivity. Fanny was beginning to feel
the effect of being debarred from her usual regular exercise; she
had lost ground as to health since her being in Portsmouth; and but
for Mr.\ Crawford and the beauty of the weather would soon have been
knocked up now.

The loveliness of the day, and of the view, he felt like herself.
They often stopt with the same sentiment and taste, leaning against
the wall, some minutes, to look and admire; and considering he was
not Edmund, Fanny could not but allow that he was sufficiently open
to the charms of nature, and very well able to express his admiration.
She had a few tender reveries now and then, which he could sometimes
take advantage of to look in her face without detection; and the result
of these looks was, that though as bewitching as ever, her face was
less blooming than it ought to be. She \textit{said} she was very
well, and did not like to be supposed otherwise; but take it all in
all, he was convinced that her present residence could not be comfortable,
and therefore could not be salutary for her, and he was growing anxious
for her being again at Mansfield, where her own happiness, and his
in seeing her, must be so much greater.

{}``You have been here a month, I think?''\ said he.

{}``No; not quite a month. It is only four weeks to-morrow since
I left Mansfield.''

{}``You are a most accurate and honest reckoner. I should call that
a month.''

{}``I did not arrive here till Tuesday evening.''

{}``And it is to be a two months' visit, is not?''\ 

{}``Yes. My uncle talked of two months. I suppose it will not be
less.''

{}``And how are you to be conveyed back again? Who comes for you?''\


{}``I do not know. I have heard nothing about it yet from my aunt.
Perhaps I may be to stay longer. It may not be convenient for me to
be fetched exactly at the two months' end.''

After a moment's reflection, Mr.\ Crawford replied, {}``I know Mansfield,
I know its way, I know its faults towards \textit{you}. I know the
danger of your being so far forgotten, as to have your comforts give
way to the imaginary convenience of any single being in the family.
I am aware that you may be left here week after week, if Sir Thomas
cannot settle everything for coming himself, or sending your aunt's
maid for you, without involving the slightest alteration of the arrangements
which he may have laid down for the next quarter of a year. This will
not do. Two months is an ample allowance; I should think six weeks
quite enough. I am considering your sister's health,'' said he, addressing
himself to Susan, {}``which I think the confinement of Portsmouth
unfavourable to. She requires constant air and exercise. When you
know her as well as I do, I am sure you will agree that she does,
and that she ought never to be long banished from the free air and
liberty of the country. If, therefore'' (turning again to Fanny),
{}``you find yourself growing unwell, and any difficulties arise
about your returning to Mansfield, without waiting for the two months
to be ended, \textit{that} must not be regarded as of any consequence,
if you feel yourself at all less strong or comfortable than usual,
and will only let my sister know it, give her only the slightest hint,
she and I will immediately come down, and take you back to Mansfield.
You know the ease and the pleasure with which this would be done.
You know all that would be felt on the occasion.''

Fanny thanked him, but tried to laugh it off.

{}``I am perfectly serious,'' he replied, {}``as you perfectly
know. And I hope you will not be cruelly concealing any tendency to
indisposition. Indeed, you shall \textit{not}; it shall not be in
your power; for so long only as you positively say, in every letter
to Mary, `I am well,' and I know you cannot speak or write a falsehood,
so long only shall you be considered as well.''

Fanny thanked him again, but was affected and distressed to a degree
that made it impossible for her to say much, or even to be certain
of what she ought to say. This was towards the close of their walk.
He attended them to the last, and left them only at the door of their
own house, when he knew them to be going to dinner, and therefore
pretended to be waited for elsewhere.

{}``I wish you were not so tired,'' said he, still detaining Fanny
after all the others were in the house\mbox{---}{}``I wish I left
you in stronger health. Is there anything I can do for you in town?
I have half an idea of going into Norfolk again soon. I am not satisfied
about Maddison. I am sure he still means to impose on me if possible,
and get a cousin of his own into a certain mill, which I design for
somebody else. I must come to an understanding with him. I must make
him know that I will not be tricked on the south side of Everingham,
any more than on the north: that I will be master of my own property.
I was not explicit enough with him before. The mischief such a man
does on an estate, both as to the credit of his employer and the welfare
of the poor, is inconceivable. I have a great mind to go back into
Norfolk directly, and put everything at once on such a footing as
cannot be afterwards swerved from. Maddison is a clever fellow; I
do not wish to displace him, provided he does not try to displace
\textit{me}; but it would be simple to be duped by a man who has no
right of creditor to dupe me, and worse than simple to let him give
me a hard-hearted, griping fellow for a tenant, instead of an honest
man, to whom I have given half a promise already. Would it not be
worse than simple? Shall I go? Do you advise it?''\


{}``I advise! You know very well what is right.''

{}``Yes. When you give me your opinion, I always know what is right.
Your judgment is my rule of right.''

{}``Oh, no!\ do not say so. We have all a better guide in ourselves,
if we would attend to it, than any other person can be. Good-bye;
I wish you a pleasant journey to-morrow.''

{}``Is there nothing I can do for you in town?''\


{}``Nothing; I am much obliged to you.''

{}``Have you no message for anybody?''\


{}``My love to your sister, if you please; and when you see my cousin,
my cousin Edmund, I wish you would be so good as to say that I suppose
I shall soon hear from him.''

{}``Certainly; and if he is lazy or negligent, I will write his excuses
myself.''

He could say no more, for Fanny would be no longer detained. He pressed
her hand, looked at her, and was gone. \textit{He} went to while away
the next three hours as he could, with his other acquaintance, till
the best dinner that a capital inn afforded was ready for their enjoyment,
and \textit{she} turned in to her more simple one immediately.

Their general fare bore a very different character; and could he have
suspected how many privations, besides that of exercise, she endured
in her father's house, he would have wondered that her looks were
not much more affected than he found them. She was so little equal
to Rebecca's puddings and Rebecca's hashes, brought to table, as they
all were, with such accompaniments of half-cleaned plates, and not
half-cleaned knives and forks, that she was very often constrained
to defer her heartiest meal till she could send her brothers in the
evening for biscuits and buns. After being nursed up at Mansfield,
it was too late in the day to be hardened at Portsmouth; and though
Sir Thomas, had he known all, might have thought his niece in the
most promising way of being starved, both mind and body, into a much
juster value for Mr.\ Crawford's good company and good fortune, he
would probably have feared to push his experiment farther, lest she
might die under the cure.

Fanny was out of spirits all the rest of the day. Though tolerably
secure of not seeing Mr.\ Crawford again, she could not help being
low. It was parting with somebody of the nature of a friend; and though,
in one light, glad to have him gone, it seemed as if she was now deserted
by everybody; it was a sort of renewed separation from Mansfield;
and she could not think of his returning to town, and being frequently
with Mary and Edmund, without feelings so near akin to envy as made
her hate herself for having them.

Her dejection had no abatement from anything passing around her; a
friend or two of her father's, as always happened if he was not with
them, spent the long, long evening there; and from six o'clock till
half-past nine, there was little intermission of noise or grog. She
was very low. The wonderful improvement which she still fancied in
Mr.\ Crawford was the nearest to administering comfort of anything
within the current of her thoughts. Not considering in how different
a circle she had been just seeing him, nor how much might be owing
to contrast, she was quite persuaded of his being astonishingly more
gentle and regardful of others than formerly. And, if in little things,
must it not be so in great? So anxious for her health and comfort,
so very feeling as he now expressed himself, and really seemed, might
not it be fairly supposed that he would not much longer persevere
in a suit so distressing to her?


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XLIII}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XLIII}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER XLIII}

It was presumed that Mr.\ Crawford was travelling back, to London,
on the morrow, for nothing more was seen of him at Mr.\ Price's;
and two days afterwards, it was a fact ascertained to Fanny by the
following letter from his sister, opened and read by her, on another
account, with the most anxious curiosity:\mbox{---}

\begin{quote}
{}``I have to inform you, my dearest Fanny, that Henry has been down
to Portsmouth to see you; that he had a delightful walk with you to
the dockyard last Saturday, and one still more to be dwelt on the
next day, on the ramparts; when the balmy air, the sparkling sea,
and your sweet looks and conversation were altogether in the most
delicious harmony, and afforded sensations which are to raise ecstasy
even in retrospect. This, as well as I understand, is to be the substance
of my information. He makes me write, but I do not know what else
is to be communicated, except this said visit to Portsmouth, and these
two said walks, and his introduction to your family, especially to
a fair sister of yours, a fine girl of fifteen, who was of the party
on the ramparts, taking her first lesson, I presume, in love. I have
not time for writing much, but it would be out of place if I had,
for this is to be a mere letter of business, penned for the purpose
of conveying necessary information, which could not be delayed without
risk of evil. My dear, dear Fanny, if I had you here, how I would
talk to you! You should listen to me till you were tired, and advise
me till you were still tired more; but it is impossible to put a hundredth
part of my great mind on paper, so I will abstain altogether, and
leave you to guess what you like. I have no news for you. You have
politics, of course; and it would be too bad to plague you with the
names of people and parties that fill up my time. I ought to have
sent you an account of your cousin's first party, but I was lazy,
and now it is too long ago; suffice it, that everything was just as
it ought to be, in a style that any of her connexions must have been
gratified to witness, and that her own dress and manners did her the
greatest credit. My friend, Mrs.\ Fraser, is mad for such a house,
and it would not make \textit{me} miserable. I go to Lady Stornaway
after Easter; she seems in high spirits, and very happy. I fancy Lord
S.\ is very good-humoured and pleasant in his own family, and I do
not think him so very ill-looking as I did\mbox{---}at least, one
sees many worse. He will not do by the side of your cousin Edmund.
Of the last-mentioned hero, what shall I say? If I avoided his name
entirely, it would look suspicious. I will say, then, that we have
seen him two or three times, and that my friends here are very much
struck with his gentlemanlike appearance. Mrs.\ Fraser (no bad judge)
declares she knows but three men in town who have so good a person,
height, and air; and I must confess, when he dined here the other
day, there were none to compare with him, and we were a party of sixteen.
Luckily there is no distinction of dress nowadays to tell tales, but\mbox{---}but\mbox{---}but
Yours affectionately.''

{}``I had almost forgot (it was Edmund's fault: he gets into my head
more than does me good) one very material thing I had to say from
Henry and myself\mbox{---}I mean about our taking you back into Northamptonshire.
My dear little creature, do not stay at Portsmouth to lose your pretty
looks. Those vile sea-breezes are the ruin of beauty and health. My
poor aunt always felt affected if within ten miles of the sea, which
the Admiral of course never believed, but I know it was so. I am at
your service and Henry's, at an hour's notice. I should like the scheme,
and we would make a little circuit, and shew you Everingham in our
way, and perhaps you would not mind passing through London, and seeing
the inside of St.\ George's, Hanover Square. Only keep your cousin
Edmund from me at such a time: I should not like to be tempted. What
a long letter!\ one word more. Henry, I find, has some idea of going
into Norfolk again upon some business that \textit{you} approve; but
this cannot possibly be permitted before the middle of next week;
that is, he cannot anyhow be spared till after the 14th, for \textit{we}
have a party that evening. The value of a man like Henry, on such
an occasion, is what you can have no conception of; so you must take
it upon my word to be inestimable. He will see the Rushworths, which
own I am not sorry for\mbox{---}having a little curiosity, and so
I think has he\mbox{---}though he will not acknowledge it.'' 
\end{quote}
This was a letter to be run through eagerly, to be read deliberately,
to supply matter for much reflection, and to leave everything in greater
suspense than ever. The only certainty to be drawn from it was, that
nothing decisive had yet taken place. Edmund had not yet spoken. How
Miss Crawford really felt, how she meant to act, or might act without
or against her meaning; whether his importance to her were quite what
it had been before the last separation; whether, if lessened, it were
likely to lessen more, or to recover itself, were subjects for endless
conjecture, and to be thought of on that day and many days to come,
without producing any conclusion. The idea that returned the oftenest
was that Miss Crawford, after proving herself cooled and staggered
by a return to London habits, would yet prove herself in the end too
much attached to him to give him up. She would try to be more ambitious
than her heart would allow. She would hesitate, she would tease, she
would condition, she would require a great deal, but she would finally
accept.

This was Fanny's most frequent expectation. A house in town\mbox{---}that,
she thought, must be impossible. Yet there was no saying what Miss
Crawford might not ask. The prospect for her cousin grew worse and
worse. The woman who could speak of him, and speak only of his appearance!
What an unworthy attachment! To be deriving support from the commendations
of Mrs.\ Fraser! \textit{She} who had known him intimately half a
year! Fanny was ashamed of her. Those parts of the letter which related
only to Mr.\ Crawford and herself, touched her, in comparison, slightly.
Whether Mr.\ Crawford went into Norfolk before or after the 14th
was certainly no concern of hers, though, everything considered, she
thought he \textit{would} go without delay. That Miss Crawford should
endeavour to secure a meeting between him and Mrs.\ Rushworth, was
all in her worst line of conduct, and grossly unkind and ill-judged;
but she hoped \textit{he} would not be actuated by any such degrading
curiosity. He acknowledged no such inducement, and his sister ought
to have given him credit for better feelings than her own.

She was yet more impatient for another letter from town after receiving
this than she had been before; and for a few days was so unsettled
by it altogether, by what had come, and what might come, that her
usual readings and conversation with Susan were much suspended. She
could not command her attention as she wished. If Mr.\ Crawford remembered
her message to her cousin, she thought it very likely, most likely,
that he would write to her at all events; it would be most consistent
with his usual kindness; and till she got rid of this idea, till it
gradually wore off, by no letters appearing in the course of three
or four days more, she was in a most restless, anxious state.

At length, a something like composure succeeded. Suspense must be
submitted to, and must not be allowed to wear her out, and make her
useless. Time did something, her own exertions something more, and
she resumed her attentions to Susan, and again awakened the same interest
in them.

Susan was growing very fond of her, and though without any of the
early delight in books which had been so strong in Fanny, with a disposition
much less inclined to sedentary pursuits, or to information for information's
sake, she had so strong a desire of not \textit{appearing} ignorant,
as, with a good clear understanding, made her a most attentive, profitable,
thankful pupil. Fanny was her oracle. Fanny's explanations and remarks
were a most important addition to every essay, or every chapter of
history. What Fanny told her of former times dwelt more on her mind
than the pages of Goldsmith; and she paid her sister the compliment
of preferring her style to that of any printed author. The early habit
of reading was wanting.

Their conversations, however, were not always on subjects so high
as history or morals. Others had their hour; and of lesser matters,
none returned so often, or remained so long between them, as Mansfield
Park, a description of the people, the manners, the amusements, the
ways of Mansfield Park. Susan, who had an innate taste for the genteel
and well-appointed, was eager to hear, and Fanny could not but indulge
herself in dwelling on so beloved a theme. She hoped it was not wrong;
though, after a time, Susan's very great admiration of everything
said or done in her uncle's house, and earnest longing to go into
Northamptonshire, seemed almost to blame her for exciting feelings
which could not be gratified.

Poor Susan was very little better fitted for home than her elder sister;
and as Fanny grew thoroughly to understand this, she began to feel
that when her own release from Portsmouth came, her happiness would
have a material drawback in leaving Susan behind. That a girl so capable
of being made everything good should be left in such hands, distressed
her more and more. Were \textit{she} likely to have a home to invite
her to, what a blessing it would be! And had it been possible for
her to return Mr.\ Crawford's regard, the probability of his being
very far from objecting to such a measure would have been the greatest
increase of all her own comforts. She thought he was really good-tempered,
and could fancy his entering into a plan of that sort most pleasantly.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XLIV}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XLIV}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER XLIV}

Seven weeks of the two months were very nearly gone, when the one
letter, the letter from Edmund, so long expected, was put into Fanny's
hands. As she opened, and saw its length, she prepared herself for
a minute detail of happiness and a profusion of love and praise towards
the fortunate creature who was now mistress of his fate. These were
the contents\mbox{---}

\begin{quote}
{}``My Dear Fanny,\mbox{---}Excuse me that I have not written before.
Crawford told me that you were wishing to hear from me, but I found
it impossible to write from London, and persuaded myself that you
would understand my silence. Could I have sent a few happy lines,
they should not have been wanting, but nothing of that nature was
ever in my power. I am returned to Mansfield in a less assured state
than when I left it. My hopes are much weaker. You are probably aware
of this already. So very fond of you as Miss Crawford is, it is most
natural that she should tell you enough of her own feelings to furnish
a tolerable guess at mine. I will not be prevented, however, from
making my own communication. Our confidences in you need not clash.
I ask no questions. There is something soothing in the idea that we
have the same friend, and that whatever unhappy differences of opinion
may exist between us, we are united in our love of you. It will be
a comfort to me to tell you how things now are, and what are my present
plans, if plans I can be said to have. I have been returned since
Saturday. I was three weeks in London, and saw her (for London) very
often. I had every attention from the Frasers that could be reasonably
expected. I dare say I was not reasonable in carrying with me hopes
of an intercourse at all like that of Mansfield. It was her manner,
however, rather than any unfrequency of meeting. Had she been different
when I did see her, I should have made no complaint, but from the
very first she was altered: my first reception was so unlike what
I had hoped, that I had almost resolved on leaving London again directly.
I need not particularise. You know the weak side of her character,
and may imagine the sentiments and expressions which were torturing
me. She was in high spirits, and surrounded by those who were giving
all the support of their own bad sense to her too lively mind. I do
not like Mrs.\ Fraser. She is a cold-hearted, vain woman, who has
married entirely from convenience, and though evidently unhappy in
her marriage, places her disappointment not to faults of judgment,
or temper, or disproportion of age, but to her being, after all, less
affluent than many of her acquaintance, especially than her sister,
Lady Stornaway, and is the determined supporter of everything mercenary
and ambitious, provided it be only mercenary and ambitious enough.
I look upon her intimacy with those two sisters as the greatest misfortune
of her life and mine. They have been leading her astray for years.
Could she be detached from them!\mbox{---}and sometimes I do not
despair of it, for the affection appears to me principally on their
side. They are very fond of her; but I am sure she does not love them
as she loves you. When I think of her great attachment to you, indeed,
and the whole of her judicious, upright conduct as a sister, she appears
a very different creature, capable of everything noble, and I am ready
to blame myself for a too harsh construction of a playful manner.
I cannot give her up, Fanny. She is the only woman in the world whom
I could ever think of as a wife. If I did not believe that she had
some regard for me, of course I should not say this, but I do believe
it. I am convinced that she is not without a decided preference. I
have no jealousy of any individual. It is the influence of the fashionable
world altogether that I am jealous of. It is the habits of wealth
that I fear. Her ideas are not higher than her own fortune may warrant,
but they are beyond what our incomes united could authorise. There
is comfort, however, even here. I could better bear to lose her because
not rich enough, than because of my profession. That would only prove
her affection not equal to sacrifices, which, in fact, I am scarcely
justified in asking; and, if I am refused, that, I think, will be
the honest motive. Her prejudices, I trust, are not so strong as they
were. You have my thoughts exactly as they arise, my dear Fanny; perhaps
they are sometimes contradictory, but it will not be a less faithful
picture of my mind. Having once begun, it is a pleasure to me to tell
you all I feel. I cannot give her up. Connected as we already are,
and, I hope, are to be, to give up Mary Crawford would be to give
up the society of some of those most dear to me; to banish myself
from the very houses and friends whom, under any other distress, I
should turn to for consolation. The loss of Mary I must consider as
comprehending the loss of Crawford and of Fanny. Were it a decided
thing, an actual refusal, I hope I should know how to bear it, and
how to endeavour to weaken her hold on my heart, and in the course
of a few years\mbox{---}but I am writing nonsense. Were I refused,
I must bear it; and till I am, I can never cease to try for her. This
is the truth. The only question is \textit{how}? What may be the likeliest
means? I have sometimes thought of going to London again after Easter,
and sometimes resolved on doing nothing till she returns to Mansfield.
Even now, she speaks with pleasure of being in Mansfield in June;
but June is at a great distance, and I believe I shall write to her.
I have nearly determined on explaining myself by letter. To be at
an early certainty is a material object. My present state is miserably
irksome. Considering everything, I think a letter will be decidedly
the best method of explanation. I shall be able to write much that
I could not say, and shall be giving her time for reflection before
she resolves on her answer, and I am less afraid of the result of
reflection than of an immediate hasty impulse; I think I am. My greatest
danger would lie in her consulting Mrs.\ Fraser, and I at a distance
unable to help my own cause. A letter exposes to all the evil of consultation,
and where the mind is anything short of perfect decision, an adviser
may, in an unlucky moment, lead it to do what it may afterwards regret.
I must think this matter over a little. This long letter, full of
my own concerns alone, will be enough to tire even the friendship
of a Fanny. The last time I saw Crawford was at Mrs.\ Fraser's party.
I am more and more satisfied with all that I see and hear of him.
There is not a shadow of wavering. He thoroughly knows his own mind,
and acts up to his resolutions: an inestimable quality. I could not
see him and my eldest sister in the same room without recollecting
what you once told me, and I acknowledge that they did not meet as
friends. There was marked coolness on her side. They scarcely spoke.
I saw him draw back surprised, and I was sorry that Mrs.\ Rushworth
should resent any former supposed slight to Miss Bertram. You will
wish to hear my opinion of Maria's degree of comfort as a wife. There
is no appearance of unhappiness. I hope they get on pretty well together.
I dined twice in Wimpole Street, and might have been there oftener,
but it is mortifying to be with Rushworth as a brother. Julia seems
to enjoy London exceedingly. I had little enjoyment there, but have
less here. We are not a lively party. You are very much wanted. I
miss you more than I can express. My mother desires her best love,
and hopes to hear from you soon. She talks of you almost every hour,
and I am sorry to find how many weeks more she is likely to be without
you. My father means to fetch you himself, but it will not be till
after Easter, when he has business in town. You are happy at Portsmouth,
I hope, but this must not be a yearly visit. I want you at home, that
I may have your opinion about Thornton Lacey. I have little heart
for extensive improvements till I know that it will ever have a mistress.
I think I shall certainly write. It is quite settled that the Grants
go to Bath; they leave Mansfield on Monday. I am glad of it. I am
not comfortable enough to be fit for anybody; but your aunt seems
to feel out of luck that such an article of Mansfield news should
fall to my pen instead of hers.\mbox{---}Yours ever, my dearest Fanny.'' 
\end{quote}
{}``I never will, no, I certainly never will wish for a letter again,''
was Fanny's secret declaration as she finished this. {}``What do
they bring but disappointment and sorrow? Not till after Easter! How
shall I bear it? And my poor aunt talking of me every hour!''\ 

Fanny checked the tendency of these thoughts as well as she could,
but she was within half a minute of starting the idea that Sir Thomas
was quite unkind, both to her aunt and to herself. As for the main
subject of the letter, there was nothing in that to soothe irritation.
She was almost vexed into displeasure and anger against Edmund. {}``There
is no good in this delay,'' said she. {}``Why is not it settled?
He is blinded, and nothing will open his eyes; nothing can, after
having had truths before him so long in vain. He will marry her, and
be poor and miserable. God grant that her influence do not make him
cease to be respectable!''\ She looked over the letter again. {}```So
very fond of me!'\ 'tis nonsense all. She loves nobody but herself
and her brother. Her friends leading her astray for years! She is
quite as likely to have led \textit{them} astray. They have all, perhaps,
been corrupting one another; but if they are so much fonder of her
than she is of them, she is the less likely to have been hurt, except
by their flattery. `The only woman in the world whom he could ever
think of as a wife.' I firmly believe it. It is an attachment to govern
his whole life. Accepted or refused, his heart is wedded to her for
ever. `The loss of Mary I must consider as comprehending the loss
of Crawford and Fanny.' Edmund, you do not know me. The families would
never be connected if you did not connect them! Oh!\ write, write.
Finish it at once. Let there be an end of this suspense. Fix, commit,
condemn yourself.''

Such sensations, however, were too near akin to resentment to be long
guiding Fanny's soliloquies. She was soon more softened and sorrowful.
His warm regard, his kind expressions, his confidential treatment,
touched her strongly. He was only too good to everybody. It was a
letter, in short, which she would not but have had for the world,
and which could never be valued enough. This was the end of it.

Everybody at all addicted to letter-writing, without having much to
say, which will include a large proportion of the female world at
least, must feel with Lady Bertram that she was out of luck in having
such a capital piece of Mansfield news as the certainty of the Grants
going to Bath, occur at a time when she could make no advantage of
it, and will admit that it must have been very mortifying to her to
see it fall to the share of her thankless son, and treated as concisely
as possible at the end of a long letter, instead of having it to spread
over the largest part of a page of her own. For though Lady Bertram
rather shone in the epistolary line, having early in her marriage,
from the want of other employment, and the circumstance of Sir Thomas's
being in Parliament, got into the way of making and keeping correspondents,
and formed for herself a very creditable, common-place, amplifying
style, so that a very little matter was enough for her: she could
not do entirely without any; she must have something to write about,
even to her niece; and being so soon to lose all the benefit of Dr.\ Grant's
gouty symptoms and Mrs.\ Grant's morning calls, it was very hard
upon her to be deprived of one of the last epistolary uses she could
put them to.

There was a rich amends, however, preparing for her. Lady Bertram's
hour of good luck came. Within a few days from the receipt of Edmund's
letter, Fanny had one from her aunt, beginning thus\mbox{---}

\begin{quote}
{}``My Dear Fanny,\mbox{---}I take up my pen to communicate some
very alarming intelligence, which I make no doubt will give you much
concern''. 
\end{quote}
This was a great deal better than to have to take up the pen to acquaint
her with all the particulars of the Grants' intended journey, for
the present intelligence was of a nature to promise occupation for
the pen for many days to come, being no less than the dangerous illness
of her eldest son, of which they had received notice by express a
few hours before.

Tom had gone from London with a party of young men to Newmarket, where
a neglected fall and a good deal of drinking had brought on a fever;
and when the party broke up, being unable to move, had been left by
himself at the house of one of these young men to the comforts of
sickness and solitude, and the attendance only of servants. Instead
of being soon well enough to follow his friends, as he had then hoped,
his disorder increased considerably, and it was not long before he
thought so ill of himself as to be as ready as his physician to have
a letter despatched to Mansfield.

\begin{quote}
{}``This distressing intelligence, as you may suppose,'' observed
her ladyship, after giving the substance of it, {}``has agitated
us exceedingly, and we cannot prevent ourselves from being greatly
alarmed and apprehensive for the poor invalid, whose state Sir Thomas
fears may be very critical; and Edmund kindly proposes attending his
brother immediately, but I am happy to add that Sir Thomas will not
leave me on this distressing occasion, as it would be too trying for
me. We shall greatly miss Edmund in our small circle, but I trust
and hope he will find the poor invalid in a less alarming state than
might be apprehended, and that he will be able to bring him to Mansfield
shortly, which Sir Thomas proposes should be done, and thinks best
on every account, and I flatter myself the poor sufferer will soon
be able to bear the removal without material inconvenience or injury.
As I have little doubt of your feeling for us, my dear Fanny, under
these distressing circumstances, I will write again very soon.'' 
\end{quote}
Fanny's feelings on the occasion were indeed considerably more warm
and genuine than her aunt's style of writing. She felt truly for them
all. Tom dangerously ill, Edmund gone to attend him, and the sadly
small party remaining at Mansfield, were cares to shut out every other
care, or almost every other. She could just find selfishness enough
to wonder whether Edmund \textit{had} written to Miss Crawford before
this summons came, but no sentiment dwelt long with her that was not
purely affectionate and disinterestedly anxious. Her aunt did not
neglect her: she wrote again and again; they were receiving frequent
accounts from Edmund, and these accounts were as regularly transmitted
to Fanny, in the same diffuse style, and the same medley of trusts,
hopes, and fears, all following and producing each other at haphazard.
It was a sort of playing at being frightened. The sufferings which
Lady Bertram did not see had little power over her fancy; and she
wrote very comfortably about agitation, and anxiety, and poor invalids,
till Tom was actually conveyed to Mansfield, and her own eyes had
beheld his altered appearance. Then a letter which she had been previously
preparing for Fanny was finished in a different style, in the language
of real feeling and alarm; then she wrote as she might have spoken.
{}``He is just come, my dear Fanny, and is taken upstairs; and I
am so shocked to see him, that I do not know what to do. I am sure
he has been very ill. Poor Tom! I am quite grieved for him, and very
much frightened, and so is Sir Thomas; and how glad I should be if
you were here to comfort me. But Sir Thomas hopes he will be better
to-morrow, and says we must consider his journey.''

The real solicitude now awakened in the maternal bosom was not soon
over. Tom's extreme impatience to be removed to Mansfield, and experience
those comforts of home and family which had been little thought of
in uninterrupted health, had probably induced his being conveyed thither
too early, as a return of fever came on, and for a week he was in
a more alarming state than ever. They were all very seriously frightened.
Lady Bertram wrote her daily terrors to her niece, who might now be
said to live upon letters, and pass all her time between suffering
from that of to-day and looking forward to to-morrow's. Without any
particular affection for her eldest cousin, her tenderness of heart
made her feel that she could not spare him, and the purity of her
principles added yet a keener solicitude, when she considered how
little useful, how little self-denying his life had (apparently) been.

Susan was her only companion and listener on this, as on more common
occasions. Susan was always ready to hear and to sympathise. Nobody
else could be interested in so remote an evil as illness in a family
above an hundred miles off; not even Mrs.\ Price, beyond a brief
question or two, if she saw her daughter with a letter in her hand,
and now and then the quiet observation of, {}``My poor sister Bertram
must be in a great deal of trouble.''

So long divided and so differently situated, the ties of blood were
little more than nothing. An attachment, originally as tranquil as
their tempers, was now become a mere name. Mrs.\ Price did quite
as much for Lady Bertram as Lady Bertram would have done for Mrs.\ Price.
Three or four Prices might have been swept away, any or all except
Fanny and William, and Lady Bertram would have thought little about
it; or perhaps might have caught from Mrs.\ Norris's lips the cant
of its being a very happy thing and a great blessing to their poor
dear sister Price to have them so well provided for.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XLV}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XLV}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER XLV}

At about the week's end from his return to Mansfield, Tom's immediate
danger was over, and he was so far pronounced safe as to make his
mother perfectly easy; for being now used to the sight of him in his
suffering, helpless state, and hearing only the best, and never thinking
beyond what she heard, with no disposition for alarm and no aptitude
at a hint, Lady Bertram was the happiest subject in the world for
a little medical imposition. The fever was subdued; the fever had
been his complaint; of course he would soon be well again. Lady Bertram
could think nothing less, and Fanny shared her aunt's security, till
she received a few lines from Edmund, written purposely to give her
a clearer idea of his brother's situation, and acquaint her with the
apprehensions which he and his father had imbibed from the physician
with respect to some strong hectic symptoms, which seemed to seize
the frame on the departure of the fever. They judged it best that
Lady Bertram should not be harassed by alarms which, it was to be
hoped, would prove unfounded; but there was no reason why Fanny should
not know the truth. They were apprehensive for his lungs.

A very few lines from Edmund shewed her the patient and the sickroom
in a juster and stronger light than all Lady Bertram's sheets of paper
could do. There was hardly any one in the house who might not have
described, from personal observation, better than herself; not one
who was not more useful at times to her son. She could do nothing
but glide in quietly and look at him; but when able to talk or be
talked to, or read to, Edmund was the companion he preferred. His
aunt worried him by her cares, and Sir Thomas knew not how to bring
down his conversation or his voice to the level of irritation and
feebleness. Edmund was all in all. Fanny would certainly believe him
so at least, and must find that her estimation of him was higher than
ever when he appeared as the attendant, supporter, cheerer of a suffering
brother. There was not only the debility of recent illness to assist:
there was also, as she now learnt, nerves much affected, spirits much
depressed to calm and raise, and her own imagination added that there
must be a mind to be properly guided.

The family were not consumptive, and she was more inclined to hope
than fear for her cousin, except when she thought of Miss Crawford;
but Miss Crawford gave her the idea of being the child of good luck,
and to her selfishness and vanity it would be good luck to have Edmund
the only son.

Even in the sick chamber the fortunate Mary was not forgotten. Edmund's
letter had this postscript. \begin{quote}{}``On the subject of my
last, I had actually begun a letter when called away by Tom's illness,
but I have now changed my mind, and fear to trust the influence of
friends. When Tom is better, I shall go.''\end{quote}

Such was the state of Mansfield, and so it continued, with scarcely
any change, till Easter. A line occasionally added by Edmund to his
mother's letter was enough for Fanny's information. Tom's amendment
was alarmingly slow.

Easter came particularly late this year, as Fanny had most sorrowfully
considered, on first learning that she had no chance of leaving Portsmouth
till after it. It came, and she had yet heard nothing of her return\mbox{---}nothing
even of the going to London, which was to precede her return. Her
aunt often expressed a wish for her, but there was no notice, no message
from the uncle on whom all depended. She supposed he could not yet
leave his son, but it was a cruel, a terrible delay to her. The end
of April was coming on; it would soon be almost three months, instead
of two, that she had been absent from them all, and that her days
had been passing in a state of penance, which she loved them too well
to hope they would thoroughly understand; and who could yet say when
there might be leisure to think of or fetch her?

Her eagerness, her impatience, her longings to be with them, were
such as to bring a line or two of Cowper's \emph{Tirocinium} for ever
before her. {}``With what intense desire she wants her home,'' was
continually on her tongue, as the truest description of a yearning
which she could not suppose any schoolboy's bosom to feel more keenly.

When she had been coming to Portsmouth, she had loved to call it her
home, had been fond of saying that she was going home; the word had
been very dear to her, and so it still was, but it must be applied
to Mansfield.\  \textit{That} was now the home. Portsmouth was Portsmouth;
Mansfield was home. They had been long so arranged in the indulgence
of her secret meditations, and nothing was more consolatory to her
than to find her aunt using the same language: {}``I cannot but say
I much regret your being from home at this distressing time, so very
trying to my spirits. I trust and hope, and sincerely wish you may
never be absent from home so long again,'' were most delightful sentences
to her. Still, however, it was her private regale. Delicacy to her
parents made her careful not to betray such a preference of her uncle's
house. It was always: {}``When I go back into Northamptonshire, or
when I return to Mansfield, I shall do so and so.'' For a great while
it was so, but at last the longing grew stronger, it overthrew caution,
and she found herself talking of what she should do when she went
home before she was aware. She reproached herself, coloured, and looked
fearfully towards her father and mother. She need not have been uneasy.
There was no sign of displeasure, or even of hearing her. They were
perfectly free from any jealousy of Mansfield. She was as welcome
to wish herself there as to be there.

It was sad to Fanny to lose all the pleasures of spring. She had not
known before what pleasures she \textit{had} to lose in passing March
and April in a town. She had not known before how much the beginnings
and progress of vegetation had delighted her. What animation, both
of body and mind, she had derived from watching the advance of that
season which cannot, in spite of its capriciousness, be unlovely,
and seeing its increasing beauties from the earliest flowers in the
warmest divisions of her aunt's garden, to the opening of leaves of
her uncle's plantations, and the glory of his woods. To be losing
such pleasures was no trifle; to be losing them, because she was in
the midst of closeness and noise, to have confinement, bad air, bad
smells, substituted for liberty, freshness, fragrance, and verdure,
was infinitely worse: but even these incitements to regret were feeble,
compared with what arose from the conviction of being missed by her
best friends, and the longing to be useful to those who were wanting
her!

Could she have been at home, she might have been of service to every
creature in the house. She felt that she must have been of use to
all. To all she must have saved some trouble of head or hand; and
were it only in supporting the spirits of her aunt Bertram, keeping
her from the evil of solitude, or the still greater evil of a restless,
officious companion, too apt to be heightening danger in order to
enhance her own importance, her being there would have been a general
good. She loved to fancy how she could have read to her aunt, how
she could have talked to her, and tried at once to make her feel the
blessing of what was, and prepare her mind for what might be; and
how many walks up and down stairs she might have saved her, and how
many messages she might have carried.

It astonished her that Tom's sisters could be satisfied with remaining
in London at such a time, through an illness which had now, under
different degrees of danger, lasted several weeks.\  \textit{They}
might return to Mansfield when they chose; travelling could be no
difficulty to \textit{them}, and she could not comprehend how both
could still keep away. If Mrs.\ Rushworth could imagine any interfering
obligations, Julia was certainly able to quit London whenever she
chose. It appeared from one of her aunt's letters that Julia had offered
to return if wanted, but this was all. It was evident that she would
rather remain where she was.

Fanny was disposed to think the influence of London very much at war
with all respectable attachments. She saw the proof of it in Miss
Crawford, as well as in her cousins; \textit{her} attachment to Edmund
had been respectable, the most respectable part of her character;
her friendship for herself had at least been blameless. Where was
either sentiment now? It was so long since Fanny had had any letter
from her, that she had some reason to think lightly of the friendship
which had been so dwelt on. It was weeks since she had heard anything
of Miss Crawford or of her other connexions in town, except through
Mansfield, and she was beginning to suppose that she might never know
whether Mr.\ Crawford had gone into Norfolk again or not till they
met, and might never hear from his sister any more this spring, when
the following letter was received to revive old and create some new
sensations\mbox{---}

\begin{quote}
{}``Forgive me, my dear Fanny, as soon as you can, for my long silence,
and behave as if you could forgive me directly. This is my modest
request and expectation, for you are so good, that I depend upon being
treated better than I deserve, and I write now to beg an immediate
answer. I want to know the state of things at Mansfield Park, and
you, no doubt, are perfectly able to give it. One should be a brute
not to feel for the distress they are in; and from what I hear, poor
Mr.\ Bertram has a bad chance of ultimate recovery. I thought little
of his illness at first. I looked upon him as the sort of person to
be made a fuss with, and to make a fuss himself in any trifling disorder,
and was chiefly concerned for those who had to nurse him; but now
it is confidently asserted that he is really in a decline, that the
symptoms are most alarming, and that part of the family, at least,
are aware of it. If it be so, I am sure you must be included in that
part, that discerning part, and therefore entreat you to let me know
how far I have been rightly informed. I need not say how rejoiced
I shall be to hear there has been any mistake, but the report is so
prevalent that I confess I cannot help trembling. To have such a fine
young man cut off in the flower of his days is most melancholy. Poor
Sir Thomas will feel it dreadfully. I really am quite agitated on
the subject. Fanny, Fanny, I see you smile and look cunning, but,
upon my honour, I never bribed a physician in my life. Poor young
man! If he is to die, there will be \textit{two} poor young men less
in the world; and with a fearless face and bold voice would I say
to any one, that wealth and consequence could fall into no hands more
deserving of them. It was a foolish precipitation last Christmas,
but the evil of a few days may be blotted out in part. Varnish and
gilding hide many stains. It will be but the loss of the Esquire after
his name. With real affection, Fanny, like mine, more might be overlooked.
Write to me by return of post, judge of my anxiety, and do not trifle
with it. Tell me the real truth, as you have it from the fountainhead.
And now, do not trouble yourself to be ashamed of either my feelings
or your own. Believe me, they are not only natural, they are philanthropic
and virtuous. I put it to your conscience, whether `Sir Edmund' would
not do more good with all the Bertram property than any other possible
`Sir.' Had the Grants been at home I would not have troubled you,
but you are now the only one I can apply to for the truth, his sisters
not being within my reach. Mrs.\ R.\ has been spending the Easter
with the Aylmers at Twickenham (as to be sure you know), and is not
yet returned; and Julia is with the cousins who live near Bedford
Square, but I forget their name and street. Could I immediately apply
to either, however, I should still prefer you, because it strikes
me that they have all along been so unwilling to have their own amusements
cut up, as to shut their eyes to the truth. I suppose Mrs.\ R.'s
Easter holidays will not last much longer; no doubt they are thorough
holidays to her. The Aylmers are pleasant people; and her husband
away, she can have nothing but enjoyment. I give her credit for promoting
his going dutifully down to Bath, to fetch his mother; but how will
she and the dowager agree in one house? Henry is not at hand, so I
have nothing to say from him. Do not you think Edmund would have been
in town again long ago, but for this illness?\mbox{---}Yours ever,
Mary.''

{}``I had actually begun folding my letter when Henry walked in,
but he brings no intelligence to prevent my sending it. Mrs.\ R.\ knows
a decline is apprehended; he saw her this morning: she returns to
Wimpole Street to-day; the old lady is come. Now do not make yourself
uneasy with any queer fancies because he has been spending a few days
at Richmond. He does it every spring. Be assured he cares for nobody
but you. At this very moment he is wild to see you, and occupied only
in contriving the means for doing so, and for making his pleasure
conduce to yours. In proof, he repeats, and more eagerly, what he
said at Portsmouth about our conveying you home, and I join him in
it with all my soul. Dear Fanny, write directly, and tell us to come.
It will do us all good. He and I can go to the Parsonage, you know,
and be no trouble to our friends at Mansfield Park. It would really
be gratifying to see them all again, and a little addition of society
might be of infinite use to them; and as to yourself, you must feel
yourself to be so wanted there, that you cannot in conscience\mbox{---}conscientious
as you are\mbox{---}keep away, when you have the means of returning.
I have not time or patience to give half Henry's messages; be satisfied
that the spirit of each and every one is unalterable affection.'' 
\end{quote}
Fanny's disgust at the greater part of this letter, with her extreme
reluctance to bring the writer of it and her cousin Edmund together,
would have made her (as she felt) incapable of judging impartially
whether the concluding offer might be accepted or not. To herself,
individually, it was most tempting. To be finding herself, perhaps
within three days, transported to Mansfield, was an image of the greatest
felicity, but it would have been a material drawback to be owing such
felicity to persons in whose feelings and conduct, at the present
moment, she saw so much to condemn: the sister's feelings, the brother's
conduct, \textit{her} cold-hearted ambition, \textit{his} thoughtless
vanity. To have him still the acquaintance, the flirt perhaps, of
Mrs.\ Rushworth! She was mortified. She had thought better of him.
Happily, however, she was not left to weigh and decide between opposite
inclinations and doubtful notions of right; there was no occasion
to determine whether she ought to keep Edmund and Mary asunder or
not. She had a rule to apply to, which settled everything. Her awe
of her uncle, and her dread of taking a liberty with him, made it
instantly plain to her what she had to do. She must absolutely decline
the proposal. If he wanted, he would send for her; and even to offer
an early return was a presumption which hardly anything would have
seemed to justify. She thanked Miss Crawford, but gave a decided negative.
\begin{quote}{}``Her uncle, she understood, meant to fetch her;
and as her cousin's illness had continued so many weeks without her
being thought at all necessary, she must suppose her return would
be unwelcome at present, and that she should be felt an encumbrance.''\end{quote}

Her representation of her cousin's state at this time was exactly
according to her own belief of it, and such as she supposed would
convey to the sanguine mind of her correspondent the hope of everything
she was wishing for. Edmund would be forgiven for being a clergyman,
it seemed, under certain conditions of wealth; and this, she suspected,
was all the conquest of prejudice which he was so ready to congratulate
himself upon. She had only learnt to think nothing of consequence
but money.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XLVI}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XLVI}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER XLVI}

As Fanny could not doubt that her answer was conveying a real disappointment,
she was rather in expectation, from her knowledge of Miss Crawford's
temper, of being urged again; and though no second letter arrived
for the space of a week, she had still the same feeling when it did
come.

On receiving it, she could instantly decide on its containing little
writing, and was persuaded of its having the air of a letter of haste
and business. Its object was unquestionable; and two moments were
enough to start the probability of its being merely to give her notice
that they should be in Portsmouth that very day, and to throw her
into all the agitation of doubting what she ought to do in such a
case. If two moments, however, can surround with difficulties, a third
can disperse them; and before she had opened the letter, the possibility
of Mr.\ and Miss Crawford's having applied to her uncle and obtained
his permission was giving her ease. This was the letter\mbox{---}

\begin{quote}
{}``A most scandalous, ill-natured rumour has just reached me, and
I write, dear Fanny, to warn you against giving the least credit to
it, should it spread into the country. Depend upon it, there is some
mistake, and that a day or two will clear it up; at any rate, that
Henry is blameless, and in spite of a moment's \textit{etourderie},
thinks of nobody but you. Say not a word of it; hear nothing, surmise
nothing, whisper nothing till I write again. I am sure it will be
all hushed up, and nothing proved but Rushworth's folly. If they are
gone, I would lay my life they are only gone to Mansfield Park, and
Julia with them. But why would not you let us come for you? I wish
you may not repent it.\mbox{---}Yours, \textit{etc}.'' 
\end{quote}
Fanny stood aghast. As no scandalous, ill-natured rumour had reached
her, it was impossible for her to understand much of this strange
letter. She could only perceive that it must relate to Wimpole Street
and Mr.\ Crawford, and only conjecture that something very imprudent
had just occurred in that quarter to draw the notice of the world,
and to excite her jealousy, in Miss Crawford's apprehension, if she
heard it. Miss Crawford need not be alarmed for her. She was only
sorry for the parties concerned and for Mansfield, if the report should
spread so far; but she hoped it might not. If the Rushworths were
gone themselves to Mansfield, as was to be inferred from what Miss
Crawford said, it was not likely that anything unpleasant should have
preceded them, or at least should make any impression.

As to Mr.\ Crawford, she hoped it might give him a knowledge of his
own disposition, convince him that he was not capable of being steadily
attached to any one woman in the world, and shame him from persisting
any longer in addressing herself.

It was very strange! She had begun to think he really loved her, and
to fancy his affection for her something more than common; and his
sister still said that he cared for nobody else. Yet there must have
been some marked display of attentions to her cousin, there must have
been some strong indiscretion, since her correspondent was not of
a sort to regard a slight one.

Very uncomfortable she was, and must continue, till she heard from
Miss Crawford again. It was impossible to banish the letter from her
thoughts, and she could not relieve herself by speaking of it to any
human being. Miss Crawford need not have urged secrecy with so much
warmth; she might have trusted to her sense of what was due to her
cousin.

The next day came and brought no second letter. Fanny was disappointed.
She could still think of little else all the morning; but, when her
father came back in the afternoon with the daily newspaper as usual,
she was so far from expecting any elucidation through such a channel
that the subject was for a moment out of her head.

She was deep in other musing. The remembrance of her first evening
in that room, of her father and his newspaper, came across her. No
candle was now wanted. The sun was yet an hour and half above the
horizon. She felt that she had, indeed, been three months there; and
the sun's rays falling strongly into the parlour, instead of cheering,
made her still more melancholy, for sunshine appeared to her a totally
different thing in a town and in the country. Here, its power was
only a glare: a stifling, sickly glare, serving but to bring forward
stains and dirt that might otherwise have slept. There was neither
health nor gaiety in sunshine in a town. She sat in a blaze of oppressive
heat, in a cloud of moving dust, and her eyes could only wander from
the walls, marked by her father's head, to the table cut and notched
by her brothers, where stood the tea-board never thoroughly cleaned,
the cups and saucers wiped in streaks, the milk a mixture of motes
floating in thin blue, and the bread and butter growing every minute
more greasy than even Rebecca's hands had first produced it. Her father
read his newspaper, and her mother lamented over the ragged carpet
as usual, while the tea was in preparation, and wished Rebecca would
mend it; and Fanny was first roused by his calling out to her, after
humphing and considering over a particular paragraph: {}``What's
the name of your great cousins in town, Fan?''\


A moment's recollection enabled her to say, {}``Rushworth, sir.''

{}``And don't they live in Wimpole Street?''\ 

{}``Yes, sir.''

{}``Then, there's the devil to pay among them, that's all! There''
(holding out the paper to her); {}``much good may such fine relations
do you. I don't know what Sir Thomas may think of such matters; he
may be too much of the courtier and fine gentleman to like his daughter
the less. But, by G\mbox{------}!\ if she belonged to \textit{me},
I'd give her the rope's end as long as I could stand over her. A little
flogging for man and woman too would be the best way of preventing
such things.''

Fanny read to herself that {}``it was with infinite concern the newspaper
had to announce to the world a matrimonial \textit{fracas} in the
family of Mr.\ R.\ of Wimpole Street; the beautiful Mrs.\ R., whose
name had not long been enrolled in the lists of Hymen, and who had
promised to become so brilliant a leader in the fashionable world,
having quitted her husband's roof in company with the well-known and
captivating Mr.\ C., the intimate friend and associate of Mr.\ R.,
and it was not known even to the editor of the newspaper whither they
were gone.''

{}``It is a mistake, sir,'' said Fanny instantly; {}``it must be
a mistake, it cannot be true; it must mean some other people.''

She spoke from the instinctive wish of delaying shame; she spoke with
a resolution which sprung from despair, for she spoke what she did
not, could not believe herself. It had been the shock of conviction
as she read. The truth rushed on her; and how she could have spoken
at all, how she could even have breathed, was afterwards matter of
wonder to herself.

Mr.\ Price cared too little about the report to make her much answer.
{}``It might be all a lie,'' he acknowledged; {}``but so many fine
ladies were going to the devil nowadays that way, that there was no
answering for anybody.''

{}``Indeed, I hope it is not true,'' said Mrs.\ Price plaintively;
{}``it would be so very shocking! If I have spoken once to Rebecca
about that carpet, I am sure I have spoke at least a dozen times;
have not I, Betsey? And it would not be ten minutes' work.''

The horror of a mind like Fanny's, as it received the conviction of
such guilt, and began to take in some part of the misery that must
ensue, can hardly be described. At first, it was a sort of stupefaction;
but every moment was quickening her perception of the horrible evil.
She could not doubt, she dared not indulge a hope, of the paragraph
being false. Miss Crawford's letter, which she had read so often as
to make every line her own, was in frightful conformity with it. Her
eager defence of her brother, her hope of its being \textit{hushed}
\textit{up}, her evident agitation, were all of a piece with something
very bad; and if there was a woman of character in existence, who
could treat as a trifle this sin of the first magnitude, who would
try to gloss it over, and desire to have it unpunished, she could
believe Miss Crawford to be the woman! Now she could see her own mistake
as to \textit{who} were gone, or \textit{said} to be gone. It was
not Mr.\ and Mrs.\ Rushworth; it was Mrs.\ Rushworth and Mr.\ Crawford.

Fanny seemed to herself never to have been shocked before. There was
no possibility of rest. The evening passed without a pause of misery,
the night was totally sleepless. She passed only from feelings of
sickness to shudderings of horror; and from hot fits of fever to cold.
The event was so shocking, that there were moments even when her heart
revolted from it as impossible: when she thought it could not be.
A woman married only six months ago; a man professing himself devoted,
even \textit{engaged} to another; that other her near relation; the
whole family, both families connected as they were by tie upon tie;
all friends, all intimate together! It was too horrible a confusion
of guilt, too gross a complication of evil, for human nature, not
in a state of utter barbarism, to be capable of!\ yet her judgment
told her it was so. \textit{His} unsettled affections, wavering with
his vanity, \textit{Maria's} decided attachment, and no sufficient
principle on either side, gave it possibility: Miss Crawford's letter
stampt it a fact.

What would be the consequence? Whom would it not injure? Whose views
might it not affect? Whose peace would it not cut up for ever? Miss
Crawford, herself, Edmund; but it was dangerous, perhaps, to tread
such ground. She confined herself, or tried to confine herself, to
the simple, indubitable family misery which must envelop all, if it
were indeed a matter of certified guilt and public exposure. The mother's
sufferings, the father's; there she paused. Julia's, Tom's, Edmund's;
there a yet longer pause. They were the two on whom it would fall
most horribly. Sir Thomas's parental solicitude and high sense of
honour and decorum, Edmund's upright principles, unsuspicious temper,
and genuine strength of feeling, made her think it scarcely possible
for them to support life and reason under such disgrace; and it appeared
to her that, as far as this world alone was concerned, the greatest
blessing to every one of kindred with Mrs.\ Rushworth would be instant
annihilation.

Nothing happened the next day, or the next, to weaken her terrors.
Two posts came in, and brought no refutation, public or private. There
was no second letter to explain away the first from Miss Crawford;
there was no intelligence from Mansfield, though it was now full time
for her to hear again from her aunt. This was an evil omen. She had,
indeed, scarcely the shadow of a hope to soothe her mind, and was
reduced to so low and wan and trembling a condition, as no mother,
not unkind, except Mrs.\ Price could have overlooked, when the third
day did bring the sickening knock, and a letter was again put into
her hands. It bore the London postmark, and came from Edmund.

\begin{quote}{}``Dear Fanny,\mbox{---}You know our pres\-ent wretchedness.
May God support you under your share! We have been here two days,
but there is nothing to be done. They cannot be traced. You may not
have heard of the last blow\mbox{---}Julia's elopement; she is gone
to Scotland with Yates. She left London a few hours before we entered
it. At any other time this would have been felt dreadfully. Now it
seems nothing; yet it is an heavy aggravation. My father is not overpowered.
More cannot be hoped. He is still able to think and act; and I write,
by his desire, to propose your returning home. He is anxious to get
you there for my mother's sake. I shall be at Portsmouth the morning
after you receive this, and hope to find you ready to set off for
Mansfield. My father wishes you to invite Susan to go with you for
a few months. Settle it as you like; say what is proper; I am sure
you will feel such an instance of his kindness at such a moment! Do
justice to his meaning, however I may confuse it. You may imagine
something of my present state. There is no end of the evil let loose
upon us. You will see me early by the mail.\mbox{---}Yours, \textit{etc}.''
\end{quote}

Never had Fanny more wanted a cordial. Never had she felt such a one
as this letter contained. To-morrow!\ to leave Portsmouth to-morrow!
She was, she felt she was, in the greatest danger of being exquisitely
happy, while so many were miserable. The evil which brought such good
to her! She dreaded lest she should learn to be insensible of it.
To be going so soon, sent for so kindly, sent for as a comfort, and
with leave to take Susan, was altogether such a combination of blessings
as set her heart in a glow, and for a time seemed to distance every
pain, and make her incapable of suitably sharing the distress even
of those whose distress she thought of most. Julia's elopement could
affect her comparatively but little; she was amazed and shocked; but
it could not occupy her, could not dwell on her mind. She was obliged
to call herself to think of it, and acknowledge it to be terrible
and grievous, or it was escaping her, in the midst of all the agitating
pressing joyful cares attending this summons to herself.

There is nothing like employment, active indispensable employment,
for relieving sorrow. Employment, even melancholy, may dispel melancholy,
and her occupations were hopeful. She had so much to do, that not
even the horrible story of Mrs.\ Rushworth\mbox{---}now fixed to
the last point of certainty could affect her as it had done before.
She had not time to be miserable. Within twenty-four hours she was
hoping to be gone; her father and mother must be spoken to, Susan
prepared, everything got ready. Business followed business; the day
was hardly long enough. The happiness she was imparting, too, happiness
very little alloyed by the black communication which must briefly
precede it\mbox{---}the joyful consent of her father and mother to
Susan's going with her\mbox{---}the general satisfaction with which
the going of both seemed regarded, and the ecstasy of Susan herself,
was all serving to support her spirits.

The affliction of the Bertrams was little felt in the family. Mrs.\ Price
talked of her poor sister for a few minutes, but how to find anything
to hold Susan's clothes, because Rebecca took away all the boxes and
spoilt them, was much more in her thoughts: and as for Susan, now
unexpectedly gratified in the first wish of her heart, and knowing
nothing personally of those who had sinned, or of those who were sorrowing\mbox{---}if
she could help rejoicing from beginning to end, it was as much as
ought to be expected from human virtue at fourteen.

As nothing was really left for the decision of Mrs.\ Price, or the
good offices of Rebecca, everything was rationally and duly accomplished,
and the girls were ready for the morrow. The advantage of much sleep
to prepare them for their journey was impossible. The cousin who was
travelling towards them could hardly have less than visited their
agitated spirits\mbox{---}one all happiness, the other all varying
and indescribable perturbation.

By eight in the morning Edmund was in the house. The girls heard his
entrance from above, and Fanny went down. The idea of immediately
seeing him, with the knowledge of what he must be suffering, brought
back all her own first feelings. He so near her, and in misery. She
was ready to sink as she entered the parlour. He was alone, and met
her instantly; and she found herself pressed to his heart with only
these words, just articulate, {}``My Fanny, my only sister; my only
comfort now!''\ She could say nothing; nor for some minutes could
he say more.

He turned away to recover himself, and when he spoke again, though
his voice still faltered, his manner shewed the wish of self-command,
and the resolution of avoiding any farther allusion. {}``Have you
breakfasted? When shall you be ready? Does Susan go?''\ were questions
following each other rapidly. His great object was to be off as soon
as possible. When Mansfield was considered, time was precious; and
the state of his own mind made him find relief only in motion. It
was settled that he should order the carriage to the door in half
an hour. Fanny answered for their having breakfasted and being quite
ready in half an hour. He had already ate, and declined staying for
their meal. He would walk round the ramparts, and join them with the
carriage. He was gone again; glad to get away even from Fanny.

He looked very ill; evidently suffering under violent emotions, which
he was determined to suppress. She knew it must be so, but it was
terrible to her.

The carriage came; and he entered the house again at the same moment,
just in time to spend a few minutes with the family, and be a witness\mbox{---}but
that he saw nothing\mbox{---}of the tranquil manner in which the
daughters were parted with, and just in time to prevent their sitting
down to the breakfast-table, which, by dint of much unusual activity,
was quite and completely ready as the carriage drove from the door.
Fanny's last meal in her father's house was in character with her
first: she was dismissed from it as hospitably as she had been welcomed.

How her heart swelled with joy and gratitude as she passed the barriers
of Portsmouth, and how Susan's face wore its broadest smiles, may
be easily conceived. Sitting forwards, however, and screened by her
bonnet, those smiles were unseen.

The journey was likely to be a silent one. Edmund's deep sighs often
reached Fanny. Had he been alone with her, his heart must have opened
in spite of every resolution; but Susan's presence drove him quite
into himself, and his attempts to talk on indifferent subjects could
never be long supported.

Fanny watched him with never-failing solicitude, and sometimes catching
his eye, revived an affectionate smile, which comforted her; but the
first day's journey passed without her hearing a word from him on
the subjects that were weighing him down. The next morning produced
a little more. Just before their setting out from Oxford, while Susan
was stationed at a window, in eager observation of the departure of
a large family from the inn, the other two were standing by the fire;
and Edmund, particularly struck by the alteration in Fanny's looks,
and from his ignorance of the daily evils of her father's house, attributing
an undue share of the change, attributing \textit{all} to the recent
event, took her hand, and said in a low, but very expressive tone,
{}``No wonder\mbox{---}you must feel it\mbox{---}you must suffer.
How a man who had once loved, could desert you! But \textit{yours}---your
regard was new compared with\mbox{------}Fanny, think of \textit{me}!''\


The first division of their journey occupied a long day, and brought
them, almost knocked up, to Oxford; but the second was over at a much
earlier hour. They were in the environs of Mansfield long before the
usual dinner-time, and as they approached the beloved place, the hearts
of both sisters sank a little. Fanny began to dread the meeting with
her aunts and Tom, under so dreadful a humiliation; and Susan to feel
with some anxiety, that all her best manners, all her lately acquired
knowledge of what was practised here, was on the point of being called
into action. Visions of good and ill breeding, of old vulgarisms and
new gentilities, were before her; and she was meditating much upon
silver forks, napkins, and finger-glasses. Fanny had been everywhere
awake to the difference of the country since February; but when they
entered the Park her perceptions and her pleasures were of the keenest
sort. It was three months, full three months, since her quitting it,
and the change was from winter to summer. Her eye fell everywhere
on lawns and plantations of the freshest green; and the trees, though
not fully clothed, were in that delightful state when farther beauty
is known to be at hand, and when, while much is actually given to
the sight, more yet remains for the imagination. Her enjoyment, however,
was for herself alone. Edmund could not share it. She looked at him,
but he was leaning back, sunk in a deeper gloom than ever, and with
eyes closed, as if the view of cheerfulness oppressed him, and the
lovely scenes of home must be shut out.

It made her melancholy again; and the knowledge of what must be enduring
there, invested even the house, modern, airy, and well situated as
it was, with a melancholy aspect.

By one of the suffering party within they were expected with such
impatience as she had never known before. Fanny had scarcely passed
the solemn-looking servants, when Lady Bertram came from the drawing-room
to meet her; came with no indolent step; and falling on her neck,
said, {}``Dear Fanny!\ now I shall be comfortable.''


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XLVII}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XLVII}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER XLVII}

It had been a miserable party, each of the three believing themselves
most miserable. Mrs.\ Norris, however, as most attached to Maria,
was really the greatest sufferer. Maria was her first favourite, the
dearest of all; the match had been her own contriving, as she had
been wont with such pride of heart to feel and say, and this conclusion
of it almost overpowered her.

She was an altered creature, quieted, stupefied, indifferent to everything
that passed. The being left with her sister and nephew, and all the
house under her care, had been an advantage entirely thrown away;
she had been unable to direct or dictate, or even fancy herself useful.
When really touched by affliction, her active powers had been all
benumbed; and neither Lady Bertram nor Tom had received from her the
smallest support or attempt at support. She had done no more for them
than they had done for each other. They had been all solitary, helpless,
and forlorn alike; and now the arrival of the others only established
her superiority in wretchedness. Her companions were relieved, but
there was no good for \textit{her}. Edmund was almost as welcome to
his brother as Fanny to her aunt; but Mrs.\ Norris, instead of having
comfort from either, was but the more irritated by the sight of the
person whom, in the blindness of her anger, she could have charged
as the d\ae{}mon of the piece. Had Fanny accepted Mr.\ Crawford
this could not have happened.

Susan too was a grievance. She had not spirits to notice her in more
than a few repulsive looks, but she felt her as a spy, and an intruder,
and an indigent niece, and everything most odious. By her other aunt,
Susan was received with quiet kindness. Lady Bertram could not give
her much time, or many words, but she felt her, as Fanny's sister,
to have a claim at Mansfield, and was ready to kiss and like her;
and Susan was more than satisfied, for she came perfectly aware that
nothing but ill-humour was to be expected from aunt Norris; and was
so provided with happiness, so strong in that best of blessings, an
escape from many certain evils, that she could have stood against
a great deal more indifference than she met with from the others.

She was now left a good deal to herself, to get acquainted with the
house and grounds as she could, and spent her days very happily in
so doing, while those who might otherwise have attended to her were
shut up, or wholly occupied each with the person quite dependent on
them, at this time, for everything like comfort; Edmund trying to
bury his own feelings in exertions for the relief of his brother's,
and Fanny devoted to her aunt Bertram, returning to every former office
with more than former zeal, and thinking she could never do enough
for one who seemed so much to want her.

To talk over the dreadful business with Fanny, talk and lament, was
all Lady Bertram's consolation. To be listened to and borne with,
and hear the voice of kindness and sympathy in return, was everything
that could be done for her. To be otherwise comforted was out of the
question. The case admitted of no comfort. Lady Bertram did not think
deeply, but, guided by Sir Thomas, she thought justly on all important
points; and she saw, therefore, in all its enormity, what had happened,
and neither endeavoured herself, nor required Fanny to advise her,
to think little of guilt and infamy.

Her affections were not acute, nor was her mind tenacious. After a
time, Fanny found it not impossible to direct her thoughts to other
subjects, and revive some interest in the usual occupations; but whenever
Lady Bertram \textit{was} fixed on the event, she could see it only
in one light, as comprehending the loss of a daughter, and a disgrace
never to be wiped off.

Fanny learnt from her all the particulars which had yet transpired.
Her aunt was no very methodical narrator, but with the help of some
letters to and from Sir Thomas, and what she already knew herself,
and could reasonably combine, she was soon able to understand quite
as much as she wished of the circumstances attending the story.

Mrs.\ Rushworth had gone, for the Easter holidays, to Twickenham,
with a family whom she had just grown intimate with: a family of lively,
agreeable manners, and probably of morals and discretion to suit,
for to \textit{their} house Mr.\ Crawford had constant access at
all times. His having been in the same neighbourhood Fanny already
knew. Mr.\ Rushworth had been gone at this time to Bath, to pass
a few days with his mother, and bring her back to town, and Maria
was with these friends without any restraint, without even Julia;
for Julia had removed from Wimpole Street two or three weeks before,
on a visit to some relations of Sir Thomas; a removal which her father
and mother were now disposed to attribute to some view of convenience
on Mr.\ Yates's account. Very soon after the Rushworths' return to
Wimpole Street, Sir Thomas had received a letter from an old and most
particular friend in London, who hearing and witnessing a good deal
to alarm him in that quarter, wrote to recommend Sir Thomas's coming
to London himself, and using his influence with his daughter to put
an end to the intimacy which was already exposing her to unpleasant
remarks, and evidently making Mr.\ Rushworth uneasy.

Sir Thomas was preparing to act upon this letter, without communicating
its contents to any creature at Mansfield, when it was followed by
another, sent express from the same friend, to break to him the almost
desperate situation in which affairs then stood with the young people.
Mrs.\ Rushworth had left her husband's house: Mr.\ Rushworth had
been in great anger and distress to \textit{him} (Mr.\ Harding) for
his advice; Mr.\ Harding feared there had been \textit{at} \textit{least}
very flagrant indiscretion. The maidservant of Mrs.\ Rushworth, senior,
threatened alarmingly. He was doing all in his power to quiet everything,
with the hope of Mrs.\ Rushworth's return, but was so much counteracted
in Wimpole Street by the influence of Mr.\ Rushworth's mother, that
the worst consequences might be apprehended.

This dreadful communication could not be kept from the rest of the
family. Sir Thomas set off, Edmund would go with him, and the others
had been left in a state of wretchedness, inferior only to what followed
the receipt of the next letters from London. Everything was by that
time public beyond a hope. The servant of Mrs.\ Rushworth, the mother,
had exposure in her power, and supported by her mistress, was not
to be silenced. The two ladies, even in the short time they had been
together, had disagreed; and the bitterness of the elder against her
daughter-in-law might perhaps arise almost as much from the personal
disrespect with which she had herself been treated as from sensibility
for her son.

However that might be, she was unmanageable. But had she been less
obstinate, or of less weight with her son, who was always guided by
the last speaker, by the person who could get hold of and shut him
up, the case would still have been hopeless, for Mrs.\ Rushworth
did not appear again, and there was every reason to conclude her to
be concealed somewhere with Mr.\ Crawford, who had quitted his uncle's
house, as for a journey, on the very day of her absenting herself.

Sir Thomas, however, remained yet a little longer in town, in the
hope of discovering and snatching her from farther vice, though all
was lost on the side of character.

\textit{His} present state Fanny could hardly bear to think of. There
was but one of his children who was not at this time a source of misery
to him. Tom's complaints had been greatly heightened by the shock
of his sister's conduct, and his recovery so much thrown back by it,
that even Lady Bertram had been struck by the difference, and all
her alarms were regularly sent off to her husband; and Julia's elopement,
the additional blow which had met him on his arrival in London, though
its force had been deadened at the moment, must, she knew, be sorely
felt. She saw that it was. His letters expressed how much he deplored
it. Under any circumstances it would have been an unwelcome alliance;
but to have it so clandestinely formed, and such a period chosen for
its completion, placed Julia's feelings in a most unfavourable light,
and severely aggravated the folly of her choice. He called it a bad
thing, done in the worst manner, and at the worst time; and though
Julia was yet as more pardonable than Maria as folly than vice, he
could not but regard the step she had taken as opening the worst probabilities
of a conclusion hereafter like her sister's. Such was his opinion
of the set into which she had thrown herself.

Fanny felt for him most acutely. He could have no comfort but in Edmund.
Every other child must be racking his heart. His displeasure against
herself she trusted, reasoning differently from Mrs.\ Norris, would
now be done away. \textit{She} should be justified. Mr.\ Crawford
would have fully acquitted her conduct in refusing him; but this,
though most material to herself, would be poor consolation to Sir
Thomas. Her uncle's displeasure was terrible to her; but what could
her justification or her gratitude and attachment do for him? His
stay must be on Edmund alone.

She was mistaken, however, in supposing that Edmund gave his father
no present pain. It was of a much less poignant nature than what the
others excited; but Sir Thomas was considering his happiness as very
deeply involved in the offence of his sister and friend; cut off by
it, as he must be, from the woman whom he had been pursuing with undoubted
attachment and strong probability of success; and who, in everything
but this despicable brother, would have been so eligible a connexion.
He was aware of what Edmund must be suffering on his own behalf, in
addition to all the rest, when they were in town: he had seen or conjectured
his feelings; and, having reason to think that one interview with
Miss Crawford had taken place, from which Edmund derived only increased
distress, had been as anxious on that account as on others to get
him out of town, and had engaged him in taking Fanny home to her aunt,
with a view to his relief and benefit, no less than theirs. Fanny
was not in the secret of her uncle's feelings, Sir Thomas not in the
secret of Miss Crawford's character. Had he been privy to her conversation
with his son, he would not have wished her to belong to him, though
her twenty thousand pounds had been forty.

That Edmund must be for ever divided from Miss Crawford did not admit
of a doubt with Fanny; and yet, till she knew that he felt the same,
her own conviction was insufficient. She thought he did, but she wanted
to be assured of it. If he would now speak to her with the unreserve
which had sometimes been too much for her before, it would be most
consoling; but \textit{that} she found was not to be. She seldom saw
him: never alone. He probably avoided being alone with her. What was
to be inferred? That his judgment submitted to all his own peculiar
and bitter share of this family affliction, but that it was too keenly
felt to be a subject of the slightest communication. This must be
his state. He yielded, but it was with agonies which did not admit
of speech. Long, long would it be ere Miss Crawford's name passed
his lips again, or she could hope for a renewal of such confidential
intercourse as had been.

It \textit{was} long. They reached Mansfield on Thursday, and it was
not till Sunday evening that Edmund began to talk to her on the subject.
Sitting with her on Sunday evening\mbox{---}a wet Sunday evening\mbox{---}the
very time of all others when, if a friend is at hand, the heart must
be opened, and everything told; no one else in the room, except his
mother, who, after hearing an affecting sermon, had cried herself
to sleep, it was impossible not to speak; and so, with the usual beginnings,
hardly to be traced as to what came first, and the usual declaration
that if she would listen to him for a few minutes, he should be very
brief, and certainly never tax her kindness in the same way again;
she need not fear a repetition; it would be a subject prohibited entirely:
he entered upon the luxury of relating circumstances and sensations
of the first interest to himself, to one of whose affectionate sympathy
he was quite convinced.

How Fanny listened, with what curiosity and concern, what pain and
what delight, how the agitation of his voice was watched, and how
carefully her own eyes were fixed on any object but himself, may be
imagined. The opening was alarming. He had seen Miss Crawford. He
had been invited to see her. He had received a note from Lady Stornaway
to beg him to call; and regarding it as what was meant to be the last,
last interview of friendship, and investing her with all the feelings
of shame and wretchedness which Crawford's sister ought to have known,
he had gone to her in such a state of mind, so softened, so devoted,
as made it for a few moments impossible to Fanny's fears that it should
be the last. But as he proceeded in his story, these fears were over.
She had met him, he said, with a serious\mbox{---}certainly a serious\mbox{---}even
an agitated air; but before he had been able to speak one intelligible
sentence, she had introduced the subject in a manner which he owned
had shocked him. {}```I heard you were in town,' said she; `I wanted
to see you. Let us talk over this sad business. What can equal the
folly of our two relations?' I could not answer, but I believe my
looks spoke. She felt reproved. Sometimes how quick to feel! With
a graver look and voice she then added, `I do not mean to defend Henry
at your sister's expense.' So she began, but how she went on, Fanny,
is not fit, is hardly fit to be repeated to you. I cannot recall all
her words. I would not dwell upon them if I could. Their substance
was great anger at the \textit{folly} of each. She reprobated her
brother's folly in being drawn on by a woman whom he had never cared
for, to do what must lose him the woman he adored; but still more
the folly of poor Maria, in sacrificing such a situation, plunging
into such difficulties, under the idea of being really loved by a
man who had long ago made his indifference clear. Guess what I must
have felt. To hear the woman whom\mbox{---}no harsher name than folly
given! So voluntarily, so freely, so coolly to canvass it! No reluctance,
no horror, no feminine, shall I say, no modest loathings? This is
what the world does. For where, Fanny, shall we find a woman whom
nature had so richly endowed? Spoilt, spoilt!''\ 

After a little reflection, he went on with a sort of desperate calmness.
{}``I will tell you everything, and then have done for ever. She
saw it only as folly, and that folly stamped only by exposure. The
want of common discretion, of caution: his going down to Richmond
for the whole time of her being at Twickenham; her putting herself
in the power of a servant; it was the detection, in short\mbox{---}oh,
Fanny!\ it was the detection, not the offence, which she reprobated.
It was the imprudence which had brought things to extremity, and obliged
her brother to give up every dearer plan in order to fly with her.''

He stopt. {}``And what,'' said Fanny (believing herself required
to speak), {}``what could you say?''\


{}``Nothing, nothing to be understood. I was like a man stunned.
She went on, began to talk of you; yes, then she began to talk of
you, regretting, as well she might, the loss of such a\mbox{---}.
There she spoke very rationally. But she has always done justice to
you. `He has thrown away,' said she, `such a woman as he will never
see again. She would have fixed him; she would have made him happy
for ever.' My dearest Fanny, I am giving you, I hope, more pleasure
than pain by this retrospect of what might have been\mbox{---}but
what never can be now. You do not wish me to be silent? If you do,
give me but a look, a word, and I have done.''

No look or word was given.

{}``Thank God,'' said he. {}``We were all disposed to wonder, but
it seems to have been the merciful appointment of Providence that
the heart which knew no guile should not suffer. She spoke of you
with high praise and warm affection; yet, even here, there was alloy,
a dash of evil; for in the midst of it she could exclaim, `Why would
not she have him? It is all her fault. Simple girl! I shall never
forgive her. Had she accepted him as she ought, they might now have
been on the point of marriage, and Henry would have been too happy
and too busy to want any other object. He would have taken no pains
to be on terms with Mrs.\ Rushworth again. It would have all ended
in a regular standing flirtation, in yearly meetings at Sotherton
and Everingham.' Could you have believed it possible? But the charm
is broken. My eyes are opened.''

{}``Cruel!''\ said Fanny, {}``quite cruel. At such a moment to
give way to gaiety, to speak with lightness, and to you! Absolute
cruelty.''

{}``Cruelty, do you call it? We differ there. No, hers is not a cruel
nature. I do not consider her as meaning to wound my feelings. The
evil lies yet deeper: in her total ignorance, unsuspiciousness of
there being such feelings; in a perversion of mind which made it natural
to her to treat the subject as she did. She was speaking only as she
had been used to hear others speak, as she imagined everybody else
would speak. Hers are not faults of temper. She would not voluntarily
give unnecessary pain to any one, and though I may deceive myself,
I cannot but think that for me, for my feelings, she would\mbox{---}Hers
are faults of principle, Fanny; of blunted delicacy and a corrupted,
vitiated mind. Perhaps it is best for me, since it leaves me so little
to regret. Not so, however. Gladly would I submit to all the increased
pain of losing her, rather than have to think of her as I do. I told
her so.''

{}``Did you?''\


{}``Yes; when I left her I told her so.''

{}``How long were you together?''\ 

{}``Five-and-twenty minutes. Well, she went on to say that what remained
now to be done was to bring about a marriage between them. She spoke
of it, Fanny, with a steadier voice than I can.'' He was obliged
to pause more than once as he continued.\ {} {}```We must persuade
Henry to marry her,' said she; `and what with honour, and the certainty
of having shut himself out for ever from Fanny, I do not despair of
it. Fanny he must give up. I do not think that even \textit{he} could
now hope to succeed with one of her stamp, and therefore I hope we
may find no insuperable difficulty. My influence, which is not small
shall all go that way; and when once married, and properly supported
by her own family, people of respectability as they are, she may recover
her footing in society to a certain degree. In some circles, we know,
she would never be admitted, but with good dinners, and large parties,
there will always be those who will be glad of her acquaintance; and
there is, undoubtedly, more liberality and candour on those points
than formerly. What I advise is, that your father be quiet. Do not
let him injure his own cause by interference. Persuade him to let
things take their course. If by any officious exertions of his, she
is induced to leave Henry's protection, there will be much less chance
of his marrying her than if she remain with him. I know how he is
likely to be influenced. Let Sir Thomas trust to his honour and compassion,
and it may all end well; but if he get his daughter away, it will
be destroying the chief hold.'''

After repeating this, Edmund was so much affected that Fanny, watching
him with silent, but most tender concern, was almost sorry that the
subject had been entered on at all. It was long before he could speak
again. At last, {}``Now, Fanny,'' said he, {}``I shall soon have
done. I have told you the substance of all that she said. As soon
as I could speak, I replied that I had not supposed it possible, coming
in such a state of mind into that house as I had done, that anything
could occur to make me suffer more, but that she had been inflicting
deeper wounds in almost every sentence. That though I had, in the
course of our acquaintance, been often sensible of some difference
in our opinions, on points, too, of some moment, it had not entered
my imagination to conceive the difference could be such as she had
now proved it. That the manner in which she treated the dreadful crime
committed by her brother and my sister (with whom lay the greater
seduction I pretended not to say), but the manner in which she spoke
of the crime itself, giving it every reproach but the right; considering
its ill consequences only as they were to be braved or overborne by
a defiance of decency and impudence in wrong; and last of all, and
above all, recommending to us a compliance, a compromise, an acquiescence
in the continuance of the sin, on the chance of a marriage which,
thinking as I now thought of her brother, should rather be prevented
than sought; all this together most grievously convinced me that I
had never understood her before, and that, as far as related to mind,
it had been the creature of my own imagination, not Miss Crawford,
that I had been too apt to dwell on for many months past. That, perhaps,
it was best for me; I had less to regret in sacrificing a friendship,
feelings, hopes which must, at any rate, have been torn from me now.
And yet, that I must and would confess that, could I have restored
her to what she had appeared to me before, I would infinitely prefer
any increase of the pain of parting, for the sake of carrying with
me the right of tenderness and esteem. This is what I said, the purport
of it; but, as you may imagine, not spoken so collectedly or methodically
as I have repeated it to you. She was astonished, exceedingly astonished\mbox{---}more
than astonished. I saw her change countenance. She turned extremely
red. I imagined I saw a mixture of many feelings: a great, though
short struggle; half a wish of yielding to truths, half a sense of
shame, but habit, habit carried it. She would have laughed if she
could. It was a sort of laugh, as she answered, `A pretty good lecture,
upon my word. Was it part of your last sermon? At this rate you will
soon reform everybody at Mansfield and Thornton Lacey; and when I
hear of you next, it may be as a celebrated preacher in some great
society of Methodists, or as a missionary into foreign parts.' She
tried to speak carelessly, but she was not so careless as she wanted
to appear. I only said in reply, that from my heart I wished her well,
and earnestly hoped that she might soon learn to think more justly,
and not owe the most valuable knowledge we could any of us acquire,
the knowledge of ourselves and of our duty, to the lessons of affliction,
and immediately left the room. I had gone a few steps, Fanny, when
I heard the door open behind me. `Mr.\ Bertram,' said she. I looked
back. `Mr.\ Bertram,' said she, with a smile; but it was a smile
ill-suited to the conversation that had passed, a saucy playful smile,
seeming to invite in order to subdue me; at least it appeared so to
me. I resisted; it was the impulse of the moment to resist, and still
walked on. I have since, sometimes, for a moment, regretted that I
did not go back, but I know I was right, and such has been the end
of our acquaintance. And what an acquaintance has it been! How have
I been deceived! Equally in brother and sister deceived! I thank you
for your patience, Fanny. This has been the greatest relief, and now
we will have done.''

And such was Fanny's dependence on his words, that for five minutes
she thought they \textit{had} done. Then, however, it all came on
again, or something very like it, and nothing less than Lady Bertram's
rousing thoroughly up could really close such a conversation. Till
that happened, they continued to talk of Miss Crawford alone, and
how she had attached him, and how delightful nature had made her,
and how excellent she would have been, had she fallen into good hands
earlier. Fanny, now at liberty to speak openly, felt more than justified
in adding to his knowledge of her real character, by some hint of
what share his brother's state of health might be supposed to have
in her wish for a complete reconciliation. This was not an agreeable
intimation. Nature resisted it for a while. It would have been a vast
deal pleasanter to have had her more disinterested in her attachment;
but his vanity was not of a strength to fight long against reason.
He submitted to believe that Tom's illness had influenced her, only
reserving for himself this consoling thought, that considering the
many counteractions of opposing habits, she had certainly been \textit{more}
attached to him than could have been expected, and for his sake been
more near doing right. Fanny thought exactly the same; and they were
also quite agreed in their opinion of the lasting effect, the indelible
impression, which such a disappointment must make on his mind. Time
would undoubtedly abate somewhat of his sufferings, but still it was
a sort of thing which he never could get entirely the better of; and
as to his ever meeting with any other woman who could\mbox{---}it
was too impossible to be named but with indignation. Fanny's friendship
was all that he had to cling to.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER XLVIII}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER XLVIII}

\markboth{MANSFIELD PARK}{CHAPTER XLVIII}

Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery. I quit such odious subjects
as soon as I can, impatient to restore everybody, not greatly in fault
themselves, to tolerable comfort, and to have done with all the rest.

My Fanny, indeed, at this very time, I have the satisfaction of knowing,
must have been happy in spite of everything. She must have been a
happy creature in spite of all that she felt, or thought she felt,
for the distress of those around her. She had sources of delight that
must force their way. She was returned to Mansfield Park, she was
useful, she was beloved; she was safe from Mr.\ Crawford; and when
Sir Thomas came back she had every proof that could be given in his
then melancholy state of spirits, of his perfect approbation and increased
regard; and happy as all this must make her, she would still have
been happy without any of it, for Edmund was no longer the dupe of
Miss Crawford.

It is true that Edmund was very far from happy himself. He was suffering
from disappointment and regret, grieving over what was, and wishing
for what could never be. She knew it was so, and was sorry; but it
was with a sorrow so founded on satisfaction, so tending to ease,
and so much in harmony with every dearest sensation, that there are
few who might not have been glad to exchange their greatest gaiety
for it.

Sir Thomas, poor Sir Thomas, a parent, and conscious of errors in
his own conduct as a parent, was the longest to suffer. He felt that
he ought not to have allowed the marriage; that his daughter's sentiments
had been sufficiently known to him to render him culpable in authorising
it; that in so doing he had sacrificed the right to the expedient,
and been governed by motives of selfishness and worldly wisdom. These
were reflections that required some time to soften; but time will
do almost everything; and though little comfort arose on Mrs.\ Rushworth's
side for the misery she had occasioned, comfort was to be found greater
than he had supposed in his other children. Julia's match became a
less desperate business than he had considered it at first. She was
humble, and wishing to be forgiven; and Mr.\ Yates, desirous of being
really received into the family, was disposed to look up to him and
be guided. He was not very solid; but there was a hope of his becoming
less trifling, of his being at least tolerably domestic and quiet;
and at any rate, there was comfort in finding his estate rather more,
and his debts much less, than he had feared, and in being consulted
and treated as the friend best worth attending to. There was comfort
also in Tom, who gradually regained his health, without regaining
the thoughtlessness and selfishness of his previous habits. He was
the better for ever for his illness. He had suffered, and he had learned
to think: two advantages that he had never known before; and the self-reproach
arising from the deplorable event in Wimpole Street, to which he felt
himself accessory by all the dangerous intimacy of his unjustifiable
theatre, made an impression on his mind which, at the age of six-and-twenty,
with no want of sense or good companions, was durable in its happy
effects. He became what he ought to be: useful to his father, steady
and quiet, and not living merely for himself.

Here was comfort indeed!\ and quite as soon as Sir Thomas could place
dependence on such sources of good, Edmund was contributing to his
father's ease by improvement in the only point in which he had given
him pain before\mbox{---}improvement in his spirits. After wandering
about and sitting under trees with Fanny all the summer evenings,
he had so well talked his mind into submission as to be very tolerably
cheerful again.

These were the circumstances and the hopes which gradually brought
their alleviation to Sir Thomas, deadening his sense of what was lost,
and in part reconciling him to himself; though the anguish arising
from the conviction of his own errors in the education of his daughters
was never to be entirely done away.

Too late he became aware how unfavourable to the character of any
young people must be the totally opposite treatment which Maria and
Julia had been always experiencing at home, where the excessive indulgence
and flattery of their aunt had been continually contrasted with his
own severity. He saw how ill he had judged, in expecting to counteract
what was wrong in Mrs.\ Norris by its reverse in himself; clearly
saw that he had but increased the evil by teaching them to repress
their spirits in his presence so as to make their real disposition
unknown to him, and sending them for all their indulgences to a person
who had been able to attach them only by the blindness of her affection,
and the excess of her praise.

Here had been grievous mismanagement; but, bad as it was, he gradually
grew to feel that it had not been the most direful mistake in his
plan of education. Something must have been wanting \textit{within},
or time would have worn away much of its ill effect. He feared that
principle, active principle, had been wanting; that they had never
been properly taught to govern their inclinations and tempers by that
sense of duty which can alone suffice. They had been instructed theoretically
in their religion, but never required to bring it into daily practice.
To be distinguished for elegance and accomplishments, the authorised
object of their youth, could have had no useful influence that way,
no moral effect on the mind. He had meant them to be good, but his
cares had been directed to the understanding and manners, not the
disposition; and of the necessity of self-denial and humility, he
feared they had never heard from any lips that could profit them.

Bitterly did he deplore a deficiency which now he could scarcely comprehend
to have been possible. Wretchedly did he feel, that with all the cost
and care of an anxious and expensive education, he had brought up
his daughters without their understanding their first duties, or his
being acquainted with their character and temper.

The high spirit and strong passions of Mrs.\ Rushworth, especially,
were made known to him only in their sad result. She was not to be
prevailed on to leave Mr.\ Crawford. She hoped to marry him, and
they continued together till she was obliged to be convinced that
such hope was vain, and till the disappointment and wretchedness arising
from the conviction rendered her temper so bad, and her feelings for
him so like hatred, as to make them for a while each other's punishment,
and then induce a voluntary separation.

She had lived with him to be reproached as the ruin of all his happiness
in Fanny, and carried away no better consolation in leaving him than
that she \textit{had} divided them. What can exceed the misery of
such a mind in such a situation?

Mr.\ Rushworth had no difficulty in procuring a divorce; and so ended
a marriage contracted under such circumstances as to make any better
end the effect of good luck not to be reckoned on. She had despised
him, and loved another; and he had been very much aware that it was
so. The indignities of stupidity, and the disappointments of selfish
passion, can excite little pity. His punishment followed his conduct,
as did a deeper punishment the deeper guilt of his wife.\  \textit{He}
was released from the engagement to be mortified and unhappy, till
some other pretty girl could attract him into matrimony again, and
he might set forward on a second, and, it is to be hoped, more prosperous
trial of the state: if duped, to be duped at least with good humour
and good luck; while she must withdraw with infinitely stronger feelings
to a retirement and reproach which could allow no second spring of
hope or character.

Where she could be placed became a subject of most melancholy and
momentous consultation. Mrs.\ Norris, whose attachment seemed to
augment with the demerits of her niece, would have had her received
at home and countenanced by them all. Sir Thomas would not hear of
it; and Mrs.\ Norris's anger against Fanny was so much the greater,
from considering \textit{her} residence there as the motive. She persisted
in placing his scruples to \textit{her} account, though Sir Thomas
very solemnly assured her that, had there been no young woman in question,
had there been no young person of either sex belonging to him, to
be endangered by the society or hurt by the character of Mrs.\ Rushworth,
he would never have offered so great an insult to the neighbourhood
as to expect it to notice her. As a daughter, he hoped a penitent
one, she should be protected by him, and secured in every comfort,
and supported by every encouragement to do right, which their relative
situations admitted; but farther than \textit{that} he could not go.
Maria had destroyed her own character, and he would not, by a vain
attempt to restore what never could be restored, by affording his
sanction to vice, or in seeking to lessen its disgrace, be anywise
accessory to introducing such misery in another man's family as he
had known himself.

It ended in Mrs.\ Norris's resolving to quit Mansfield and devote
herself to her unfortunate Maria, and in an establishment being formed
for them in another country, remote and private, where, shut up together
with little society, on one side no affection, on the other no judgment,
it may be reasonably supposed that their tempers became their mutual
punishment.

Mrs.\ Norris's removal from Mansfield was the great supplementary
comfort of Sir Thomas's life. His opinion of her had been sinking
from the day of his return from Antigua: in every transaction together
from that period, in their daily intercourse, in business, or in chat,
she had been regularly losing ground in his esteem, and convincing
him that either time had done her much disservice, or that he had
considerably over-rated her sense, and wonderfully borne with her
manners before. He had felt her as an hourly evil, which was so much
the worse, as there seemed no chance of its ceasing but with life;
she seemed a part of himself that must be borne for ever. To be relieved
from her, therefore, was so great a felicity that, had she not left
bitter remembrances behind her, there might have been danger of his
learning almost to approve the evil which produced such a good.

She was regretted by no one at Mansfield. She had never been able
to attach even those she loved best; and since Mrs.\ Rushworth's
elopement, her temper had been in a state of such irritation as to
make her everywhere tormenting. Not even Fanny had tears for aunt
Norris, not even when she was gone for ever.

That Julia escaped better than Maria was owing, in some measure, to
a favourable difference of disposition and circumstance, but in a
greater to her having been less the darling of that very aunt, less
flattered and less spoilt. Her beauty and acquirements had held but
a second place. She had been always used to think herself a little
inferior to Maria. Her temper was naturally the easiest of the two;
her feelings, though quick, were more controllable, and education
had not given her so very hurtful a degree of self-consequence.

She had submitted the best to the disappointment in Henry Crawford.
After the first bitterness of the conviction of being slighted was
over, she had been tolerably soon in a fair way of not thinking of
him again; and when the acquaintance was renewed in town, and Mr.\ Rushworth's
house became Crawford's object, she had had the merit of withdrawing
herself from it, and of chusing that time to pay a visit to her other
friends, in order to secure herself from being again too much attracted.
This had been her motive in going to her cousin's. Mr.\ Yates's convenience
had had nothing to do with it. She had been allowing his attentions
some time, but with very little idea of ever accepting him; and had
not her sister's conduct burst forth as it did, and her increased
dread of her father and of home, on that event, imagining its certain
consequence to herself would be greater severity and restraint, made
her hastily resolve on avoiding such immediate horrors at all risks,
it is probable that Mr.\ Yates would never have succeeded. She had
not eloped with any worse feelings than those of selfish alarm. It
had appeared to her the only thing to be done. Maria's guilt had induced
Julia's folly.

Henry Crawford, ruined by early independence and bad domestic example,
indulged in the freaks of a cold-blooded vanity a little too long.
Once it had, by an opening undesigned and unmerited, led him into
the way of happiness. Could he have been satisfied with the conquest
of one amiable woman's affections, could he have found sufficient
exultation in overcoming the reluctance, in working himself into the
esteem and tenderness of Fanny Price, there would have been every
probability of success and felicity for him. His affection had already
done something. Her influence over him had already given him some
influence over her. Would he have deserved more, there can be no doubt
that more would have been obtained, especially when that marriage
had taken place, which would have given him the assistance of her
conscience in subduing her first inclination, and brought them very
often together. Would he have persevered, and uprightly, Fanny must
have been his reward, and a reward very voluntarily bestowed, within
a reasonable period from Edmund's marrying Mary.

Had he done as he intended, and as he knew he ought, by going down
to Everingham after his return from Portsmouth, he might have been
deciding his own happy destiny. But he was pressed to stay for Mrs.\ Fraser's
party; his staying was made of flattering consequence, and he was
to meet Mrs.\ Rushworth there. Curiosity and vanity were both engaged,
and the temptation of immediate pleasure was too strong for a mind
unused to make any sacrifice to right: he resolved to defer his Norfolk
journey, resolved that writing should answer the purpose of it, or
that its purpose was unimportant, and staid. He saw Mrs.\ Rushworth,
was received by her with a coldness which ought to have been repulsive,
and have established apparent indifference between them for ever;
but he was mortified, he could not bear to be thrown off by the woman
whose smiles had been so wholly at his command: he must exert himself
to subdue so proud a display of resentment; it was anger on Fanny's
account; he must get the better of it, and make Mrs.\ Rushworth Maria
Bertram again in her treatment of himself.

In this spirit he began the attack, and by animated perseverance had
soon re-established the sort of familiar intercourse, of gallantry,
of flirtation, which bounded his views; but in triumphing over the
discretion which, though beginning in anger, might have saved them
both, he had put himself in the power of feelings on her side more
strong than he had supposed. She loved him; there was no withdrawing
attentions avowedly dear to her. He was entangled by his own vanity,
with as little excuse of love as possible, and without the smallest
inconstancy of mind towards her cousin. To keep Fanny and the Bertrams
from a knowledge of what was passing became his first object. Secrecy
could not have been more desirable for Mrs.\ Rushworth's credit than
he felt it for his own. When he returned from Richmond, he would have
been glad to see Mrs.\ Rushworth no more. All that followed was the
result of her imprudence; and he went off with her at last, because
he could not help it, regretting Fanny even at the moment, but regretting
her infinitely more when all the bustle of the intrigue was over,
and a very few months had taught him, by the force of contrast, to
place a yet higher value on the sweetness of her temper, the purity
of her mind, and the excellence of her principles.

That punishment, the public punishment of disgrace, should in a just
measure attend \textit{his} share of the offence is, we know, not
one of the barriers which society gives to virtue. In this world the
penalty is less equal than could be wished; but without presuming
to look forward to a juster appointment hereafter, we may fairly consider
a man of sense, like Henry Crawford, to be providing for himself no
small portion of vexation and regret: vexation that must rise sometimes
to self-reproach, and regret to wretchedness, in having so requited
hospitality, so injured family peace, so forfeited his best, most
estimable, and endeared acquaintance, and so lost the woman whom he
had rationally as well as passionately loved.

After what had passed to wound and alienate the two families, the
continuance of the Bertrams and Grants in such close neighbourhood
would have been most distressing; but the absence of the latter, for
some months purposely lengthened, ended very fortunately in the necessity,
or at least the practicability, of a permanent removal. Dr.\ Grant,
through an interest on which he had almost ceased to form hopes, succeeded
to a stall in Westminster, which, as affording an occasion for leaving
Mansfield, an excuse for residence in London, and an increase of income
to answer the expenses of the change, was highly acceptable to those
who went and those who staid.

Mrs.\ Grant, with a temper to love and be loved, must have gone with
some regret from the scenes and people she had been used to; but the
same happiness of disposition must in any place, and any society,
secure her a great deal to enjoy, and she had again a home to offer
Mary; and Mary had had enough of her own friends, enough of vanity,
ambition, love, and disappointment in the course of the last half-year,
to be in need of the true kindness of her sister's heart, and the
rational tranquillity of her ways. They lived together; and when Dr.\ Grant
had brought on apoplexy and death, by three great institutionary dinners
in one week, they still lived together; for Mary, though perfectly
resolved against ever attaching herself to a younger brother again,
was long in finding among the dashing representatives, or idle heir-apparents,
who were at the command of her beauty, and her \pounds{}20,000, any
one who could satisfy the better taste she had acquired at Mansfield,
whose character and manners could authorise a hope of the domestic
happiness she had there learned to estimate, or put Edmund Bertram
sufficiently out of her head.

Edmund had greatly the advantage of her in this respect. He had not
to wait and wish with vacant affections for an object worthy to succeed
her in them. Scarcely had he done regretting Mary Crawford, and observing
to Fanny how impossible it was that he should ever meet with such
another woman, before it began to strike him whether a very different
kind of woman might not do just as well, or a great deal better: whether
Fanny herself were not growing as dear, as important to him in all
her smiles and all her ways, as Mary Crawford had ever been; and whether
it might not be a possible, an hopeful undertaking to persuade her
that her warm and sisterly regard for him would be foundation enough
for wedded love.

I purposely abstain from dates on this occasion, that every one may
be at liberty to fix their own, aware that the cure of unconquerable
passions, and the transfer of unchanging attachments, must vary much
as to time in different people. I only entreat everybody to believe
that exactly at the time when it was quite natural that it should
be so, and not a week earlier, Edmund did cease to care about Miss
Crawford, and became as anxious to marry Fanny as Fanny herself could
desire.

With such a regard for her, indeed, as his had long been, a regard
founded on the most endearing claims of innocence and helplessness,
and completed by every recommendation of growing worth, what could
be more natural than the change? Loving, guiding, protecting her,
as he had been doing ever since her being ten years old, her mind
in so great a degree formed by his care, and her comfort depending
on his kindness, an object to him of such close and peculiar interest,
dearer by all his own importance with her than any one else at Mansfield,
what was there now to add, but that he should learn to prefer soft
light eyes to sparkling dark ones. And being always with her, and
always talking confidentially, and his feelings exactly in that favourable
state which a recent disappointment gives, those soft light eyes could
not be very long in obtaining the pre-eminence.

Having once set out, and felt that he had done so on this road to
happiness, there was nothing on the side of prudence to stop him or
make his progress slow; no doubts of her deserving, no fears of opposition
of taste, no need of drawing new hopes of happiness from dissimilarity
of temper. Her mind, disposition, opinions, and habits wanted no half-concealment,
no self-deception on the present, no reliance on future improvement.
Even in the midst of his late infatuation, he had acknowledged Fanny's
mental superiority. What must be his sense of it now, therefore? She
was of course only too good for him; but as nobody minds having what
is too good for them, he was very steadily earnest in the pursuit
of the blessing, and it was not possible that encouragement from her
should be long wanting. Timid, anxious, doubting as she was, it was
still impossible that such tenderness as hers should not, at times,
hold out the strongest hope of success, though it remained for a later
period to tell him the whole delightful and astonishing truth. His
happiness in knowing himself to have been so long the beloved of such
a heart, must have been great enough to warrant any strength of language
in which he could clothe it to her or to himself; it must have been
a delightful happiness. But there was happiness elsewhere which no
description can reach. Let no one presume to give the feelings of
a young woman on receiving the assurance of that affection of which
she has scarcely allowed herself to entertain a hope.

Their own inclinations ascertained, there were no difficulties behind,
no drawback of poverty or parent. It was a match which Sir Thomas's
wishes had even forestalled. Sick of ambitious and mercenary connexions,
prizing more and more the sterling good of principle and temper, and
chiefly anxious to bind by the strongest securities all that remained
to him of domestic felicity, he had pondered with genuine satisfaction
on the more than possibility of the two young friends finding their
natural consolation in each other for all that had occurred of disappointment
to either; and the joyful consent which met Edmund's application,
the high sense of having realised a great acquisition in the promise
of Fanny for a daughter, formed just such a contrast with his early
opinion on the subject when the poor little girl's coming had been
first agitated, as time is for ever producing between the plans and
decisions of mortals, for their own instruction, and their neighbours'
entertainment.

Fanny was indeed the daughter that he wanted. His charitable kindness
had been rearing a prime comfort for himself. His liberality had a
rich repayment, and the general goodness of his intentions by her
deserved it. He might have made her childhood happier; but it had
been an error of judgment only which had given him the appearance
of harshness, and deprived him of her early love; and now, on really
knowing each other, their mutual attachment became very strong. After
settling her at Thornton Lacey with every kind attention to her comfort,
the object of almost every day was to see her there, or to get her
away from it.

Selfishly dear as she had long been to Lady Bertram, she could not
be parted with willingly by \textit{her}. No happiness of son or niece
could make her wish the marriage. But it was possible to part with
her, because Susan remained to supply her place. Susan became the
stationary niece, delighted to be so; and equally well adapted for
it by a readiness of mind, and an inclination for usefulness, as Fanny
had been by sweetness of temper, and strong feelings of gratitude.
Susan could never be spared. First as a comfort to Fanny, then as
an auxiliary, and last as her substitute, she was established at Mansfield,
with every appearance of equal permanency. Her more fearless disposition
and happier nerves made everything easy to her there. With quickness
in understanding the tempers of those she had to deal with, and no
natural timidity to restrain any consequent wishes, she was soon welcome
and useful to all; and after Fanny's removal succeeded so naturally
to her influence over the hourly comfort of her aunt, as gradually
to become, perhaps, the most beloved of the two. In \textit{her} usefulness,
in Fanny's excellence, in William's continued good conduct and rising
fame, and in the general well-doing and success of the other members
of the family, all assisting to advance each other, and doing credit
to his countenance and aid, Sir Thomas saw repeated, and for ever
repeated, reason to rejoice in what he had done for them all, and
acknowledge the advantages of early hardship and discipline, and the
consciousness of being born to struggle and endure.

With so much true merit and true love, and no want of fortune and
friends, the happiness of the married cousins must appear as secure
as earthly happiness can be. Equally formed for domestic life, and
attached to country pleasures, their home was the home of affection
and comfort; and to complete the picture of good, the acquisition
of Mansfield living, by the death of Dr.\ Grant, occurred just after
they had been married long enough to begin to want an increase of
income, and feel their distance from the paternal abode an inconvenience.

On that event they removed to Mansfield; and the Parsonage there,
which, under each of its two former owners, Fanny had never been able
to approach but with some painful sensation of restraint or alarm,
soon grew as dear to her heart, and as thoroughly perfect in her eyes,
as everything else within the view and patronage of Mansfield Park
had long been. 
\end{document}
