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—from a general wish of doing right, and

a desire of seeing all that were connected with him in situations of

respectability, he would have been glad to exert for the advantage of

Lady Bertram’s sister; but her husband’s profession was such as no

interest could reach; and before he had time to devise any other method

of assisting them, an absolute breach between the sisters had taken

place. It was the natural result of the conduct of each party, and such

as a very imprudent marriage almost always produces. To save herself

from useless remonstrance, Mrs. Price never wrote to her family on the

subject till actually married. Lady Bertram, who was a woman of very

tranquil feelings, and a temper remarkably easy and indolent, would

have contented herself with merely giving up her sister, and thinking

no more of the matter; but Mrs. Norris had a spirit of activity, which

could not be satisfied till she had written a long and angry letter to

Fanny, to point out the folly of her conduct, and threaten her with all

its possible ill consequences. Mrs. Price, in her turn, was injured and

angry; and an answer, which comprehended each sister in its bitterness,

and bestowed such very disrespectful reflections on the pride of Sir

Thomas as Mrs. Norris could not possibly keep to herself, put an end to

all intercourse between them for a considerable period.

Their homes were so distant, and the circles in which they moved so

distinct, as almost to preclude the means of ever hearing of each

other’s existence during the eleven following years, or, at least, to

make it very wonderful to Sir Thomas that Mrs. Norris should ever have

it in her power to tell them, as she now and then did, in an angry

voice, that Fanny had got another child. By the end of eleven years,

however, Mrs. Price could no longer afford to cherish pride or

resentment, or to lose one connexion that might possibly assist her. A

large and still increasing family, an husband disabled for active

service, but not the less equal to company and good liquor, and a very

small income to supply their wants, made her eager to regain the

friends she had so carelessly sacrificed; and she addressed Lady

Bertram in a letter which spoke so much contrition and despondence,

such a superfluity of children, and such a want of almost everything

else, as could not but dispose them all to a reconciliation. She was

preparing for her ninth lying-in; and after bewailing the circumstance,

and imploring their countenance as sponsors to the expected child, she

could not conceal how important she felt they might be to the future

maintenance of the eight already in being. Her eldest was a boy of ten

years old, a fine spirited fellow, who longed to be out in the world;

but what could she do? Was there any chance of his being hereafter

useful to Sir Thomas in the concerns of his West Indian property? No

situation would be beneath him; or what did Sir Thomas think of

Woolwich? or how could a boy be sent out to the East?

The letter was not unproductive. It re-established peace and kindness.

Sir Thomas sent friendly advice and professions, Lady Bertram

dispatched money and baby-linen, and Mrs. Norris wrote the letters.

Such were its immediate effects, and within a twelvemonth a more

important advantage to Mrs. Price resulted from it. Mrs. Norris was

often observing to the others that she could not get her poor sister

and her family out of her head, and that, much as they had all done for

her, she seemed to be wanting to do more; and at length she could not

but own it to be her wish that poor Mrs. Price should be relieved from

the charge and expense of one child entirely out of her great number.

“What if they were among them to undertake the care of her eldest

daughter, a girl now nine years old, of an age to require more

attention than her poor mother could possibly give? The trouble and

expense of it to them would be nothing, compared with the benevolence

of the action.” Lady Bertram agreed with her instantly. “I think we

cannot do better,” said she; “let us send for the child.”

Sir Thomas could not give so instantaneous and unqualified a consent.

He debated and hesitated;—it was a serious charge;—a girl so brought up

must be adequately provided for, or there would be cruelty instead of

kindness in taking her from her family. He thought of his own four

children, of his two sons, of cousins in love, etc.;—but no sooner had

he deliberately begun to state his objections, than Mrs. Norris

interrupted him with a reply to them all, whether stated or not.

“My dear Sir Thomas, I perfectly comprehend you, and do justice to the

generosity and delicacy of your notions, which indeed are quite of a

piece with your general conduct; and I entirely agree with you in the

main as to the propriety of doing everything one could by way of

providing for a child one had in a manner taken into one’s own hands;

and I am sure I should be the last person in the world to withhold my

mite upon such an occasion. Having no children of my own, who should I

look to in any little matter I may ever have to bestow, but the

children of my sisters?—and I am sure Mr. Norris is too just—but you

know I am a woman of few words and professions. Do not let us be

frightened from a good deed by a trifle. Give a girl an education, and

introduce her properly into the world, and ten to one but she has the

means of settling well, without farther expense to anybody. A niece of

ours, Sir Thomas, I may say, or at least of _yours_, would not grow up

in this neighbourhood without many advantages. I don’t say she would be

so handsome as her cousins. I dare say she would not; but she would be

introduced into the society of this country under such very favourable

circumstances as, in all human probability, would get her a creditable

establishment. You are thinking of your sons—but do not you know that,

of all things upon earth, _that_ is the least likely to happen, brought

up as they would be, always together like brothers and sisters? It is

morally impossible. I never knew an instance of it. It is, in fact, the

only sure way of providing against the connexion. Suppose her a pretty

girl, and seen by Tom or Edmund for the first time seven years hence,

and I dare say there would be mischief. The very idea of her having

been suffered to grow up at a distance from us all in poverty and

neglect, would be enough to make either of the dear, sweet-tempered

boys in love with her. But breed her up with them from this time, and

suppose her even to have the beauty of an angel, and she will never be

more to either than a sister.”

“There is a great deal of truth in what you say,” replied Sir Thomas,

“and far be it from me to throw any fanciful impediment in the way of a

plan which would be so consistent with the relative situations of each.

I only meant to observe that it ought not to be lightly engaged in, and

that to make it really serviceable to Mrs. Price, and creditable to

ourselves, we must secure to the child, or consider ourselves engaged

to secure to her hereafter, as circumstances may arise, the provision

of a gentlewoman, if no such establishment should offer as you are so

sanguine in expecting.”

“I thoroughly understand you,” cried Mrs. Norris, “you are everything

that is generous and considerate, and I am sure we shall never disagree

on this point. Whatever I can do, as you well know, I am always ready

enough to do for the good of those I love; and, though I could never

feel for this little girl the hundredth part of the regard I bear your

own dear children, nor consider her, in any respect, so much my own, I

should hate myself if I were capable of neglecting her. Is not she a

sister’s child? and could I bear to see her want while I had a bit of

bread to give her? My dear Sir Thomas, with all my faults I have a warm

heart; and, poor as I am, would rather deny myself the necessaries of

life than do an ungenerous thing. So, if you are not against it, I will

write to my poor sister tomorrow, and make the proposal; and, as soon

as matters are settled, _I_ will engage to get the child to Mansfield;

_you_ shall have no trouble about it. My own trouble, you know, I never

regard. I will send Nanny to London on purpose, and she may have a bed

at her cousin the saddler’s, and the child be appointed to meet her

there. They may easily get her from Portsmouth to town by the coach,

under the care of any creditable person that may chance to be going. I

dare say there is always some reputable tradesman’s wife or other going

up.”

Except to the attack on Nanny’s cousin, Sir Thomas no longer made any

objection, and a more respectable, though less economical rendezvous

being accordingly substituted, everything was considered as settled,

and the pleasures of so benevolent a scheme were already enjoyed. The

division of gratifying sensations ought not, in strict justice, to have

been equal; for Sir Thomas was fully resolved to be the real and

consistent patron of the selected child, and Mrs. Norris had not the

least intention of being at any expense whatever in her maintenance. As

far as walking, talking, and contriving reached, she was thoroughly

benevolent, and nobody knew better how to dictate liberality to others;

but her love of money was equal to her love of directing, and she knew

quite as well how to save her own as to spend that of her friends.

Having married on a narrower income than she had been used to look

forward to, she had, from the first, fancied a very strict line of

economy necessary; and what was begun as a matter of prudence, soon

grew into a matter of choice, as an object of that needful solicitude

which there were no children to supply. Had there been a family to

provide for, Mrs. Norris might never have saved her money; but having

no care of that kind, there was nothing to impede her frugality, or

lessen the comfort of making a yearly addition to an income which they

had never lived up to. Under this infatuating principle, counteracted

by no real affection for her sister, it was impossible for her to aim

at more than the credit of projecting and arranging so expensive a

charity; though perhaps she might so little know herself as to walk

home to the Parsonage, after this conversation, in the happy belief of

being the most liberal-minded sister and aunt in the world.

When the subject was brought forward again, her views were more fully

explained; and, in reply to Lady Bertram’s calm inquiry of “Where shall

the child come to first, sister, to you or to us?” Sir Thomas heard

with some surprise that it would be totally out of Mrs. Norris’s power

to take any share in the personal charge of her. He had been

considering her as a particularly welcome addition at the Parsonage, as

a desirable companion to an aunt who had no children of her own; but he

found himself wholly mistaken. Mrs. Norris was sorry to say that the

little girl’s staying with them, at least as things then were, was

quite out of the question. Poor Mr. Norris’s indifferent state of

health made it an impossibility: he could no more bear the noise of a

child than he could fly; if, indeed, he should ever get well of his

gouty complaints, it would be a different matter: she should then be

glad to take her turn, and think nothing of the inconvenience; but just

now, poor Mr. Norris took up every moment of her time, and the very

mention of such a thing she was sure would distract him.

“Then she had better come to us,” said Lady Bertram, with the utmost

composure. After a short pause Sir Thomas added with dignity, “Yes, let

her home be in this house. We will endeavour to do our duty by her, and

she will, at least, have the advantage of companions of her own age,

and of a regular instructress.”

“Very true,” cried Mrs. Norris, “which are both very important

considerations; and it will be just the same to Miss Lee whether she

has three girls to teach, or only two—there can be no difference. I

only wish I could be more useful; but you see I do all in my power. I

am not one of those that spare their own trouble; and Nanny shall fetch

her, however it may put me to inconvenience to have my chief counsellor

away for three days. I suppose, sister, you will put the child in the

little white attic, near the old nurseries. It will be much the best

place for her, so near Miss Lee, and not far from the girls, and close

by the housemaids, who could either of them help to dress her, you

know, and take care of her clothes, for I suppose you would not think

it fair to expect Ellis to wait on her as well as the others. Indeed, I

do not see that you could possibly place her anywhere else.”

Lady Bertram made no opposition.

“I hope she will prove a well-disposed girl,” continued Mrs. Norris,

“and be sensible of her uncommon good fortune in having such friends.”

“Should her disposition be really bad,” said Sir Thomas, “we must not,

for our own children’s sake, continue her in the family; but there is

no reason to expect so great an evil. We shall probably see much to

wish altered in her, and must prepare ourselves for gross ignorance,

some meanness of opinions, and very distressing vulgarity of manner;

but these are not incurable faults; nor, I trust, can they be dangerous

for her associates. Had my daughters been _younger_ than herself, I

should have considered the introduction of such a companion as a matter

of very serious moment; but, as it is, I hope there can be nothing to

fear for _them_, and everything to hope for _her_, from the

association.”

“That is exactly what I think,” cried Mrs. Norris, “and what I was

saying to my husband this morning. It will be an education for the

child, said I, only being with her cousins; if Miss Lee taught her

nothing, she would learn to be good and clever from _them_.”

“I hope she will not tease my poor pug,” said Lady Bertram; “I have but

just got Julia to leave it alone.”

“There will be some difficulty in our way, Mrs. Norris,” observed Sir

Thomas, “as to the distinction proper to be made between the girls as

they grow up: how to preserve in the minds of my _daughters_ the

consciousness of what they are, without making them think too lowly of

their cousin; and how, without depressing her spirits too far, to make

her remember that she is not a _Miss Bertram_. I should wish to see

them very good friends, and would, on no account, authorise in my girls

the smallest degree of arrogance towards their relation; but still they

cannot be equals. Their rank, fortune, rights, and expectations will

always be different. It is a point of great delicacy, and you must

assist us in our endeavours to choose exactly the right line of

conduct.”

Mrs. Norris was quite at his service; and though she perfectly agreed

with him as to its being a most difficult thing, encouraged him to hope

that between them it would be easily managed.

It will be readily believed that Mrs. Norris did not write to her

sister in vain. Mrs. Price seemed rather surprised that a girl should

be fixed on, when she had so many fine boys, but accepted the offer

most thankfully, assuring them of her daughter’s being a very

well-disposed, good-humoured girl, and trusting they would never have

cause to throw her off. She spoke of her farther as somewhat delicate

and puny, but was sanguine in the hope of her being materially better

for change of air. Poor woman! she probably thought change of air might

agree with many of her children.

CHAPTER II

The little girl performed her long journey in safety; and at

Northampton was met by Mrs. Norris, who thus regaled in the credit of

being foremost to welcome her, and in the importance of leading her in

to the others, and recommending her to their kindness.

Fanny Price was at this time just ten years old, and though there might

not be much in her first appearance to captivate, there was, at least,

nothing to disgust her relations. She was small of her age, with no

glow of complexion, nor any other striking beauty; exceedingly timid

and shy, and shrinking from notice; but her air, though awkward, was

not vulgar, her voice was sweet, and when she spoke her countenance was

pretty. Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram received her very kindly; and Sir

Thomas, seeing how much she needed encouragement, tried to be all that

was conciliating: but he had to work against a most untoward gravity of

deportment; and Lady Bertram, without taking half so much trouble, or

speaking one word where he spoke ten, by the mere aid of a

good-humoured smile, became immediately the less awful character of the

two.

The young people were all at home, and sustained their share in the

introduction very well, with much good humour, and no embarrassment, at

least on the part of the sons, who, at seventeen and sixteen, and tall

of their age, had all the grandeur of men in the eyes of their little

cousin. The two girls were more at a loss from being younger and in

greater awe of their father, who addressed them on the occasion with

rather an injudicious particularity. But they were too much used to

company and praise to have anything like natural shyness; and their

confidence increasing from their cousin’s total want of it, they were

soon able to take a full survey of her face and her frock in easy

indifference.

They were a remarkably fine family, the sons very well-looking, the

daughters decidedly handsome, and all of them well-grown and forward of

their age, which produced as striking a difference between the cousins

in person, as education had given to their address; and no one would

have supposed the girls so nearly of an age as they really were. There

were in fact but two years between the youngest and Fanny. Julia

Bertram was only twelve, and Maria but a year older. The little visitor

meanwhile was as unhappy as possible. Afraid of everybody, ashamed of

herself, and longing for the home she had left, she knew not how to

look up, and could scarcely speak to be heard, or without crying. Mrs.

Norris had been talking to her the whole way from Northampton of her

wonderful good fortune, and the extraordinary degree of gratitude and

good behaviour which it ought to produce, and her consciousness of

misery was therefore increased by the idea of its being a wicked thing

for her not to be happy. The fatigue, too, of so long a journey, became

soon no trifling evil. In vain were the well-meant condescensions of

Sir Thomas, and all the officious prognostications of Mrs. Norris that

she would be a good girl; in vain did Lady Bertram smile and make her

sit on the sofa with herself and pug, and vain was even the sight of a

gooseberry tart towards giving her comfort; she could scarcely swallow

two mouthfuls before tears interrupted her, and sleep seeming to be her

likeliest friend, she was taken to finish her sorrows in bed.

“This is not a very promising beginning,” said Mrs. Norris, when Fanny

had left the room. “After all that I said to her as we came along, I

thought she would have behaved better; I told her how much might depend

upon her acquitting herself well at first. I wish there may not be a

little sulkiness of temper—her poor mother had a good deal; but we must

make allowances for such a child—and I do not know that her being sorry

to leave her home is really against her, for, with all its faults, it

_was_ her home, and she cannot as yet understand how much she has

changed for the better; but then there is moderation in all things.”

It required a longer time, however, than Mrs. Norris was inclined to

allow, to reconcile Fanny to the novelty of Mansfield Park, and the

separation from everybody she had been used to. Her feelings were very

acute, and too little understood to be properly attended to. Nobody

meant to be unkind, but nobody put themselves out of their way to

secure her comfort.

The holiday allowed to the Miss Bertrams the next day, on purpose to

afford leisure for getting acquainted with, and entertaining their

young cousin, produced little union. They could not but hold her cheap

on finding that she had but two sashes, and had never learned French;

and when they perceived her to be little struck with the duet they were

so good as to play, they could do no more than make her a generous

present of some of their least valued toys, and leave her to herself,

while they adjourned to whatever might be the favourite holiday sport

of the moment, making artificial flowers or wasting gold paper.

Fanny, whether near or from her cousins, whether in the schoolroom, the

drawing-room, or the shrubbery, was equally forlorn, finding something

to fear in every person and place. She was disheartened by Lady

Bertram’s silence, awed by Sir Thomas’s grave looks, and quite overcome

by Mrs. Norris’s admonitions. Her elder cousins mortified her by

reflections on her size, and abashed her by noticing her shyness: Miss

Lee wondered at her ignorance, and the maid-servants sneered at her

clothes; and when to these sorrows was added the idea of the brothers

and sisters among whom she had always been important as playfellow,

instructress, and nurse, the despondence that sunk her little heart was

severe.

The grandeur of the house astonished, but could not console her. The

rooms were too large for her to move in with ease: whatever she touched

she expected to injure, and she crept about in constant terror of

something or other; often retreating towards her own chamber to cry;

and the little girl who was spoken of in the drawing-room when she left

it at night as seeming so desirably sensible of her peculiar good

fortune, ended every day’s sorrows by sobbing herself to sleep. A week

had passed in this way, and no suspicion of it conveyed by her quiet

passive manner, when she was found one morning by her cousin Edmund,

the youngest of the sons, sitting crying on the attic stairs.

“My dear little cousin,” said he, with all the gentleness of an

excellent nature, “what can be the matter?” And sitting down by her, he

was at great pains to overcome her shame in being so surprised, and

persuade her to speak openly. Was she ill? or was anybody angry with

her? or had she quarrelled with Maria and Julia? or was she puzzled

about anything in her lesson that he could explain? Did she, in short,

want anything he could possibly get her, or do for her? For a long

while no answer could be obtained beyond a “no, no—not at all—no, thank

you”; but he still persevered; and no sooner had he begun to revert to

her own home, than her increased sobs explained to him where the

grievance lay. He tried to console her.

“You are sorry to leave Mama, my dear little Fanny,” said he, “which

shows you to be a very good girl; but you must remember that you are

with relations and friends, who all love you, and wish to make you

happy. Let us walk out in the park, and you shall tell me all about

your brothers and sisters.”

On pursuing the subject, he found that, dear as all these brothers and

sisters generally were, there was one among them who ran more in her

thoughts than the rest. It was William whom she talked of most, and

wanted most to see. William, the eldest, a year older than herself, her

constant companion and friend; her advocate with her mother (of whom he

was the darling) in every distress. “William did not like she should

come away; he had told her he should miss her very much indeed.” “But

William will write to you, I dare say.” “Yes, he had promised he would,

but he had told _her_ to write first.” “And when shall you do it?” She

hung her head and answered hesitatingly, “she did not know; she had not

any paper.”

“If that be all your difficulty, I will furnish you with paper and

every other material, and you may write your letter whenever you

choose. Would it make you happy to write to William?”

“Yes, very.”

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

shall find everything there, and be sure of having the room to

ourselves.”

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

“Yes, depend upon me it shall: it shall go with the other letters; and,

as your uncle will frank it, it will cost William nothing.”

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

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

frank.”

Fanny thought it a bold measure, but offered no further resistance; and

they went together into the breakfast-room, where Edmund prepared her

paper, and ruled her lines with all the goodwill that her brother could

himself have felt, and probably with somewhat more exactness. He

continued with her the whole time of her writing, to assist her with

his penknife or his orthography, as either were wanted; and added to

these attentions, which she felt very much, a kindness to her brother

which delighted her beyond all the rest. He wrote with his own hand his

love to his cousin William, and sent him half a guinea under the seal.

Fanny’s feelings on the occasion were such as she believed herself

incapable of expressing; but her countenance and a few artless words

fully conveyed all their gratitude and delight, and her cousin began to

find her an interesting object. He talked to her more, and, from all

that she said, was convinced of her having an affectionate heart, and a

strong desire of doing right; and he could perceive her to be farther

entitled to attention by great sensibility of her situation, and great

timidity. He had never knowingly given her pain, but he now felt that

she required more positive kindness; and with that view endeavoured, in

the first place, to lessen her fears of them all, and gave her

especially a great deal of good advice as to playing with Maria and

Julia, and being as merry as possible.

From this day Fanny grew more comfortable. She felt that she had a

friend, and the kindness of her cousin Edmund gave her better spirits

with everybody else. The place became less strange, and the people less

formidable; and if there were some amongst them whom she could not

cease to fear, she began at least to know their ways, and to catch the

best manner of conforming to them. The little rusticities and

awkwardnesses which had at first made grievous inroads on the

tranquillity of all, and not least of herself, necessarily wore away,

and she was no longer materially afraid to appear before her uncle, nor

did her aunt Norris’s voice make her start very much. To her cousins

she became occasionally an acceptable companion. Though unworthy, from

inferiority of age and strength, to be their constant associate, their

pleasures and schemes were sometimes of a nature to make a third very

useful, especially when that third was of an obliging, yielding temper;

and they could not but own, when their aunt inquired into her faults,

or their brother Edmund urged her claims to their kindness, that “Fanny

was good-natured enough.”

Edmund was uniformly kind himself; and she had nothing worse to endure

on the part of Tom than that sort of merriment which a young man of

seventeen will always think fair with a child of ten. He was just

entering into life, full of spirits, and with all the liberal

dispositions of an eldest son, who feels born only for expense and

enjoyment. His kindness to his little cousin was consistent with his

situation and rights: he made her some very pretty presents, and

laughed at her.

As her appearance and spirits improved, Sir Thomas and Mrs. Norris

thought with greater satisfaction of their benevolent plan; and it was

pretty soon decided between them that, though far from clever, she

showed a tractable disposition, and seemed likely to give them little

trouble. A mean opinion of her abilities was not confined to _them_.

Fanny could read, work, and write, but she had been taught nothing

more; and as her cousins found her ignorant of many things with which

they had been long familiar, they thought her prodigiously stupid, and

for the first two or three weeks were continually bringing some fresh

report of it into the drawing-room. “Dear mama, only think, my cousin

cannot put the map of Europe together—or my cousin cannot tell the

principal rivers in Russia—or, she never heard of Asia Minor—or she

does not know the difference between water-colours and crayons!—How

strange!—Did you ever hear anything so stupid?”

“My dear,” their considerate aunt would reply, “it is very bad, but you

must not expect everybody to be as forward and quick at learning as

yourself.”

“But, aunt, she is really so very ignorant!—Do you know, we asked her

last night which way she would go to get to Ireland; and she said, she

should cross to the Isle of Wight. She thinks of nothing but the Isle

of Wight, and she calls it _the_ _Island_, as if there were no other

island in the world. I am sure I should have been ashamed of myself, if

I had not known better long before I was so old as she is. I cannot

remember the time when I did not know a great deal that she has not the

least notion of yet. How long ago it is, aunt, since we used to repeat

the chronological order of the kings of England, with the dates of

their accession, and most of the principal events of their reigns!”

“Yes,” added the other; “and of the Roman emperors as low as Severus;

besides a great deal of the heathen mythology, and all the metals,

semi-metals, planets, and distinguished philosophers.”

“Very true indeed, my dears, but you are blessed with wonderful

memories, and your poor cousin has probably none at all. There is a

vast deal of difference in memories, as well as in everything else, and

therefore you must make allowance for your cousin, and pity her

deficiency. And remember that, if you are ever so forward and clever

yourselves, you should always be modest; for, much as you know already,

there is a great deal more for you to learn.”

“Yes, I know there is, till I am seventeen. But I must tell you another

thing of Fanny, so odd and so stupid. Do you know, she says she does

not want to learn either music or drawing.”

“To be sure, my dear, that is very stupid indeed, and shows a great

want of genius and emulation. But, all things considered, I do not know

whether it is not as well that it should be so, for, though you know

(owing to me) your papa and mama are so good as to bring her up with

you, it is not at all necessary that she should be as accomplished as

you are;—on the contrary, it is much more desirable that there should

be a difference.”

Such were the counsels by which Mrs. Norris assisted to form her

nieces’ minds; and it is not very wonderful that, with all their

promising talents and early information, they should be entirely

deficient in the less common acquirements of self-knowledge, generosity

and humility. In everything but disposition they were admirably taught.

Sir Thomas did not know what was wanting, because, though a truly

anxious father, he was not outwardly affectionate, and the reserve of

his manner repressed all the flow of their spirits before him.

To the education of her daughters Lady Bertram paid not the smallest

attention. She had not time for such cares. She was a woman who spent

her days in sitting, nicely dressed, on a sofa, doing some long piece

of needlework, of little use and no beauty, thinking more of her pug

than her children, but very indulgent to the latter when it did not put

herself to inconvenience, guided in everything important by Sir Thomas,

and in smaller concerns by her sister. Had she possessed greater

leisure for the service of her girls, she would probably have supposed

it unnecessary, for they were under the care of a governess, with

proper masters, and could want nothing more. As for Fanny’s being

stupid at learning, “she could only say it was very unlucky, but some

people _were_ stupid, and Fanny must take more pains: she did not know

what else was to be done; and, except her being so dull, she must add

she saw no harm in the poor little thing, and always found her very

handy and quick in carrying messages, and fetching what she wanted.”

Fanny, with all her faults of ignorance and timidity, was fixed at

Mansfield Park, and learning to transfer in its favour much of her

attachment to her former home, grew up there not unhappily among her

cousins. There was no positive ill-nature in Maria or Julia; and though

Fanny was often mortified by their treatment of her, she thought too

lowly of her own claims to feel injured by it.

From about the time of her entering the family, Lady Bertram, in

consequence of a little ill-health, and a great deal of indolence, gave

up the house in town, which she had been used to occupy every spring,

and remained wholly in the country, leaving Sir Thomas to attend his

duty in Parliament, with whatever increase or diminution of comfort

might arise from her absence. In the country, therefore, the Miss

Bertrams continued to exercise their memories, practise their duets,

and grow tall and womanly: and their father saw them becoming in

person, manner, and accomplishments, everything that could satisfy his

anxiety. His eldest son was careless and extravagant, and had already

given him much uneasiness; but his other children promised him nothing

but good. His daughters, he felt, while they retained the name of

Bertram, must be giving it new grace, and in quitting it, he trusted,

would extend its respectable alliances; and the character of Edmund,

his strong good sense and uprightness of mind, bid most fairly for

utility, honour, and happiness to himself and all his connexions. He

was to be a clergyman.

Amid the cares and the complacency which his own children suggested,

Sir Thomas did not forget to do what he could for the children of Mrs.

Price: he assisted her liberally in the education and disposal of her

sons as they became old enough for a determinate pursuit; and Fanny,

though almost totally separated from her family, was sensible of the

truest satisfaction in hearing of any kindness towards them, or of

anything at all promising in their situation or conduct. Once, and once

only, in the course of many years, had she the happiness of being with

William. Of the rest she saw nothing: nobody seemed to think of her

ever going amongst them again, even for a visit, nobody at home seemed

to want her; but William determining, soon after her removal, to be a

sailor, was invited to spend a week with his sister in Northamptonshire

before he went to sea. Their eager affection in meeting, their

exquisite delight in being together, their hours of happy mirth, and

moments of serious conference, may be imagined; as well as the sanguine

views and spirits of the boy even to the last, and the misery of the

girl when he left her. Luckily the visit happened in the Christmas

holidays, when she could directly look for comfort to her cousin

Edmund; and he told her such charming things of what William was to do,

and be hereafter, in consequence of his profession, as made her

gradually admit that the separation might have some use. Edmund’s

friendship never failed her: his leaving Eton for Oxford made no change

in his kind dispositions, and only afforded more frequent opportunities

of proving them. Without any display of doing more than the rest, or

any fear of doing too much, he was always true to her interests, and

considerate of her feelings, trying to make her good qualities

understood, and to conquer the diffidence which prevented their being

more apparent; giving her advice, consolation, and encouragement.

Kept back as she was by everybody else, his single support could not

bring her forward; but his attentions were otherwise of the highest

importance in assisting the improvement of her mind, and extending its

pleasures. He knew her to be clever, to have a quick apprehension as

well as good sense, and a fondness for reading, which, properly

directed, must be an education in itself. Miss Lee taught her French,

and heard her read the daily portion of history; but he recommended the

books which charmed her leisure hours, he encouraged her taste, and

corrected her judgment: he made reading useful by talking to her of

what she read, and heightened its attraction by judicious praise. In

return for such services she loved him better than anybody in the world

except William: her heart was divided between the two.

CHAPTER III

The first event of any importance in the family was the death of Mr.

Norris, which happened when Fanny was about fifteen, and necessarily

introduced alterations and novelties. Mrs. Norris, on quitting the

Parsonage, removed first to the Park, and afterwards to a small house

of Sir Thomas’s in the village, and consoled herself for the loss of

her husband by considering that she could do very well without him; and

for her reduction of income by the evident necessity of stricter

economy.

The living was hereafter for Edmund; and, had his uncle died a few

years sooner, it would have been duly given to some friend to hold till

he were old enough for orders. But Tom’s extravagance had, previous to

that event, been so great as to render a different disposal of the next

presentation necessary, and the younger brother must help to pay for

the pleasures of the elder. There was another family living actually

held for Edmund; but though this circumstance had made the arrangement

somewhat easier to Sir Thomas’s conscience, he could not but feel it to

be an act of injustice, and he earnestly tried to impress his eldest

son with the same conviction, in the hope of its producing a better

effect than anything he had yet been able to say or do.

“I blush for you, Tom,” said he, in his most dignified manner; “I blush

for the expedient which I am driven on, and I trust I may pity your

feelings as a brother on the occasion. You have robbed Edmund for ten,

twenty, thirty years, perhaps for life, of more than half the income

which ought to be his. It may hereafter be in my power, or in yours (I

hope it will), to procure him better preferment; but it must not be

forgotten that no benefit of that sort would have been beyond his

natural claims on us, and that nothing can, in fact, be an equivalent

for the certain advantage which he is now obliged to forego through the

urgency of your debts.”

Tom listened with some shame and some sorrow; but escaping as quickly

as possible, could soon with cheerful selfishness reflect, firstly,

that he had not been half so much in debt as some of his friends;

secondly, that his father had made a most tiresome piece of work of it;

and, thirdly, that the future incumbent, whoever he might be, would, in

all probability, die very soon.

On Mr. Norris’s death the presentation became the right of a Dr. Grant,

who came consequently to reside at Mansfield; and on proving to be a

hearty man of forty-five, seemed likely to disappoint Mr. Bertram’s

calculations. But “no, he was a short-necked, apoplectic sort of

fellow, and, plied well with good things, would soon pop off.”

He had a wife about fifteen years his junior, but no children; and they

entered the neighbourhood with the usual fair report of being very

respectable, agreeable people.

The time was now come when Sir Thomas expected his sister-in-law to

claim her share in their niece, the change in Mrs. Norris’s situation,

and the improvement in Fanny’s age, seeming not merely to do away any

former objection to their living together, but even to give it the most

decided eligibility; and as his own circumstances were rendered less

fair than heretofore, by some recent losses on his West India estate,

in addition to his eldest son’s extravagance, it became not undesirable

to himself to be relieved from the expense of her support, and the

obligation of her future provision. In the fullness of his belief that

such a thing must be, he mentioned its probability to his wife; and the

first time of the subject’s occurring to her again happening to be when

Fanny was present, she calmly observed to her, “So, Fanny, you are

going to leave us, and live with my sister. How shall you like it?”

Fanny was too much surprised to do more than repeat her aunt’s words,

“Going to leave you?”

“Yes, my dear; why should you be astonished? You have been five years

with us, and my sister always meant to take you when Mr. Norris died.

But you must come up and tack on my patterns all the same.”

The news was as disagreeable to Fanny as it had been unexpected. She

had never received kindness from her aunt Norris, and could not love

her.

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

“Yes, I dare say you will; _that’s_ natural enough. I suppose you have

had as little to vex you since you came into this house as any creature

in the world.”

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

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

“And am I never to live here again?”

“Never, my dear; but you are sure of a comfortable home. It can make

very little difference to you, whether you are in one house or the

other.”

Fanny left the room with a very sorrowful heart; she could not feel the

difference to be so small, she could not think of living with her aunt

with anything like satisfaction. As soon as she met with Edmund she

told him her distress.

“Cousin,” said she, “something is going to happen which I do not like

at all; and though you have often persuaded me into being reconciled to

things that I disliked at first, you will not be able to do it now. I

am going to live entirely with my aunt Norris.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes; my aunt Bertram has just told me so. It is quite settled. I am to

leave Mansfield Park, and go to the White House, I suppose, as soon as

she is removed there.”

“Well, Fanny, and if the plan were not unpleasant to you, I should call

it an excellent one.”

“Oh, cousin!”

“It has everything else in its favour. My aunt is acting like a

sensible woman in wishing for you. She is choosing a friend and

companion exactly where she ought, and I am glad her love of money does

not interfere. You will be what you ought to be to her. I hope it does

not distress you very much, Fanny?”

“Indeed it does: I cannot like it. I love this house and everything in

it: I shall love nothing there. You know how uncomfortable I feel with

her.”

“I can say nothing for her manner to you as a child; but it was the

same with us all, or nearly so. She never knew how to be pleasant to

children. But you are now of an age to be treated better; I think she

is behaving better already; and when you are her only companion, you

_must_ be important to her.”

“I can never be important to any one.”

“What is to prevent you?”

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

“As to your foolishness and awkwardness, my dear Fanny, believe me, you

never have a shadow of either, but in using the words so improperly.

There is no reason in the world why you should not be important where

you are known. You have good sense, and a sweet temper, and I am sure

you have a grateful heart, that could never receive kindness without

wishing to return it. I do not know any better qualifications for a

friend and companion.”

“You are too kind,” said Fanny, colouring at such praise; “how shall I

ever thank you as I ought, for thinking so well of me. Oh! cousin, if I

am to go away, I shall remember your goodness to the last moment of my

life.”

“Why, indeed, Fanny, I should hope to be remembered at such a distance

as the White House. You speak as if you were going two hundred miles

off instead of only across the park; but you will belong to us almost

as much as ever. The two families will be meeting every day in the

year. The only difference will be that, living with your aunt, you will

necessarily be brought forward as you ought to be. _Here_ there are too

many whom you can hide behind; but with _her_ you will be forced to

speak for yourself.”

“Oh! do not say so.”

“I must say it, and say it with pleasure. Mrs. Norris is much better

fitted than my mother for having the charge of you now. She is of a

temper to do a great deal for anybody she really interests herself

about, and she will force you to do justice to your natural powers.”

Fanny sighed, and said, “I cannot see things as you do; but I ought to

believe you to be right rather than myself, and I am very much obliged

to you for trying to reconcile me to what must be. If I could suppose

my aunt really to care for me, it would be delightful to feel myself of

consequence to anybody. _Here_, I know, I am of none, and yet I love

the place so well.”

“The place, Fanny, is what you will not quit, though you quit the

house. You will have as free a command of the park and gardens as ever.

Even _your_ constant little heart need not take fright at such a

nominal change. You will have the same walks to frequent, the same

library to choose from, the same people to look at, the same horse to

ride.”

“Very true. Yes, dear old grey pony! Ah! cousin, when I remember how

much I used to dread riding, what terrors it gave me to hear it talked

of as likely to do me good (oh! how I have trembled at my uncle’s

opening his lips if horses were talked of), and then think of the kind

pains you took to reason and persuade me out of my fears, and convince

me that I should like it after a little while, and feel how right you

proved to be, I am inclined to hope you may always prophesy as well.”

“And I am quite convinced that your being with Mrs. Norris will be as

good for your mind as riding has been for your health, and as much for

your ultimate happiness too.”

So ended their discourse, which, for any very appropriate service it

could render Fanny, might as well have been spared, for Mrs. Norris had

not the smallest intention of taking her. It had never occurred to her,

on the present occasion, but as a thing to be carefully avoided. To

prevent its being expected, she had fixed on the smallest habitation

which could rank as genteel among the buildings of Mansfield parish,

the White House being only just large enough to receive herself and her

servants, and allow a spare room for a friend, of which she made a very

particular point. The spare rooms at the Parsonage had never been

wanted, but the absolute necessity of a spare room for a friend was now

never forgotten. Not all her precautions, however, could save her from

being suspected of something better; or, perhaps, her very display of

the importance of a spare room might have misled Sir Thomas to suppose

it really intended for Fanny. Lady Bertram soon brought the matter to a

certainty by carelessly observing to Mrs. Norris—

“I think, sister, we need not keep Miss Lee any longer, when Fanny goes

to live with you.”

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

you mean?”

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

Thomas.”

“Me! never. I never spoke a syllable about it to Sir Thomas, nor he to

me. Fanny live with me! the last thing in the world for me to think of,

or for anybody to wish that really knows us both. Good heaven! what

could I do with Fanny? Me! a poor, helpless, forlorn widow, unfit for

anything, my spirits quite broke down; what could I do with a girl at

her time of life? A girl of fifteen! the very age of all others to need

most attention and care, and put the cheerfullest spirits to the test!

Sure Sir Thomas could not seriously expect such a thing! Sir Thomas is

too much my friend. Nobody that wishes me well, I am sure, would

propose it. How came Sir Thomas to speak to you about it?”

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

“But what did he say? He could not say he _wished_ me to take Fanny. I

am sure in his heart he could not wish me to do it.”

“No; he only said he thought it very likely; and I thought so too. We

both thought it would be a comfort to you. But if you do not like it,

there is no more to be said. She is no encumbrance here.”

“Dear sister, if you consider my unhappy state, how can she be any

comfort to me? Here am I, a poor desolate widow, deprived of the best

of husbands, my health gone in attending and nursing him, my spirits

still worse, all my peace in this world destroyed, with hardly enough

to support me in the rank of a gentlewoman, and enable me to live so as

not to disgrace the memory of the dear departed—what possible comfort

could I have in taking such a charge upon me as Fanny? If I could wish

it for my own sake, I would not do so unjust a thing by the poor girl.

She is in good hands, and sure of doing well. I must struggle through

my sorrows and difficulties as I can.”

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

“Dear Lady Bertram! what am I fit for but solitude? Now and then I

shall hope to have a friend in my little cottage (I shall always have

a bed for a friend); but the most part of my future days will be spent

in utter seclusion. If I can but make both ends meet, that's all I ask

for.”

“I hope, sister, things are not so very bad with you neither

considering Sir Thomas says you will have six hundred a year.”

“Lady Bertram, I do not complain. I know I cannot live as I have done,

but I must retrench where I can, and learn to be a better manager. I

_have_ _been_ a liberal housekeeper enough, but I shall not be ashamed

to practise economy now. My situation is as much altered as my income.

A great many things were due from poor Mr. Norris, as clergyman of the

parish, that cannot be expected from me. It is unknown how much was

consumed in our kitchen by odd comers and goers. At the White House,

matters must be better looked after. I _must_ live within my income, or

I shall be miserable; and I own it would give me great satisfaction to

be able to do rather more, to lay by a little at the end of the year.”

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

“My object, Lady Bertram, is to be of use to those that come after me.

It is for your children’s good that I wish to be richer. I have nobody

else to care for, but I should be very glad to think I could leave a

little trifle among them worth their having.”

“You are very good, but do not trouble yourself about them. They are

sure of being well provided for. Sir Thomas will take care of that.”

“Why, you know, Sir Thomas’s means will be rather straitened if the

Antigua estate is to make such poor returns.”

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

I know.”

“Well, Lady Bertram,” said Mrs. Norris, moving to go, “I can only say

that my sole desire is to be of use to your family: and so, if Sir

Thomas should ever speak again about my taking Fanny, you will be able

to say that my health and spirits put it quite out of the question;

besides that, I really should not have a bed to give her, for I must

keep a spare room for a friend.”

Lady Bertram repeated enough of this conversation to her husband to

convince him how much he had mistaken his sister-in-law’s views; and

she was from that moment perfectly safe from all expectation, or the

slightest allusion to it from him. He could not but wonder at her

refusing to do anything for a niece whom she had been so forward to

adopt; but, as she took early care to make him, as well as Lady

Bertram, understand that whatever she possessed was designed for their

family, he soon grew reconciled to a distinction which, at the same

time that it was advantageous and complimentary to them, would enable

him better to provide for Fanny himself.

Fanny soon learnt how unnecessary had been her fears of a removal; and

her spontaneous, untaught felicity on the discovery, conveyed some

consolation to Edmund for his disappointment in what he had expected to

be so essentially serviceable to her. Mrs. Norris took possession of

the White House, the Grants arrived at the Parsonage, and these events

over, everything at Mansfield went on for some time as usual.

The Grants showing a disposition to be friendly and sociable, gave

great satisfaction in the main among their new acquaintance. They had

their faults, and Mrs. Norris soon found them out. The Doctor was very

fond of eating, and would have a good dinner every day; and Mrs. Grant,

instead of contriving to gratify him at little expense, gave her cook

as high wages as they did at Mansfield Park, and was scarcely ever seen

in her offices. Mrs. Norris could not speak with any temper of such

grievances, nor of the quantity of butter and eggs that were regularly

consumed in the house. “Nobody loved plenty and hospitality more than

herself; nobody more hated pitiful doings; the Parsonage, she believed,

had never been wanting in comforts of any sort, had never borne a bad

character in _her_ _time_, but this was a way of going on that she

could not understand. A fine lady in a country parsonage was quite out

of place. _Her_ store-room, she thought, might have been good enough

for Mrs. Grant to go into. Inquire where she would, she could not find

out that Mrs. Grant had ever had more than five thousand pounds.”

Lady Bertram listened without much interest to this sort of invective.

She could not enter into the wrongs of an economist, but she felt all

the injuries of beauty in Mrs. Grant’s being so well settled in life

without being handsome, and expressed her astonishment on that point

almost as often, though not so diffusely, as Mrs. Norris discussed the

other.

These opinions had been hardly canvassed a year before another event

arose of such importance in the family, as might fairly claim some

place in the thoughts and conversation of the ladies. Sir Thomas found

it expedient to go to Antigua himself, for the better arrangement of

his affairs, and he took his eldest son with him, in the hope of

detaching him from some bad connexions at home. They left England with

the probability of being nearly a twelvemonth absent.

The necessity of the measure in a pecuniary light, and the hope of its

utility to his son, reconciled Sir Thomas to the effort of quitting the

rest of his family, and of leaving his daughters to the direction of

others at their present most interesting time of life. He could not

think Lady Bertram quite equal to supply his place with them, or

rather, to perform what should have been her own; but, in Mrs. Norris’s

watchful attention, and in Edmund’s judgment, he had sufficient

confidence to make him go without fears for their conduct.

Lady Bertram did not at all like to have her husband leave her; but she

was not disturbed by any alarm for his safety, or solicitude for his

comfort, being one of those persons who think nothing can be dangerous,

or difficult, or fatiguing to anybody but themselves.

The Miss Bertrams were much to be pitied on the occasion: not for their

sorrow, but for their want of it. Their father was no object of love to

them; he had never seemed the friend of their pleasures, and his

absence was unhappily most welcome. They were relieved by it from all

restraint; and without aiming at one gratification that would probably

have been forbidden by Sir Thomas, they felt themselves immediately at

their own disposal, and to have every indulgence within their reach.

Fanny’s relief, and her consciousness of it, were quite equal to her

cousins’; but a more tender nature suggested that her feelings were

ungrateful, and she really grieved because she could not grieve. “Sir

Thomas, who had done so much for her and her brothers, and who was gone

perhaps never to return! that she should see him go without a tear! it

was a shameful insensibility.” He had said to her, moreover, on the

very last morning, that he hoped she might see William again in the

course of the ensuing winter, and had charged her to write and invite

him to Mansfield as soon as the squadron to which he belonged should be

known to be in England. “This was so thoughtful and kind!” and would he

only have smiled upon her, and called her “my dear Fanny,” while he

said it, every former frown or cold address might have been forgotten.

But he had ended his speech in a way to sink her in sad mortification,

by adding, “If William does come to Mansfield, I hope you may be able

to convince him that the many years which have passed since you parted

have not been spent on your side entirely without improvement; though,

I fear, he must find his sister at sixteen in some respects too much

like his sister at ten.” She cried bitterly over this reflection when

her uncle was gone; and her cousins, on seeing her with red eyes, set

her down as a hypocrite.

CHAPTER IV

Tom Bertram had of late spent so little of his time at home that he

could be only nominally missed; and Lady Bertram was soon astonished to

find how very well they did even without his father, how well Edmund

could supply his place in carving, talking to the steward, writing to

the attorney, settling with the servants, and equally saving her from

all possible fatigue or exertion in every particular but that of

directing her letters.

The earliest intelligence of the travellers’ safe arrival at Antigua,

after a favourable voyage, was received; though not before Mrs. Norris

had been indulging in very dreadful fears, and trying to make Edmund

participate them whenever she could get him alone; and as she depended

on being the first person made acquainted with any fatal catastrophe,

she had already arranged the manner of breaking it to all the others,

when Sir Thomas’s assurances of their both being alive and well made it

necessary to lay by her agitation and affectionate preparatory speeches

for a while.

The winter came and passed without their being called for; the accounts

continued perfectly good; and Mrs. Norris, in promoting gaieties for

her nieces, assisting their toilets, displaying their accomplishments,

and looking about for their future husbands, had so much to do as, in

addition to all her own household cares, some interference in those of

her sister, and Mrs. Grant’s wasteful doings to overlook, left her very

little occasion to be occupied in fears for the absent.

The Miss Bertrams were now fully established among the belles of the

neighbourhood; and as they joined to beauty and brilliant acquirements

a manner naturally easy, and carefully formed to general civility and

obligingness, they possessed its favour as well as its admiration.

Their vanity was in such good order that they seemed to be quite free

from it, and gave themselves no airs; while the praises attending such

behaviour, secured and brought round by their aunt, served to

strengthen them in believing they had no faults.

Lady Bertram did not go into public with her daughters. She was too

indolent even to accept a mother’s gratification in witnessing their

success and enjoyment at the expense of any personal trouble, and the

charge was made over to her sister, who desired nothing better than a

post of such honourable representation, and very thoroughly relished

the means it afforded her of mixing in society without having horses to

hire.

Fanny had no share in the festivities of the season; but she enjoyed

being avowedly useful as her aunt’s companion when they called away the

rest of the family; and, as Miss Lee had left Mansfield, she naturally

became everything to Lady Bertram during the night of a ball or a

party. She talked to her, listened to her, read to her; and the

tranquillity of such evenings, her perfect security in such a

_tête-à-tête_ from any sound of unkindness, was unspeakably welcome to

a mind which had seldom known a pause in its alarms or embarrassments.

As to her cousins’ gaieties, she loved to hear an account of them,

especially of the balls, and whom Edmund had danced with; but thought

too lowly of her own situation to imagine she should ever be admitted

to the same, and listened, therefore, without an idea of any nearer

concern in them. Upon the whole, it was a comfortable winter to her;

for though it brought no William to England, the never-failing hope of

his arrival was worth much.

The ensuing spring deprived her of her valued friend, the old grey

pony; and for some time she was in danger of feeling the loss in her

health as well as in her affections; for in spite of the acknowledged

importance of her riding on horse-back, no measures were taken for

mounting her again, “because,” as it was observed by her aunts, “she

might ride one of her cousin’s horses at any time when they did not

want them,” and as the Miss Bertrams regularly wanted their horses

every fine day, and had no idea of carrying their obliging manners to

the sacrifice of any real pleasure, that time, of course, never came.

They took their cheerful rides in the fine mornings of April and May;

and Fanny either sat at home the whole day with one aunt, or walked

beyond her strength at the instigation of the other: Lady Bertram

holding exercise to be as unnecessary for everybody as it was

unpleasant to herself; and Mrs. Norris, who was walking all day,

thinking everybody ought to walk as much. Edmund was absent at this

time, or the evil would have been earlier remedied. When he returned,

to understand how Fanny was situated, and perceived its ill effects,

there seemed with him but one thing to be done; and that “Fanny must

have a horse” was the resolute declaration with which he opposed

whatever could be urged by the supineness of his mother, or the economy

of his aunt, to make it appear unimportant. Mrs. Norris could not help

thinking that some steady old thing might be found among the numbers

belonging to the Park that would do vastly well; or that one might be

borrowed of the steward; or that perhaps Dr. Grant might now and then

lend them the pony he sent to the post. She could not but consider it

as absolutely unnecessary, and even improper, that Fanny should have a

regular lady’s horse of her own, in the style of her cousins. She was

sure Sir Thomas had never intended it: and she must say that, to be

making such a purchase in his absence, and adding to the great expenses

of his stable, at a time when a large part of his income was unsettled,

seemed to her very unjustifiable. “Fanny must have a horse,” was

Edmund’s only reply. Mrs. Norris could not see it in the same light.

Lady Bertram did: she entirely agreed with her son as to the necessity

of it, and as to its being considered necessary by his father; she only

pleaded against there being any hurry; she only wanted him to wait till

Sir Thomas’s return, and then Sir Thomas might settle it all himself.

He would be at home in September, and where would be the harm of only

waiting till September?

Though Edmund was much more displeased with his aunt than with his

mother, as evincing least regard for her niece, he could not help

paying more attention to what she said; and at length determined on a

method of proceeding which would obviate the risk of his father’s

thinking he had done too much, and at the same time procure for Fanny

the immediate means of exercise, which he could not bear she should be

without. He had three horses of his own, but not one that would carry a

woman. Two of them were hunters; the third, a useful road-horse: this

third he resolved to exchange for one that his cousin might ride; he

knew where such a one was to be met with; and having once made up his

mind, the whole business was soon completed. The new mare proved a

treasure; with a very little trouble she became exactly calculated for

the purpose, and Fanny was then put in almost full possession of her.

She had not supposed before that anything could ever suit her like the

old grey pony; but her delight in Edmund’s mare was far beyond any

former pleasure of the sort; and the addition it was ever receiving in

the consideration of that kindness from which her pleasure sprung, was

beyond all her words to express. She regarded her cousin as an example

of everything good and great, as possessing worth which no one but

herself could ever appreciate, and as entitled to such gratitude from

her as no feelings could be strong enough to pay. Her sentiments

towards him were compounded of all that was respectful, grateful,

confiding, and tender.

As the horse continued in name, as well as fact, the property of

Edmund, Mrs. Norris could tolerate its being for Fanny’s use; and had

Lady Bertram ever thought about her own objection again, he might have

been excused in her eyes for not waiting till Sir Thomas’s return in

September, for when September came Sir Thomas was still abroad, and

without any near prospect of finishing his business. Unfavourable

circumstances had suddenly arisen at a moment when he was beginning to

turn all his thoughts towards England; and the very great uncertainty

in which everything was then involved determined him on sending home

his son, and waiting the final arrangement by himself. Tom arrived

safely, bringing an excellent account of his father’s health; but to

very little purpose, as far as Mrs. Norris was concerned. Sir Thomas’s

sending away his son seemed to her so like a parent’s care, under the

influence of a foreboding of evil to himself, that she could not help

feeling dreadful presentiments; and as the long evenings of autumn came

on, was so terribly haunted by these ideas, in the sad solitariness of

her cottage, as to be obliged to take daily refuge in the dining-room

of the Park. The return of winter engagements, however, was not without

its effect; and in the course of their progress, her mind became so

pleasantly occupied in superintending the fortunes of her eldest niece,

as tolerably to quiet her nerves. “If poor Sir Thomas were fated never

to return, it would be peculiarly consoling to see their dear Maria

well married,” she very often thought; always when they were in the

company of men of fortune, and particularly on the introduction of a

young man who had recently succeeded to one of the largest estates and

finest places in the country.

Mr. Rushworth was from the first struck with the beauty of Miss

Bertram, and, being inclined to marry, soon fancied himself in love. He

was a heavy young man, with not more than common sense; but as there

was nothing disagreeable in his figure or address, the young lady was

well pleased with her conquest. Being now in her twenty-first year,

Maria Bertram was beginning to think matrimony a duty; and as a

marriage with Mr. Rushworth would give her the enjoyment of a larger

income than her father’s, as well as ensure her the house in town,

which was now a prime object, it became, by the same rule of moral

obligation, her evident duty to marry Mr. Rushworth if she could. Mrs.

Norris was most zealous in promoting the match, by every suggestion and

contrivance likely to enhance its desirableness to either party; and,

among other means, by seeking an intimacy with the gentleman’s mother,

who at present lived with him, and to whom she even forced Lady Bertram

to go through ten miles of indifferent road to pay a morning visit. It

was not long before a good understanding took place between this lady

and herself. Mrs. Rushworth acknowledged herself very desirous that her

son should marry, and declared that of all the young ladies she had

ever seen, Miss Bertram seemed, by her amiable qualities and

accomplishments, the best adapted to make him happy. Mrs. Norris

accepted the compliment, and admired the nice discernment of character

which could so well distinguish merit. Maria was indeed the pride and

delight of them all—perfectly faultless—an angel; and, of course, so

surrounded by admirers, must be difficult in her choice: but yet, as

far as Mrs. Norris could allow herself to decide on so short an

acquaintance, Mr. Rushworth appeared precisely the young man to deserve

and attach her.

After dancing with each other at a proper number of balls, the young

people justified these opinions, and an engagement, with a due

reference to the absent Sir Thomas, was entered into, much to the

satisfaction of their respective families, and of the general

lookers-on of the neighbourhood, who had, for many weeks past, felt the

expediency of Mr. Rushworth’s marrying Miss Bertram.

It was some months before Sir Thomas’s consent could be received; but,

in the meanwhile, as no one felt a doubt of his most cordial pleasure

in the connexion, the intercourse of the two families was carried on

without restraint, and no other attempt made at secrecy than Mrs.

Norris’s talking of it everywhere as a matter not to be talked of at

present.

Edmund was the only one of the family who could see a fault in the

business; but no representation of his aunt’s could induce him to find

Mr. Rushworth a desirable companion. He could allow his sister to be

the best judge of her own happiness, but he was not pleased that her

happiness should centre in a large income; nor could he refrain from

often saying to himself, in Mr. Rushworth’s company—“If this man had

not twelve thousand a year, he would be a very stupid fellow.”

Sir Thomas, however, was truly happy in the prospect of an alliance so

unquestionably advantageous, and of which he heard nothing but the

perfectly good and agreeable. It was a connexion exactly of the right

sort—in the same county, and the same interest—and his most hearty

concurrence was conveyed as soon as possible. He only conditioned that

the marriage should not take place before his return, which he was

again looking eagerly forward to. He wrote in April, and had strong

hopes of settling everything to his entire satisfaction, and leaving

Antigua before the end of the summer.

Such was the state of affairs in the month of July; and Fanny had just

reached her eighteenth year, when the society of the village received

an addition in the brother and sister of Mrs. Grant, a Mr. and Miss

Crawford, the children of her mother by a second marriage. They were

young people of fortune. The son had a good estate in Norfolk, the

daughter twenty thousand pounds. As children, their sister had been

always very fond of them; but, as her own marriage had been soon

followed by the death of their common parent, which left them to the

care of a brother of their father, of whom Mrs. Grant knew nothing, she

had scarcely seen them since. In their uncle’s house they had found a

kind home. Admiral and Mrs. Crawford, though agreeing in nothing else,

were united in affection for these children, or, at least, were no

farther adverse in their feelings than that each had their favourite,

to whom they showed the greatest fondness of the two. The Admiral

delighted in the boy, Mrs. Crawford doted on the girl; and it was the

lady’s death which now obliged her _protegee_, after some months’

further trial at her uncle’s house, to find another home. Admiral

Crawford was a man of vicious conduct, who chose, instead of retaining

his niece, to bring his mistress under his own roof; and to this Mrs.

Grant was indebted for her sister’s proposal of coming to her, a

measure quite as welcome on one side as it could be expedient on the

other; for Mrs. Grant, having by this time run through the usual

resources of ladies residing in the country without a family of

children—having more than filled her favourite sitting-room with pretty

furniture, and made a choice collection of plants and poultry—was very

much in want of some variety at home. The arrival, therefore, of a

sister whom she had always loved, and now hoped to retain with her as

long as she remained single, was highly agreeable; and her chief

anxiety was lest Mansfield should not satisfy the habits of a young

woman who had been mostly used to London.

Miss Crawford was not entirely free from similar apprehensions, though

they arose principally from doubts of her sister’s style of living and

tone of society; and it was not till after she had tried in vain to

persuade her brother to settle with her at his own country house, that

she could resolve to hazard herself among her other relations. To

anything like a permanence of abode, or limitation of society, Henry

Crawford had, unluckily, a great dislike: he could not accommodate his

sister in an article of such importance; but he escorted her, with the

utmost kindness, into Northamptonshire, and as readily engaged to fetch

her away again, at half an hour’s notice, whenever she were weary of

the place.

The meeting was very satisfactory on each side. Miss Crawford found a

sister without preciseness or rusticity, a sister’s husband who looked

the gentleman, and a house commodious and well fitted up; and Mrs.

Grant received in those whom she hoped to love better than ever a young

man and woman of very prepossessing appearance. Mary Crawford was

remarkably pretty; Henry, though not handsome, had air and countenance;

the manners of both were lively and pleasant, and Mrs. Grant

immediately gave them credit for everything else. She was delighted

with each, but Mary was her dearest object; and having never been able

to glory in beauty of her own, she thoroughly enjoyed the power of

being proud of her sister’s. She had not waited her arrival to look out

for a suitable match for her: she had fixed on Tom Bertram; the eldest

son of a baronet was not too good for a girl of twenty thousand pounds,

with all the elegance and accomplishments which Mrs. Grant foresaw in

her; and being a warm-hearted, unreserved woman, Mary had not been

three hours in the house before she told her what she had planned.

Miss Crawford was glad to find a family of such consequence so very

near them, and not at all displeased either at her sister’s early care,

or the choice it had fallen on. Matrimony was her object, provided she

could marry well: and having seen Mr. Bertram in town, she knew that

objection could no more be made to his person than to his situation in

life. While she treated it as a joke, therefore, she did not forget to

think of it seriously. The scheme was soon repeated to Henry.

“And now,” added Mrs. Grant, “I have thought of something to make it

complete. I should dearly love to settle you both in this country; and

therefore, Henry, you shall marry the youngest Miss Bertram, a nice,

handsome, good-humoured, accomplished girl, who will make you very

happy.”

Henry bowed and thanked her.

“My dear sister,” said Mary, “if you can persuade him into anything of

the sort, it will be a fresh matter of delight to me to find myself

allied to anybody so clever, and I shall only regret that you have not

half a dozen daughters to dispose of. If you can persuade Henry to

marry, you must have the address of a Frenchwoman. All that English

abilities can do has been tried already. I have three very particular

friends who have been all dying for him in their turn; and the pains

which they, their mothers (very clever women), as well as my dear aunt

and myself, have taken to reason, coax, or trick him into marrying, is

inconceivable! He is the most horrible flirt that can be imagined. If

your Miss Bertrams do not like to have their hearts broke, let them

avoid Henry.”

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

“No, I am sure you are too good. You will be kinder than Mary. You will

allow for the doubts of youth and inexperience. I am of a cautious

temper, and unwilling to risk my happiness in a hurry. Nobody can think

more highly of the matrimonial state than myself. I consider the

blessing of a wife as most justly described in those discreet lines of

the poet—‘Heaven’s _last_ best gift.’”

“There, Mrs. Grant, you see how he dwells on one word, and only look at

his smile. I assure you he is very detestable; the Admiral’s lessons

have quite spoiled him.”

“I pay very little regard,” said Mrs. Grant, “to what any young person

says on the subject of marriage. If they profess a disinclination for

it, I only set it down that they have not yet seen the right person.”

Dr. Grant laughingly congratulated Miss Crawford on feeling no

disinclination to the state herself.

“Oh yes! I am not at all ashamed of it. I would have everybody marry if

they can do it properly: I do not like to have people throw themselves

away; but everybody should marry as soon as they can do it to

advantage.”

CHAPTER V

The young people were pleased with each other from the first. On each

side there was much to attract, and their acquaintance soon promised as

early an intimacy as good manners would warrant. Miss Crawford’s beauty

did her no disservice with the Miss Bertrams. They were too handsome

themselves to dislike any woman for being so too, and were almost as

much charmed as their brothers with her lively dark eye, clear brown

complexion, and general prettiness. Had she been tall, full formed, and

fair, it might have been more of a trial: but as it was, there could be

no comparison; and she was most allowably a sweet, pretty girl, while

they were the finest young women in the country.

Her brother was not handsome: no, when they first saw him he was

absolutely plain, black and plain; but still he was the gentleman, with

a pleasing address. The second meeting proved him not so very plain: he

was plain, to be sure, but then he had so much countenance, and his

teeth were so good, and he was so well made, that one soon forgot he

was plain; and after a third interview, after dining in company with

him at the Parsonage, he was no longer allowed to be called so by

anybody. He was, in fact, the most agreeable young man the sisters had

ever known, and they were equally delighted with him. Miss Bertram’s

engagement made him in equity the property of Julia, of which Julia was

fully aware; and before he had been at Mansfield a week, she was quite

ready to be fallen in love with.

Maria’s notions on the subject were more confused and indistinct. She

did not want to see or understand. “There could be no harm in her

liking an agreeable man—everybody knew her situation—Mr. Crawford must

take care of himself.” Mr. Crawford did not mean to be in any danger!

the Miss Bertrams were worth pleasing, and were ready to be pleased;

and he began with no object but of making them like him. He did not

want them to die of love; but with sense and temper which ought to have

made him judge and feel better, he allowed himself great latitude on

such points.

“I like your Miss Bertrams exceedingly, sister,” said he, as he

returned from attending them to their carriage after the said dinner

visit; “they are very elegant, agreeable girls.”

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

like Julia best.”

“Oh yes! I like Julia best.”

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

handsomest.”

“So I should suppose. She has the advantage in every feature, and I

prefer her countenance; but I like Julia best; Miss Bertram is

certainly the handsomest, and I have found her the most agreeable, but

I shall always like Julia best, because you order me.”

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

last.”

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

“And besides, Miss Bertram is engaged. Remember that, my dear brother.

Her choice is made.”

“Yes, and I like her the better for it. An engaged woman is always more

agreeable than a disengaged. She is satisfied with herself. Her cares

are over, and she feels that she may exert all her powers of pleasing

without suspicion. All is safe with a lady engaged: no harm can be

done.”

“Why, as to that, Mr. Rushworth is a very good sort of young man, and

it is a great match for her.”

“But Miss Bertram does not care three straws for him; _that_ is your

opinion of your intimate friend. _I_ do not subscribe to it. I am sure

Miss Bertram is very much attached to Mr. Rushworth. I could see it in

her eyes, when he was mentioned. I think too well of Miss Bertram to

suppose she would ever give her hand without her heart.”

“Mary, how shall we manage him?”

“We must leave him to himself, I believe. Talking does no good. He will

be taken in at last.”

“But I would not have him _taken_ _in_; I would not have him duped; I

would have it all fair and honourable.”

“Oh dear! let him stand his chance and be taken in. It will do just as

well. Everybody is taken in at some period or other.”

“Not always in marriage, dear Mary.”

“In marriage especially. With all due respect to such of the present

company as chance to be married, my dear Mrs. Grant, there is not one

in a hundred of either sex who is not taken in when they marry. Look

where I will, I see that it _is_ so; and I feel that it _must_ be so,

when I consider that it is, of all transactions, the one in which

people expect most from others, and are least honest themselves.”

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

“My poor aunt had certainly little cause to love the state; but,

however, speaking from my own observation, it is a manoeuvring

business. I know so many who have married in the full expectation and

confidence of some one particular advantage in the connexion, or

accomplishment, or good quality in the person, who have found

themselves entirely deceived, and been obliged to put up with exactly

the reverse. What is this but a take in?”

“My dear child, there must be a little imagination here. I beg your

pardon, but I cannot quite believe you. Depend upon it, you see but

half. You see the evil, but you do not see the consolation. There will

be little rubs and disappointments everywhere, and we are all apt to

expect too much; but then, if one scheme of happiness fails, human

nature turns to another; if the first calculation is wrong, we make a

second better: we find comfort somewhere—and those evil-minded

observers, dearest Mary, who make much of a little, are more taken in

and deceived than the parties themselves.”

“Well done, sister! I honour your _esprit_ _du_ _corps_. When I am a

wife, I mean to be just as staunch myself; and I wish my friends in

general would be so too. It would save me many a heartache.”

“You are as bad as your brother, Mary; but we will cure you both.

Mansfield shall cure you both, and without any taking in. Stay with us,

and we will cure you.”

The Crawfords, without wanting to be cured, were very willing to stay.

Mary was satisfied with the Parsonage as a present home, and Henry

equally ready to lengthen his visit. He had come, intending to spend

only a few days with them; but Mansfield promised well, and there was

nothing to call him elsewhere. It delighted Mrs. Grant to keep them

both with her, and Dr. Grant was exceedingly well contented to have it

so: a talking pretty young woman like Miss Crawford is always pleasant

society to an indolent, stay-at-home man; and Mr. Crawford’s being his

guest was an excuse for drinking claret every day.

The Miss Bertrams’ admiration of Mr. Crawford was more rapturous than

anything which Miss Crawford’s habits made her likely to feel. She

acknowledged, however, that the Mr. Bertrams were very fine young men,

that two such young men were not often seen together even in London,

and that their manners, particularly those of the eldest, were very

good. _He_ had been much in London, and had more liveliness and

gallantry than Edmund, and must, therefore, be preferred; and, indeed,

his being the eldest was another strong claim. She had felt an early

presentiment that she _should_ like the eldest best. She knew it was

her way.

Tom Bertram must have been thought pleasant, indeed, at any rate; he

was the sort of young man to be generally liked, his agreeableness was

of the kind to be oftener found agreeable than some endowments of a

higher stamp, for he had easy manners, excellent spirits, a large

acquaintance, and a great deal to say; and the reversion of Mansfield

Park, and a baronetcy, did no harm to all this. Miss Crawford soon felt

that he and his situation might do. She looked about her with due

consideration, and found almost everything in his favour: a park, a

real park, five miles round, a spacious modern-built house, so well

placed and well screened as to deserve to be in any collection of

engravings of gentlemen’s seats in the kingdom, and wanting only to be

completely new furnished—pleasant sisters, a quiet mother, and an

agreeable man himself—with the advantage of being tied up from much

gaming at present by a promise to his father, and of being Sir Thomas

hereafter. It might do very well; she believed she should accept him;

and she began accordingly to interest herself a little about the horse

which he had to run at the B—— races.

These races were to call him away not long after their acquaintance

began; and as it appeared that the family did not, from his usual

goings on, expect him back again for many weeks, it would bring his

passion to an early proof. Much was said on his side to induce her to

attend the races, and schemes were made for a large party to them, with

all the eagerness of inclination, but it would only do to be talked of.

And Fanny, what was _she_ doing and thinking all this while? and what

was _her_ opinion of the newcomers? Few young ladies of eighteen could

be less called on to speak their opinion than Fanny. In a quiet way,

very little attended to, she paid her tribute of admiration to Miss

Crawford’s beauty; but as she still continued to think Mr. Crawford

very plain, in spite of her two cousins having repeatedly proved the

contrary, she never mentioned _him_. The notice, which she excited

herself, was to this effect. “I begin now to understand you all, except

Miss Price,” said Miss Crawford, as she was walking with the Mr.

Bertrams. “Pray, is she out, or is she not? I am puzzled. She dined at

the Parsonage, with the rest of you, which seemed like being _out_; and

yet she says so little, that I can hardly suppose she _is_.”

Edmund, to whom this was chiefly addressed, replied, “I believe I know

what you mean, but I will not undertake to answer the question. My

cousin is grown up. She has the age and sense of a woman, but the outs

and not outs are beyond me.”

“And yet, in general, nothing can be more easily ascertained. The

distinction is so broad. Manners as well as appearance are, generally

speaking, so totally different. Till now, I could not have supposed it

possible to be mistaken as to a girl’s being out or not. A girl not out

has always the same sort of dress: a close bonnet, for instance; looks

very demure, and never says a word. You may smile, but it is so, I

assure you; and except that it is sometimes carried a little too far,

it is all very proper. Girls should be quiet and modest. The most

objectionable part is, that the alteration of manners on being

introduced into company is frequently too sudden. They sometimes pass

in such very little time from reserve to quite the opposite—to

confidence! _That_ is the faulty part of the present system. One does

not like to see a girl of eighteen or nineteen so immediately up to

every thing—and perhaps when one has seen her hardly able to speak the

year before. Mr. Bertram, I dare say _you_ have sometimes met with such

changes.”

“I believe I have, but this is hardly fair; I see what you are at. You

are quizzing me and Miss Anderson.”

“No, indeed. Miss Anderson! I do not know who or what you mean. I am

quite in the dark. But I _will_ quiz you with a great deal of pleasure,

if you will tell me what about.”

“Ah! you carry it off very well, but I cannot be quite so far imposed

on. You must have had Miss Anderson in your eye, in describing an

altered young lady. You paint too accurately for mistake. It was

exactly so. The Andersons of Baker Street. We were speaking of them the

other day, you know. Edmund, you have heard me mention Charles

Anderson. The circumstance was precisely as this lady has represented

it. When Anderson first introduced me to his family, about two years

ago, his sister was not _out_, and I could not get her to speak to me.

I sat there an hour one morning waiting for Anderson, with only her and

a little girl or two in the room, the governess being sick or run away,

and the mother in and out every moment with letters of business, and I

could hardly get a word or a look from the young lady—nothing like a

civil answer—she screwed up her mouth, and turned from me with such an

air! I did not see her again for a twelvemonth. She was then _out_. I

met her at Mrs. Holford’s, and did not recollect her. She came up to

me, claimed me as an acquaintance, stared me out of countenance; and

talked and laughed till I did not know which way to look. I felt that I

must be the jest of the room at the time, and Miss Crawford, it is

plain, has heard the story.”

“And a very pretty story it is, and with more truth in it, I dare say,

than does credit to Miss Anderson. It is too common a fault. Mothers

certainly have not yet got quite the right way of managing their

daughters. I do not know where the error lies. I do not pretend to set

people right, but I do see that they are often wrong.”

“Those who are showing the world what female manners _should_ be,” said

Mr. Bertram gallantly, “are doing a great deal to set them right.”

“The error is plain enough,” said the less courteous Edmund; “such

girls are ill brought up. They are given wrong notions from the

beginning. They are always acting upon motives of vanity, and there is

no more real modesty in their behaviour _before_ they appear in public

than afterwards.”

“I do not know,” replied Miss Crawford hesitatingly. “Yes, I cannot

agree with you there. It is certainly the modestest part of the

business. It is much worse to have girls not out give themselves the

same airs and take the same liberties as if they were, which I have

seen done. That is worse than anything—quite disgusting!”

“Yes, _that_ is very inconvenient indeed,” said Mr. Bertram. “It leads

one astray; one does not know what to do. The close bonnet and demure

air you describe so well (and nothing was ever juster), tell one what

is expected; but I got into a dreadful scrape last year from the want

of them. I went down to Ramsgate for a week with a friend last

September, just after my return from the West Indies. My friend

Sneyd—you have heard me speak of Sneyd, Edmund—his father, and mother,

and sisters, were there, all new to me. When we reached Albion Place

they were out; we went after them, and found them on the pier: Mrs. and

the two Miss Sneyds, with others of their acquaintance. I made my bow

in form; and as Mrs. Sneyd was surrounded by men, attached myself to

one of her daughters, walked by her side all the way home, and made

myself as agreeable as I could; the young lady perfectly easy in her

manners, and as ready to talk as to listen. I had not a suspicion that

I could be doing anything wrong. They looked just the same: both

well-dressed, with veils and parasols like other girls; but I

afterwards found that I had been giving all my attention to the

youngest, who was not _out_, and had most excessively offended the

eldest. Miss Augusta ought not to have been noticed for the next six

months; and Miss Sneyd, I believe, has never forgiven me.”

“That was bad indeed. Poor Miss Sneyd. Though I have no younger sister,

I feel for her. To be neglected before one’s time must be very

vexatious; but it was entirely the mother’s fault. Miss Augusta should

have been with her governess. Such half-and-half doings never prosper.

But now I must be satisfied about Miss Price. Does she go to balls?

Does she dine out every where, as well as at my sister’s?”

“No,” replied Edmund; “I do not think she has ever been to a ball. My

mother seldom goes into company herself, and dines nowhere but with

Mrs. Grant, and Fanny stays at home with _her_.”

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

CHAPTER VI

Mr. Bertram set off for————, and Miss Crawford was prepared to find a

great chasm in their society, and to miss him decidedly in the meetings

which were now becoming almost daily between the families; and on their

all dining together at the Park soon after his going, she retook her

chosen place near the bottom of the table, fully expecting to feel a

most melancholy difference in the change of masters. It would be a very

flat business, she was sure. In comparison with his brother, Edmund

would have nothing to say. The soup would be sent round in a most

spiritless manner, wine drank without any smiles or agreeable trifling,

and the venison cut up without supplying one pleasant anecdote of any

former haunch, or a single entertaining story, about “my friend such a

one.” She must try to find amusement in what was passing at the upper

end of the table, and in observing Mr. Rushworth, who was now making

his appearance at Mansfield for the first time since the Crawfords’

arrival. He had been visiting a friend in the neighbouring county, and

that friend having recently had his grounds laid out by an improver,

Mr. Rushworth was returned with his head full of the subject, and very

eager to be improving his own place in the same way; and though not

saying much to the purpose, could talk of nothing else. The subject had

been already handled in the drawing-room; it was revived in the

dining-parlour. Miss Bertram’s attention and opinion was evidently his

chief aim; and though her deportment showed rather conscious

superiority than any solicitude to oblige him, the mention of Sotherton

Court, and the ideas attached to it, gave her a feeling of complacency,

which prevented her from being very ungracious.

“I wish you could see Compton,” said he; “it is the most complete

thing! I never saw a place so altered in my life. I told Smith I did

not know where I was. The approach _now_, is one of the finest things

in the country: you see the house in the most surprising manner. I

declare, when I got back to Sotherton yesterday, it looked like a

prison—quite a dismal old prison.”

“Oh, for shame!” cried Mrs. Norris. “A prison indeed? Sotherton Court

is the noblest old place in the world.”

“It wants improvement, ma’am, beyond anything. I never saw a place that

wanted so much improvement in my life; and it is so forlorn that I do

not know what can be done with it.”

“No wonder that Mr. Rushworth should think so at present,” said Mrs.

Grant to Mrs. Norris, with a smile; “but depend upon it, Sotherton will

have _every_ improvement in time which his heart can desire.”

“I must try to do something with it,” said Mr. Rushworth, “but I do not

know what. I hope I shall have some good friend to help me.”

“Your best friend upon such an occasion,” said Miss Bertram calmly,

“would be Mr. Repton, I imagine.”

“That is what I was thinking of. As he has done so well by Smith, I

think I had better have him at once. His terms are five guineas a day.”

“Well, and if they were _ten_,” cried Mrs. Norris, “I am sure _you_

need not regard it. The expense need not be any impediment. If I were

you, I should not think of the expense. I would have everything done in

the best style, and made as nice as possible. Such a place as Sotherton

Court deserves everything that taste and money can do. You have space

to work upon there, and grounds that will well reward you. For my own

part, if I had anything within the fiftieth part of the size of

Sotherton, I should be always planting and improving, for naturally I

am excessively fond of it. It would be too ridiculous for me to attempt

anything where I am now, with my little half acre. It would be quite a

burlesque. But if I had more room, I should take a prodigious delight

in improving and planting. We did a vast deal in that way at the

Parsonage: we made it quite a different place from what it was when we

first had it. You young ones do not remember much about it, perhaps;

but if dear Sir Thomas were here, he could tell you what improvements

we made: and a great deal more would have been done, but for poor Mr.

Norris’s sad state of health. He could hardly ever get out, poor man,

to enjoy anything, and _that_ disheartened me from doing several things

that Sir Thomas and I used to talk of. If it had not been for _that_,

we should have carried on the garden wall, and made the plantation to

shut out the churchyard, just as Dr. Grant has done. We were always

doing something as it was. It was only the spring twelvemonth before

Mr. Norris’s death that we put in the apricot against the stable wall,

which is now grown such a noble tree, and getting to such perfection,

sir,” addressing herself then to Dr. Grant.

“The tree thrives well, beyond a doubt, madam,” replied Dr. Grant. “The

soil is good; and I never pass it without regretting that the fruit

should be so little worth the trouble of gathering.”

“Sir, it is a Moor Park, we bought it as a Moor Park, and it cost

us—that is, it was a present from Sir Thomas, but I saw the bill—and I

know it cost seven shillings, and was charged as a Moor Park.”

“You were imposed on, ma’am,” replied Dr. Grant: “these potatoes have

as much the flavour of a Moor Park apricot as the fruit from that tree.

It is an insipid fruit at the best; but a good apricot is eatable,

which none from my garden are.”

“The truth is, ma’am,” said Mrs. Grant, pretending to whisper across

the table to Mrs. Norris, “that Dr. Grant hardly knows what the natural

taste of our apricot is: he is scarcely ever indulged with one, for it

is so valuable a fruit; with a little assistance, and ours is such a

remarkably large, fair sort, that what with early tarts and preserves,

my cook contrives to get them all.”

Mrs. Norris, who had begun to redden, was appeased; and, for a little

while, other subjects took place of the improvements of Sotherton. Dr.

Grant and Mrs. Norris were seldom good friends; their acquaintance had

begun in dilapidations, and their habits were totally dissimilar.

After a short interruption Mr. Rushworth began again. “Smith’s place is

the admiration of all the country; and it was a mere nothing before

Repton took it in hand. I think I shall have Repton.”

“Mr. Rushworth,” said Lady Bertram, “if I were you, I would have a very

pretty shrubbery. One likes to get out into a shrubbery in fine

weather.”

Mr. Rushworth was eager to assure her ladyship of his acquiescence, and

tried to make out something complimentary; but, between his submission

to _her_ taste, and his having always intended the same himself, with

the superadded objects of professing attention to the comfort of ladies

in general, and of insinuating that there was one only whom he was

anxious to please, he grew puzzled, and Edmund was glad to put an end

to his speech by a proposal of wine. Mr. Rushworth, however, though not

usually a great talker, had still more to say on the subject next his

heart. “Smith has not much above a hundred acres altogether in his

grounds, which is little enough, and makes it more surprising that the

place can have been so improved. Now, at Sotherton we have a good seven

hundred, without reckoning the water meadows; so that I think, if so

much could be done at Compton, we need not despair. There have been two

or three fine old trees cut down, that grew too near the house, and it

opens the prospect amazingly, which makes me think that Repton, or

anybody of that sort, would certainly have the avenue at Sotherton

down: the avenue that leads from the west front to the top of the hill,

you know,” turning to Miss Bertram particularly as he spoke. But Miss

Bertram thought it most becoming to reply—

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

Sotherton.”

Fanny, who was sitting on the other side of Edmund, exactly opposite

Miss Crawford, and who had been attentively listening, now looked at

him, and said in a low voice—

“Cut down an avenue! What a pity! Does it not make you think of Cowper?

‘Ye fallen avenues, once more I mourn your fate unmerited.’”

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

Fanny.”

“I should like to see Sotherton before it is cut down, to see the place

as it is now, in its old state; but I do not suppose I shall.”

“Have you never been there? No, you never can; and, unluckily, it is

out of distance for a ride. I wish we could contrive it.”

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

has been altered.”

“I collect,” said Miss Crawford, “that Sotherton is an old place, and a

place of some grandeur. In any particular style of building?”

“The house was built in Elizabeth’s time, and is a large, regular,

brick building; heavy, but respectable looking, and has many good

rooms. It is ill placed. It stands in one of the lowest spots of the

park; in that respect, unfavourable for improvement. But the woods are

fine, and there is a stream, which, I dare say, might be made a good

deal of. Mr. Rushworth is quite right, I think, in meaning to give it a

modern dress, and I have no doubt that it will be all done extremely

well.”

Miss Crawford listened with submission, and said to herself, “He is a

well-bred man; he makes the best of it.”

“I do not wish to influence Mr. Rushworth,” he continued; “but, had I a

place to new fashion, I should not put myself into the hands of an

improver. I would rather have an inferior degree of beauty, of my own

choice, and acquired progressively. I would rather abide by my own

blunders than by his.”

“_You_ would know what you were about, of course; but that would not

suit _me_. I have no eye or ingenuity for such matters, but as they are

before me; and had I a place of my own in the country, I should be most

thankful to any Mr. Repton who would undertake it, and give me as much

beauty as he could for my money; and I should never look at it till it

was complete.”

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

Fanny.

“Ay, you have been brought up to it. It was no part of my education;

and the only dose I ever had, being administered by not the first

favourite in the world, has made me consider improvements _in_ _hand_

as the greatest of nuisances. Three years ago the Admiral, my honoured

uncle, bought a cottage at Twickenham for us all to spend our summers

in; and my aunt and I went down to it quite in raptures; but it being

excessively pretty, it was soon found necessary to be improved, and for

three months we were all dirt and confusion, without a gravel walk to

step on, or a bench fit for use. I would have everything as complete as

possible in the country, shrubberies and flower-gardens, and rustic

seats innumerable: but it must all be done without my care. Henry is

different; he loves to be doing.”

Edmund was sorry to hear Miss Crawford, whom he was much disposed to

admire, speak so freely of her uncle. It did not suit his sense of

propriety, and he was silenced, till induced by further smiles and

liveliness to put the matter by for the present.

“Mr. Bertram,” said she, “I have tidings of my harp at last. I am

assured that it is safe at Northampton; and there it has probably been

these ten days, in spite of the solemn assurances we have so often

received to the contrary.” Edmund expressed his pleasure and surprise.

“The truth is, that our inquiries were too direct; we sent a servant,

we went ourselves: this will not do seventy miles from London; but this

morning we heard of it in the right way. It was seen by some farmer,

and he told the miller, and the miller told the butcher, and the

butcher’s son-in-law left word at the shop.”

“I am very glad that you have heard of it, by whatever means, and hope

there will be no further delay.”

“I am to have it to-morrow; but how do you think it is to be conveyed?

Not by a wagon or cart: oh no! nothing of that kind could be hired in

the village. I might as well have asked for porters and a handbarrow.”

“You would find it difficult, I dare say, just now, in the middle of a

very late hay harvest, to hire a horse and cart?”

“I was astonished to find what a piece of work was made of it! To want

a horse and cart in the country seemed impossible, so I told my maid to

speak for one directly; and as I cannot look out of my dressing-closet

without seeing one farmyard, nor walk in the shrubbery without passing

another, I thought it would be only ask and have, and was rather

grieved that I could not give the advantage to all. Guess my surprise,

when I found that I had been asking the most unreasonable, most

impossible thing in the world; had offended all the farmers, all the

labourers, all the hay in the parish! As for Dr. Grant’s bailiff, I

believe I had better keep out of _his_ way; and my brother-in-law

himself, who is all kindness in general, looked rather black upon me

when he found what I had been at.”

“You could not be expected to have thought on the subject before; but

when you _do_ think of it, you must see the importance of getting in

the grass. The hire of a cart at any time might not be so easy as you

suppose: our farmers are not in the habit of letting them out; but, in

harvest, it must be quite out of their power to spare a horse.”

“I shall understand all your ways in time; but, coming down with the

true London maxim, that everything is to be got with money, I was a

little embarrassed at first by the sturdy independence of your country

customs. However, I am to have my harp fetched to-morrow. Henry, who is

good-nature itself, has offered to fetch it in his barouche. Will it

not be honourably conveyed?”

Edmund spoke of the harp as his favourite instrument, and hoped to be

soon allowed to hear her. Fanny had never heard the harp at all, and

wished for it very much.

“I shall be most happy to play to you both,” said Miss Crawford; “at

least as long as you can like to listen: probably much longer, for I

dearly love music myself, and where the natural taste is equal the

player must always be best off, for she is gratified in more ways than

one. Now, Mr. Bertram, if you write to your brother, I entreat you to

tell him that my harp is come: he heard so much of my misery about it.

And you may say, if you please, that I shall prepare my most plaintive

airs against his return, in compassion to his feelings, as I know his

horse will lose.”

“If I write, I will say whatever you wish me; but I do not, at present,

foresee any occasion for writing.”

“No, I dare say, nor if he were to be gone a twelvemonth, would you

ever write to him, nor he to you, if it could be helped. The occasion

would never be foreseen. What strange creatures brothers are! You would

not write to each other but upon the most urgent necessity in the

world; and when obliged to take up the pen to say that such a horse is

ill, or such a relation dead, it is done in the fewest possible words.

You have but one style among you. I know it perfectly. Henry, who is in

every other respect exactly what a brother should be, who loves me,

consults me, confides in me, and will talk to me by the hour together,

has never yet turned the page in a letter; and very often it is nothing

more than—‘Dear Mary, I am just arrived. Bath seems full, and

everything as usual. Yours sincerely.’ That is the true manly style;

that is a complete brother’s letter.”

“When they are at a distance from all their family,” said Fanny,

colouring for William’s sake, “they can write long letters.”

“Miss Price has a brother at sea,” said Edmund, “whose excellence as a

correspondent makes her think you too severe upon us.”

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

Fanny would rather have had Edmund tell the story, but his determined

silence obliged her to relate her brother’s situation: her voice was

animated in speaking of his profession, and the foreign stations he had

been on; but she could not mention the number of years that he had been

absent without tears in her eyes. Miss Crawford civilly wished him an

early promotion.

“Do you know anything of my cousin’s captain?” said Edmund; “Captain

Marshall? You have a large acquaintance in the navy, I conclude?”

“Among admirals, large enough; but,” with an air of grandeur, “we know

very little of the inferior ranks. Post-captains may be very good sort

of men, but they do not belong to _us_. Of various admirals I could

tell you a great deal: of them and their flags, and the gradation of

their pay, and their bickerings and jealousies. But, in general, I can

assure you that they are all passed over, and all very ill used.

Certainly, my home at my uncle’s brought me acquainted with a circle of

admirals. Of _Rears_ and _Vices_ I saw enough. Now do not be suspecting

me of a pun, I entreat.”

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

“Yes, the profession is well enough under two circumstances: if it make

the fortune, and there be discretion in spending it; but, in short, it

is not a favourite profession of mine. It has never worn an amiable

form to _me_.”

Edmund reverted to the harp, and was again very happy in the prospect

of hearing her play.

The subject of improving grounds, meanwhile, was still under

consideration among the others; and Mrs. Grant could not help

addressing her brother, though it was calling his attention from Miss

Julia Bertram.

“My dear Henry, have _you_ nothing to say? You have been an improver

yourself, and from what I hear of Everingham, it may vie with any place

in England. Its natural beauties, I am sure, are great. Everingham, as

it _used_ to be, was perfect in my estimation: such a happy fall of

ground, and such timber! What would I not give to see it again!”

“Nothing could be so gratifying to me as to hear your opinion of it,”

was his answer; “but I fear there would be some disappointment: you

would not find it equal to your present ideas. In extent, it is a mere

nothing; you would be surprised at its insignificance; and, as for

improvement, there was very little for me to do—too little: I should

like to have been busy much longer.”

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

“Excessively; but what with the natural advantages of the ground, which

pointed out, even to a very young eye, what little remained to be done,

and my own consequent resolutions, I had not been of age three months

before Everingham was all that it is now. My plan was laid at

Westminster, a little altered, perhaps, at Cambridge, and at

one-and-twenty executed. I am inclined to envy Mr. Rushworth for having

so much happiness yet before him. I have been a devourer of my own.”

“Those who see quickly, will resolve quickly, and act quickly,” said

Julia. “_You_ can never want employment. Instead of envying Mr.

Rushworth, you should assist him with your opinion.”

Mrs. Grant, hearing the latter part of this speech, enforced it warmly,

persuaded that no judgment could be equal to her brother’s; and as Miss

Bertram caught at the idea likewise, and gave it her full support,

declaring that, in her opinion, it was infinitely better to consult

with friends and disinterested advisers, than immediately to throw the

business into the hands of a professional man, Mr. Rushworth was very

ready to request the favour of Mr. Crawford’s assistance; and Mr.

Crawford, after properly depreciating his own abilities, was quite at

his service in any way that could be useful. Mr. Rushworth then began

to propose Mr. Crawford’s doing him the honour of coming over to

Sotherton, and taking a bed there; when Mrs. Norris, as if reading in

her two nieces’ minds their little approbation of a plan which was to

take Mr. Crawford away, interposed with an amendment.

“There can be no doubt of Mr. Crawford’s willingness; but why should

not more of us go? Why should not we make a little party? Here are many

that would be interested in your improvements, my dear Mr. Rushworth,

and that would like to hear Mr. Crawford’s opinion on the spot, and

that might be of some small use to you with _their_ opinions; and, for

my own part, I have been long wishing to wait upon your good mother

again; nothing but having no horses of my own could have made me so

remiss; but now I could go and sit a few hours with Mrs. Rushworth,

while the rest of you walked about and settled things, and then we

could all return to a late dinner here, or dine at Sotherton, just as

might be most agreeable to your mother, and have a pleasant drive home

by moonlight. I dare say Mr. Crawford would take my two nieces and me

in his barouche, and Edmund can go on horseback, you know, sister, and

Fanny will stay at home with you.”

Lady Bertram made no objection; and every one concerned in the going

was forward in expressing their ready concurrence, excepting Edmund,

who heard it all and said nothing.

CHAPTER VII

“Well, Fanny, and how do you like Miss Crawford _now_?” said Edmund the

next day, after thinking some time on the subject himself. “How did you

like her yesterday?”

“Very well—very much. I like to hear her talk. She entertains me; and

she is so extremely pretty, that I have great pleasure in looking at

her.”

“It is her countenance that is so attractive. She has a wonderful play

of feature! But was there nothing in her conversation that struck you,

Fanny, as not quite right?”

“Oh yes! she ought not to have spoken of her uncle as she did. I was

quite astonished. An uncle with whom she has been living so many years,

and who, whatever his faults may be, is so very fond of her brother,

treating him, they say, quite like a son. I could not have believed

it!”

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

“And very ungrateful, I think.”

“Ungrateful is a strong word. I do not know that her uncle has any

claim to her _gratitude_; his wife certainly had; and it is the warmth

of her respect for her aunt’s memory which misleads her here. She is

awkwardly circumstanced. With such warm feelings and lively spirits it

must be difficult to do justice to her affection for Mrs. Crawford,

without throwing a shade on the Admiral. I do not pretend to know which

was most to blame in their disagreements, though the Admiral’s present

conduct might incline one to the side of his wife; but it is natural

and amiable that Miss Crawford should acquit her aunt entirely. I do

not censure her _opinions_; but there certainly _is_ impropriety in

making them public.”

“Do not you think,” said Fanny, after a little consideration, “that

this impropriety is a reflection itself upon Mrs. Crawford, as her

niece has been entirely brought up by her? She cannot have given her

right notions of what was due to the Admiral.”

“That is a fair remark. Yes, we must suppose the faults of the niece to

have been those of the aunt; and it makes one more sensible of the

disadvantages she has been under. But I think her present home must do

her good. Mrs. Grant’s manners are just what they ought to be. She

speaks of her brother with a very pleasing affection.”

“Yes, except as to his writing her such short letters. She made me

almost laugh; but I cannot rate so very highly the love or good-nature

of a brother who will not give himself the trouble of writing anything

worth reading to his sisters, when they are separated. I am sure

William would never have used _me_ so, under any circumstances. And

what right had she to suppose that _you_ would not write long letters

when you were absent?”

“The right of a lively mind, Fanny, seizing whatever may contribute to

its own amusement or that of others; perfectly allowable, when

untinctured by ill-humour or roughness; and there is not a shadow of

either in the countenance or manner of Miss Crawford: nothing sharp, or

loud, or coarse. She is perfectly feminine, except in the instances we

have been speaking of. There she cannot be justified. I am glad you saw

it all as I did.”

Having formed her mind and gained her affections, he had a good chance

of her thinking like him; though at this period, and on this subject,

there began now to be some danger of dissimilarity, for he was in a

line of admiration of Miss Crawford, which might lead him where Fanny

could not follow. Miss Crawford’s attractions did not lessen. The harp

arrived, and rather added to her beauty, wit, and good-humour; for she

played with the greatest obligingness, with an expression and taste

which were peculiarly becoming, and there was something clever to be

said at the close of every air. Edmund was at the Parsonage every day,

to be indulged with his favourite instrument: one morning secured an

invitation for the next; for the lady could not be unwilling to have a

listener, and every thing was soon in a fair train.

A young woman, pretty, lively, with a harp as elegant as herself, and

both placed near a window, cut down to the ground, and opening on a

little lawn, surrounded by shrubs in the rich foliage of summer, was

enough to catch any man’s heart. The season, the scene, the air, were

all favourable to tenderness and sentiment. Mrs. Grant and her tambour

frame were not without their use: it was all in harmony; and as

everything will turn to account when love is once set going, even the

sandwich tray, and Dr. Grant doing the honours of it, were worth

looking at. Without studying the business, however, or knowing what he

was about, Edmund was beginning, at the end of a week of such

intercourse, to be a good deal in love; and to the credit of the lady

it may be added that, without his being a man of the world or an elder

brother, without any of the arts of flattery or the gaieties of small

talk, he began to be agreeable to her. She felt it to be so, though she

had not foreseen, and could hardly understand it; for he was not

pleasant by any common rule: he talked no nonsense; he paid no

compliments; his opinions were unbending, his attentions tranquil and

simple. There was a charm, perhaps, in his sincerity, his steadiness,

his integrity, which Miss Crawford might be equal to feel, though not

equal to discuss with herself. She did not think very much about it,

however: he pleased her for the present; she liked to have him near

her; it was enough.

Fanny could not wonder that Edmund was at the Parsonage every morning;

she would gladly have been there too, might she have gone in uninvited

and unnoticed, to hear the harp; neither could she wonder that, when

the evening stroll was over, and the two families parted again, he

should think it right to attend Mrs. Grant and her sister to their

home, while Mr. Crawford was devoted to the ladies of the Park; but she

thought it a very bad exchange; and if Edmund were not there to mix the

wine and water for her, would rather go without it than not. She was a

little surprised that he could spend so many hours with Miss Crawford,

and not see more of the sort of fault which he had already observed,

and of which _she_ was almost always reminded by a something of the

same nature whenever she was in her company; but so it was. Edmund was

fond of speaking to her of Miss Crawford, but he seemed to think it

enough that the Admiral had since been spared; and she scrupled to

point out her own remarks to him, lest it should appear like

ill-nature. The first actual pain which Miss Crawford occasioned her

was the consequence of an inclination to learn to ride, which the

former caught, soon after her being settled at Mansfield, from the

example of the young ladies at the Park, and which, when Edmund’s

acquaintance with her increased, led to his encouraging the wish, and

the offer of his own quiet mare for the purpose of her first attempts,

as the best fitted for a beginner that either stable could furnish. No

pain, no injury, however, was designed by him to his cousin in this

offer: _she_ was not to lose a day’s exercise by it. The mare was only

to be taken down to the Parsonage half an hour before her ride were to

begin; and Fanny, on its being first proposed, so far from feeling

slighted, was almost over-powered with gratitude that he should be

asking her leave for it.

Miss Crawford made her first essay with great credit to herself, and no

inconvenience to Fanny. Edmund, who had taken down the mare and

presided at the whole, returned with it in excellent time, before

either Fanny or the steady old coachman, who always attended her when

she rode without her cousins, were ready to set forward. The second

day’s trial was not so guiltless. Miss Crawford’s enjoyment of riding

was such that she did not know how to leave off. Active and fearless,

and though rather small, strongly made, she seemed formed for a

horsewoman; and to the pure genuine pleasure of the exercise, something

was probably added in Edmund’s attendance and instructions, and

something more in the conviction of very much surpassing her sex in

general by her early progress, to make her unwilling to dismount. Fanny

was ready and waiting, and Mrs. Norris was beginning to scold her for

not being gone, and still no horse was announced, no Edmund appeared.

To avoid her aunt, and look for him, she went out.

The houses, though scarcely half a mile apart, were not within sight of

each other; but, by walking fifty yards from the hall door, she could

look down the park, and command a view of the Parsonage and all its

demesnes, gently rising beyond the village road; and in Dr. Grant’s

meadow she immediately saw the group—Edmund and Miss Crawford both on

horse-back, riding side by side, Dr. and Mrs. Grant, and Mr. Crawford,

with two or three grooms, standing about and looking on. A happy party

it appeared to her, all interested in one object: cheerful beyond a

doubt, for the sound of merriment ascended even to her. It was a sound

which did not make _her_ cheerful; she wondered that Edmund should

forget her, and felt a pang. She could not turn her eyes from the

meadow; she could not help watching all that passed. At first Miss

Crawford and her companion made the circuit of the field, which was not

small, at a foot’s pace; then, at _her_ apparent suggestion, they rose

into a canter; and to Fanny’s timid nature it was most astonishing to

see how well she sat. After a few minutes they stopped entirely. Edmund

was close to her; he was speaking to her; he was evidently directing

her management of the bridle; he had hold of her hand; she saw it, or

the imagination supplied what the eye could not reach. She must not

wonder at all this; what could be more natural than that Edmund should

be making himself useful, and proving his good-nature by any one? She

could not but think, indeed, that Mr. Crawford might as well have saved

him the trouble; that it would have been particularly proper and

becoming in a brother to have done it himself; but Mr. Crawford, with

all his boasted good-nature, and all his coachmanship, probably knew

nothing of the matter, and had no active kindness in comparison of

Edmund. She began to think it rather hard upon the mare to have such

double duty; if she were forgotten, the poor mare should be remembered.

Her feelings for one and the other were soon a little tranquillised by

seeing the party in the meadow disperse, and Miss Crawford still on

horseback, but attended by Edmund on foot, pass through a gate into the

lane, and so into the park, and make towards the spot where she stood.

She began then to be afraid of appearing rude and impatient; and walked

to meet them with a great anxiety to avoid the suspicion.

“My dear Miss Price,” said Miss Crawford, as soon as she was at all

within hearing, “I am come to make my own apologies for keeping you

waiting; but I have nothing in the world to say for myself—I knew it

was very late, and that I was behaving extremely ill; and therefore, if

you please, you must forgive me. Selfishness must always be forgiven,

you know, because there is no hope of a cure.”

Fanny’s answer was extremely civil, and Edmund added his conviction

that she could be in no hurry. “For there is more than time enough for

my cousin to ride twice as far as she ever goes,” said he, “and you

have been promoting her comfort by preventing her from setting off half

an hour sooner: clouds are now coming up, and she will not suffer from

the heat as she would have done then. I wish _you_ may not be fatigued

by so much exercise. I wish you had saved yourself this walk home.”

“No part of it fatigues me but getting off this horse, I assure you,”

said she, as she sprang down with his help; “I am very strong. Nothing

ever fatigues me but doing what I do not like. Miss Price, I give way

to you with a very bad grace; but I sincerely hope you will have a

pleasant ride, and that I may have nothing but good to hear of this

dear, delightful, beautiful animal.”

The old coachman, who had been waiting about with his own horse, now

joining them, Fanny was lifted on hers, and they set off across another

part of the park; her feelings of discomfort not lightened by seeing,

as she looked back, that the others were walking down the hill together

to the village; nor did her attendant do her much good by his comments

on Miss Crawford’s great cleverness as a horse-woman, which he had been

watching with an interest almost equal to her own.

“It is a pleasure to see a lady with such a good heart for riding!”

said he. “I never see one sit a horse better. She did not seem to have

a thought of fear. Very different from you, miss, when you first began,

six years ago come next Easter. Lord bless you! how you did tremble

when Sir Thomas first had you put on!”

In the drawing-room Miss Crawford was also celebrated. Her merit in

being gifted by Nature with strength and courage was fully appreciated

by the Miss Bertrams; her delight in riding was like their own; her

early excellence in it was like their own, and they had great pleasure

in praising it.

“I was sure she would ride well,” said Julia; “she has the make for it.

Her figure is as neat as her brother’s.”

“Yes,” added Maria, “and her spirits are as good, and she has the same

energy of character. I cannot but think that good horsemanship has a

great deal to do with the mind.”

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

the next day.

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

“I do not want her at all for myself,” said he; “but whenever you are

next inclined to stay at home, I think Miss Crawford would be glad to

have her a longer time—for a whole morning, in short. She has a great

desire to get as far as Mansfield Common: Mrs. Grant has been telling

her of its fine views, and I have no doubt of her being perfectly equal

to it. But any morning will do for this. She would be extremely sorry

to interfere with you. It would be very wrong if she did. _She_ rides

only for pleasure; _you_ for health.”

“I shall not ride to-morrow, certainly,” said Fanny; “I have been out

very often lately, and would rather stay at home. You know I am strong

enough now to walk very well.”

Edmund looked pleased, which must be Fanny’s comfort, and the ride to

Mansfield Common took place the next morning: the party included all

the young people but herself, and was much enjoyed at the time, and

doubly enjoyed again in the evening discussion. A successful scheme of

this sort generally brings on another; and the having been to Mansfield

Common disposed them all for going somewhere else the day after. There

were many other views to be shewn; and though the weather was hot,

there were shady lanes wherever they wanted to go. A young party is

always provided with a shady lane. Four fine mornings successively were

spent in this manner, in shewing the Crawfords the country, and doing

the honours of its finest spots. Everything answered; it was all gaiety

and good-humour, the heat only supplying inconvenience enough to be

talked of with pleasure—till the fourth day, when the happiness of one

of the party was exceedingly clouded. Miss Bertram was the one. Edmund

and Julia were invited to dine at the Parsonage, and _she_ was

excluded. It was meant and done by Mrs. Grant, with perfect

good-humour, on Mr. Rushworth’s account, who was partly expected at the

Park that day; but it was felt as a very grievous injury, and her good

manners were severely taxed to conceal her vexation and anger till she

reached home. As Mr. Rushworth did _not_ come, the injury was

increased, and she had not even the relief of shewing her power over

him; she could only be sullen to her mother, aunt, and cousin, and

throw as great a gloom as possible over their dinner and dessert.

Between ten and eleven Edmund and Julia walked into the drawing-room,

fresh with the evening air, glowing and cheerful, the very reverse of

what they found in the three ladies sitting there, for Maria would

scarcely raise her eyes from her book, and Lady Bertram was

half-asleep; and even Mrs. Norris, discomposed by her niece’s

ill-humour, and having asked one or two questions about the dinner,

which were not immediately attended to, seemed almost determined to say

no more. For a few minutes the brother and sister were too eager in

their praise of the night and their remarks on the stars, to think

beyond themselves; but when the first pause came, Edmund, looking

around, said, “But where is Fanny? Is she gone to bed?”

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

ago.”

Her own gentle voice speaking from the other end of the room, which was

a very long one, told them that she was on the sofa. Mrs. Norris began

scolding.

“That is a very foolish trick, Fanny, to be idling away all the evening

upon a sofa. Why cannot you come and sit here, and employ yourself as

_we_ do? If you have no work of your own, I can supply you from the

poor basket. There is all the new calico, that was bought last week,

not touched yet. I am sure I almost broke my back by cutting it out.

You should learn to think of other people; and, take my word for it, it

is a shocking trick for a young person to be always lolling upon a

sofa.”

Before half this was said, Fanny was returned to her seat at the table,

and had taken up her work again; and Julia, who was in high

good-humour, from the pleasures of the day, did her the justice of

exclaiming, “I must say, ma’am, that Fanny is as little upon the sofa

as anybody in the house.”

“Fanny,” said Edmund, after looking at her attentively, “I am sure you

have the headache.”

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

“I can hardly believe you,” he replied; “I know your looks too well.

How long have you had it?”

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

“Did you go out in the heat?”

“Go out! to be sure she did,” said Mrs. Norris: “would you have her

stay within such a fine day as this? Were not we _all_ out? Even your

mother was out to-day for above an hour.”

“Yes, indeed, Edmund,” added her ladyship, who had been thoroughly

awakened by Mrs. Norris’s sharp reprimand to Fanny; “I was out above an

hour. I sat three-quarters of an hour in the flower-garden, while Fanny

cut the roses; and very pleasant it was, I assure you, but very hot. It

was shady enough in the alcove, but I declare I quite dreaded the

coming home again.”

“Fanny has been cutting roses, has she?”

“Yes, and I am afraid they will be the last this year. Poor thing!

_She_ found it hot enough; but they were so full-blown that one could

not wait.”

“There was no help for it, certainly,” rejoined Mrs. Norris, in a

rather softened voice; “but I question whether her headache might not

be caught _then_, sister. There is nothing so likely to give it as

standing and stooping in a hot sun; but I dare say it will be well

to-morrow. Suppose you let her have your aromatic vinegar; I always

forget to have mine filled.”

“She has got it,” said Lady Bertram; “she has had it ever since she

came back from your house the second time.”

“What!” cried Edmund; “has she been walking as well as cutting roses;

walking across the hot park to your house, and doing it twice, ma’am?

No wonder her head aches.”

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

“I was afraid it would be too much for her,” said Lady Bertram; “but

when the roses were gathered, your aunt wished to have them, and then

you know they must be taken home.”

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

“No; but they were to be put into the spare room to dry; and,

unluckily, Fanny forgot to lock the door of the room and bring away the

key, so she was obliged to go again.”

Edmund got up and walked about the room, saying, “And could nobody be

employed on such an errand but Fanny? Upon my word, ma’am, it has been

a very ill-managed business.”

“I am sure I do not know how it was to have been done better,” cried

Mrs. Norris, unable to be longer deaf; “unless I had gone myself,

indeed; but I cannot be in two places at once; and I was talking to Mr.

Green at that very time about your mother’s dairymaid, by _her_ desire,

and had promised John Groom to write to Mrs. Jefferies about his son,

and the poor fellow was waiting for me half an hour. I think nobody can

justly accuse me of sparing myself upon any occasion, but really I

cannot do everything at once. And as for Fanny’s just stepping down to

my house for me—it is not much above a quarter of a mile—I cannot think

I was unreasonable to ask it. How often do I pace it three times a day,

early and late, ay, and in all weathers too, and say nothing about it?”

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

“If Fanny would be more regular in her exercise, she would not be

knocked up so soon. She has not been out on horseback now this long

while, and I am persuaded that, when she does not ride, she ought to

walk. If she had been riding before, I should not have asked it of her.

But I thought it would rather do her good after being stooping among

the roses; for there is nothing so refreshing as a walk after a fatigue

of that kind; and though the sun was strong, it was not so very hot.

Between ourselves, Edmund,” nodding significantly at his mother, “it

was cutting the roses, and dawdling about in the flower-garden, that

did the mischief.”

“I am afraid it was, indeed,” said the more candid Lady Bertram, who

had overheard her; “I am very much afraid she caught the headache

there, for the heat was enough to kill anybody. It was as much as I

could bear myself. Sitting and calling to Pug, and trying to keep him

from the flower-beds, was almost too much for me.”

Edmund said no more to either lady; but going quietly to another table,

on which the supper-tray yet remained, brought a glass of Madeira to

Fanny, and obliged her to drink the greater part. She wished to be able

to decline it; but the tears, which a variety of feelings created, made

it easier to swallow than to speak.

Vexed as Edmund was with his mother and aunt, he was still more angry

with himself. His own forgetfulness of her was worse than anything

which they had done. Nothing of this would have happened had she been

properly considered; but she had been left four days together without

any choice of companions or exercise, and without any excuse for

avoiding whatever her unreasonable aunts might require. He was ashamed

to think that for four days together she had not had the power of

riding, and very seriously resolved, however unwilling he must be to

check a pleasure of Miss Crawford’s, that it should never happen again.

Fanny went to bed with her heart as full as on the first evening of her

arrival at the Park. The state of her spirits had probably had its

share in her indisposition; for she had been feeling neglected, and

been struggling against discontent and envy for some days past. As she

leant on the sofa, to which she had retreated that she might not be

seen, the pain of her mind had been much beyond that in her head; and

the sudden change which Edmund’s kindness had then occasioned, made her

hardly know how to support herself.

CHAPTER VIII

Fanny’s rides recommenced the very next day; and as it was a pleasant

fresh-feeling morning, less hot than the weather had lately been,

Edmund trusted that her losses, both of health and pleasure, would be

soon made good. While she was gone Mr. Rushworth arrived, escorting his

mother, who came to be civil and to shew her civility especially, in

urging the execution of the plan for visiting Sotherton, which had been

started a fortnight before, and which, in consequence of her subsequent

absence from home, had since lain dormant. Mrs. Norris and her nieces

were all well pleased with its revival, and an early day was named and

agreed to, provided Mr. Crawford should be disengaged: the young ladies

did not forget that stipulation, and though Mrs. Norris would willingly

have answered for his being so, they would neither authorise the

liberty nor run the risk; and at last, on a hint from Miss Bertram, Mr.

Rushworth discovered that the properest thing to be done was for him to

walk down to the Parsonage directly, and call on Mr. Crawford, and

inquire whether Wednesday would suit him or not.

Before his return Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford came in. Having been out

some time, and taken a different route to the house, they had not met

him. Comfortable hopes, however, were given that he would find Mr.

Crawford at home. The Sotherton scheme was mentioned of course. It was

hardly possible, indeed, that anything else should be talked of, for

Mrs. Norris was in high spirits about it; and Mrs. Rushworth, a

well-meaning, civil, prosing, pompous woman, who thought nothing of

consequence, but as it related to her own and her son’s concerns, had

not yet given over pressing Lady Bertram to be of the party. Lady

Bertram constantly declined it; but her placid manner of refusal made

Mrs. Rushworth still think she wished to come, till Mrs. Norris’s more

numerous words and louder tone convinced her of the truth.

“The fatigue would be too much for my sister, a great deal too much, I

assure you, my dear Mrs. Rushworth. Ten miles there, and ten back, you

know. You must excuse my sister on this occasion, and accept of our two

dear girls and myself without her. Sotherton is the only place that

could give her a _wish_ to go so far, but it cannot be, indeed. She

will have a companion in Fanny Price, you know, so it will all do very

well; and as for Edmund, as he is not here to speak for himself, I will

answer for his being most happy to join the party. He can go on

horseback, you know.”

Mrs. Rushworth being obliged to yield to Lady Bertram’s staying at

home, could only be sorry. “The loss of her ladyship’s company would be

a great drawback, and she should have been extremely happy to have seen

the young lady too, Miss Price, who had never been at Sotherton yet,

and it was a pity she should not see the place.”

“You are very kind, you are all kindness, my dear madam,” cried Mrs.

Norris; “but as to Fanny, she will have opportunities in plenty of

seeing Sotherton. She has time enough before her; and her going now is

quite out of the question. Lady Bertram could not possibly spare her.”

“Oh no! I cannot do without Fanny.”

Mrs. Rushworth proceeded next, under the conviction that everybody must

be wanting to see Sotherton, to include Miss Crawford in the

invitation; and though Mrs. Grant, who had not been at the trouble of

visiting Mrs. Rushworth, on her coming into the neighbourhood, civilly

declined it on her own account, she was glad to secure any pleasure for

her sister; and Mary, properly pressed and persuaded, was not long in

accepting her share of the civility. Mr. Rushworth came back from the

Parsonage successful; and Edmund made his appearance just in time to

learn what had been settled for Wednesday, to attend Mrs. Rushworth to

her carriage, and walk half-way down the park with the two other

ladies.

On his return to the breakfast-room, he found Mrs. Norris trying to

make up her mind as to whether Miss Crawford’s being of the party were

desirable or not, or whether her brother’s barouche would not be full

without her. The Miss Bertrams laughed at the idea, assuring her that

the barouche would hold four perfectly well, independent of the box, on

which _one_ might go with him.

“But why is it necessary,” said Edmund, “that Crawford’s carriage, or

his _only_, should be employed? Why is no use to be made of my mother’s

chaise? I could not, when the scheme was first mentioned the other day,

understand why a visit from the family were not to be made in the

carriage of the family.”

“What!” cried Julia: “go boxed up three in a postchaise in this

weather, when we may have seats in a barouche! No, my dear Edmund, that

will not quite do.”

“Besides,” said Maria, “I know that Mr. Crawford depends upon taking

us. After what passed at first, he would claim it as a promise.”

“And, my dear Edmund,” added Mrs. Norris, “taking out _two_ carriages

when _one_ will do, would be trouble for nothing; and, between

ourselves, coachman is not very fond of the roads between this and

Sotherton: he always complains bitterly of the narrow lanes scratching

his carriage, and you know one should not like to have dear Sir Thomas,

when he comes home, find all the varnish scratched off.”

“That would not be a very handsome reason for using Mr. Crawford’s,”

said Maria; “but the truth is, that Wilcox is a stupid old fellow, and

does not know how to drive. I will answer for it that we shall find no

inconvenience from narrow roads on Wednesday.”

“There is no hardship, I suppose, nothing unpleasant,” said Edmund, “in

going on the barouche box.”

“Unpleasant!” cried Maria: “oh dear! I believe it would be generally

thought the favourite seat. There can be no comparison as to one’s view

of the country. Probably Miss Crawford will choose the barouche-box

herself.”

“There can be no objection, then, to Fanny’s going with you; there can

be no doubt of your having room for her.”

“Fanny!” repeated Mrs. Norris; “my dear Edmund, there is no idea of her

going with us. She stays with her aunt. I told Mrs. Rushworth so. She

is not expected.”

“You can have no reason, I imagine, madam,” said he, addressing his

mother, “for wishing Fanny _not_ to be of the party, but as it relates

to yourself, to your own comfort. If you could do without her, you

would not wish to keep her at home?”

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

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

There was a general cry out at this. “Yes,” he continued, “there is no

necessity for my going, and I mean to stay at home. Fanny has a great

desire to see Sotherton. I know she wishes it very much. She has not

often a gratification of the kind, and I am sure, ma’am, you would be

glad to give her the pleasure now?”

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

Mrs. Norris was very ready with the only objection which could

remain—their having positively assured Mrs. Rushworth that Fanny could

not go, and the very strange appearance there would consequently be in

taking her, which seemed to her a difficulty quite impossible to be got

over. It must have the strangest appearance! It would be something so

very unceremonious, so bordering on disrespect for Mrs. Rushworth,

whose own manners were such a pattern of good-breeding and attention,

that she really did not feel equal to it. Mrs. Norris had no affection

for Fanny, and no wish of procuring her pleasure at any time; but her

opposition to Edmund _now_, arose more from partiality for her own

scheme, because it _was_ her own, than from anything else. She felt

that she had arranged everything extremely well, and that any

alteration must be for the worse. When Edmund, therefore, told her in

reply, as he did when she would give him the hearing, that she need not

distress herself on Mrs. Rushworth’s account, because he had taken the

opportunity, as he walked with her through the hall, of mentioning Miss

Price as one who would probably be of the party, and had directly

received a very sufficient invitation for his cousin, Mrs. Norris was

too much vexed to submit with a very good grace, and would only say,

“Very well, very well, just as you chuse, settle it your own way, I am

sure I do not care about it.”

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

instead of Fanny.”

“I am sure she ought to be very much obliged to you,” added Julia,

hastily leaving the room as she spoke, from a consciousness that she

ought to offer to stay at home herself.

“Fanny will feel quite as grateful as the occasion requires,” was

Edmund’s only reply, and the subject dropt.

Fanny’s gratitude, when she heard the plan, was, in fact, much greater

than her pleasure. She felt Edmund’s kindness with all, and more than

all, the sensibility which he, unsuspicious of her fond attachment,

could be aware of; but that he should forego any enjoyment on her

account gave her pain, and her own satisfaction in seeing Sotherton

would be nothing without him.

The next meeting of the two Mansfield families produced another

alteration in the plan, and one that was admitted with general

approbation. Mrs. Grant offered herself as companion for the day to

Lady Bertram in lieu of her son, and Dr. Grant was to join them at

dinner. Lady Bertram was very well pleased to have it so, and the young

ladies were in spirits again. Even Edmund was very thankful for an

arrangement which restored him to his share of the party; and Mrs.

Norris thought it an excellent plan, and had it at her tongue’s end,

and was on the point of proposing it, when Mrs. Grant spoke.

Wednesday was fine, and soon after breakfast the barouche arrived, Mr.

Crawford driving his sisters; and as everybody was ready, there was

nothing to be done but for Mrs. Grant to alight and the others to take

their places. The place of all places, the envied seat, the post of

honour, was unappropriated. To whose happy lot was it to fall? While

each of the Miss Bertrams were meditating how best, and with the most

appearance of obliging the others, to secure it, the matter was settled

by Mrs. Grant’s saying, as she stepped from the carriage, “As there are

five of you, it will be better that one should sit with Henry; and as

you were saying lately that you wished you could drive, Julia, I think

this will be a good opportunity for you to take a lesson.”

Happy Julia! Unhappy Maria! The former was on the barouche-box in a

moment, the latter took her seat within, in gloom and mortification;

and the carriage drove off amid the good wishes of the two remaining

ladies, and the barking of Pug in his mistress’s arms.

Their road was through a pleasant country; and Fanny, whose rides had

never been extensive, was soon beyond her knowledge, and was very happy

in observing all that was new, and admiring all that was pretty. She

was not often invited to join in the conversation of the others, nor

did she desire it. Her own thoughts and reflections were habitually her

best companions; and, in observing the appearance of the country, the

bearings of the roads, the difference of soil, the state of the

harvest, the cottages, the cattle, the children, she found

entertainment that could only have been heightened by having Edmund to

speak to of what she felt. That was the only point of resemblance

between her and the lady who sat by her: in everything but a value for

Edmund, Miss Crawford was very unlike her. She had none of Fanny’s

delicacy of taste, of mind, of feeling; she saw Nature, inanimate

Nature, with little observation; her attention was all for men and

women, her talents for the light and lively. In looking back after

Edmund, however, when there was any stretch of road behind them, or

when he gained on them in ascending a considerable hill, they were

united, and a “there he is” broke at the same moment from them both,

more than once.

For the first seven miles Miss Bertram had very little real comfort:

her prospect always ended in Mr. Crawford and her sister sitting side

by side, full of conversation and merriment; and to see only his

expressive profile as he turned with a smile to Julia, or to catch the

laugh of the other, was a perpetual source of irritation, which her own

sense of propriety could but just smooth over. When Julia looked back,

it was with a countenance of delight, and whenever she spoke to them,

it was in the highest spirits: “her view of the country was charming,

she wished they could all see it,” etc.; but her only offer of exchange

was addressed to Miss Crawford, as they gained the summit of a long

hill, and was not more inviting than this: “Here is a fine burst of

country. I wish you had my seat, but I dare say you will not take it,

let me press you ever so much;” and Miss Crawford could hardly answer

before they were moving again at a good pace.

When they came within the influence of Sotherton associations, it was

better for Miss Bertram, who might be said to have two strings to her

bow. She had Rushworth feelings, and Crawford feelings, and in the

vicinity of Sotherton the former had considerable effect. Mr.

Rushworth’s consequence was hers. She could not tell Miss Crawford that

“those woods belonged to Sotherton,” she could not carelessly observe

that “she believed that it was now all Mr. Rushworth’s property on each

side of the road,” without elation of heart; and it was a pleasure to

increase with their approach to the capital freehold mansion, and

ancient manorial residence of the family, with all its rights of

court-leet and court-baron.

“Now we shall have no more rough road, Miss Crawford; our difficulties

are over. The rest of the way is such as it ought to be. Mr. Rushworth

has made it since he succeeded to the estate. Here begins the village.

Those cottages are really a disgrace. The church spire is reckoned

remarkably handsome. I am glad the church is not so close to the great

house as often happens in old places. The annoyance of the bells must

be terrible. There is the parsonage: a tidy-looking house, and I

understand the clergyman and his wife are very decent people. Those are

almshouses, built by some of the family. To the right is the steward’s

house; he is a very respectable man. Now we are coming to the

lodge-gates; but we have nearly a mile through the park still. It is

not ugly, you see, at this end; there is some fine timber, but the

situation of the house is dreadful. We go down hill to it for half a

mile, and it is a pity, for it would not be an ill-looking place if it

had a better approach.”

Miss Crawford was not slow to admire; she pretty well guessed Miss

Bertram’s feelings, and made it a point of honour to promote her

enjoyment to the utmost. Mrs. Norris was all delight and volubility;

and even Fanny had something to say in admiration, and might be heard

with complacency. Her eye was eagerly taking in everything within her

reach; and after being at some pains to get a view of the house, and

observing that “it was a sort of building which she could not look at

but with respect,” she added, “Now, where is the avenue? The house

fronts the east, I perceive. The avenue, therefore, must be at the back

of it. Mr. Rushworth talked of the west front.”

“Yes, it is exactly behind the house; begins at a little distance, and

ascends for half a mile to the extremity of the grounds. You may see

something of it here—something of the more distant trees. It is oak

entirely.”

Miss Bertram could now speak with decided information of what she had

known nothing about when Mr. Rushworth had asked her opinion; and her

spirits were in as happy a flutter as vanity and pride could furnish,

when they drove up to the spacious stone steps before the principal

entrance.

CHAPTER IX

Mr. Rushworth was at the door to receive his fair lady; and the whole

party were welcomed by him with due attention. In the drawing-room they

were met with equal cordiality by the mother, and Miss Bertram had all

the distinction with each that she could wish. After the business of

arriving was over, it was first necessary to eat, and the doors were

thrown open to admit them through one or two intermediate rooms into

the appointed dining-parlour, where a collation was prepared with

abundance and elegance. Much was said, and much was ate, and all went

well. The particular object of the day was then considered. How would

Mr. Crawford like, in what manner would he chuse, to take a survey of

the grounds? Mr. Rushworth mentioned his curricle. Mr. Crawford

suggested the greater desirableness of some carriage which might convey

more than two. “To be depriving themselves of the advantage of other

eyes and other judgments, might be an evil even beyond the loss of

present pleasure.”

Mrs. Rushworth proposed that the chaise should be taken also; but this

was scarcely received as an amendment: the young ladies neither smiled

nor spoke. Her next proposition, of shewing the house to such of them

as had not been there before, was more acceptable, for Miss Bertram was

pleased to have its size displayed, and all were glad to be doing

something.

The whole party rose accordingly, and under Mrs. Rushworth’s guidance

were shewn through a number of rooms, all lofty, and many large, and

amply furnished in the taste of fifty years back, with shining floors,

solid mahogany, rich damask, marble, gilding, and carving, each

handsome in its way. Of pictures there were abundance, and some few

good, but the larger part were family portraits, no longer anything to

anybody but Mrs. Rushworth, who had been at great pains to learn all

that the housekeeper could teach, and was now almost equally well

qualified to shew the house. On the present occasion she addressed

herself chiefly to Miss Crawford and Fanny, but there was no comparison

in the willingness of their attention; for Miss Crawford, who had seen

scores of great houses, and cared for none of them, had only the

appearance of civilly listening, while Fanny, to whom everything was

almost as interesting as it was new, attended with unaffected

earnestness to all that Mrs. Rushworth could relate of the family in

former times, its rise and grandeur, regal visits and loyal efforts,

delighted to connect anything with history already known, or warm her

imagination with scenes of the past.

The situation of the house excluded the possibility of much prospect

from any of the rooms; and while Fanny and some of the others were

attending Mrs. Rushworth, Henry Crawford was looking grave and shaking

his head at the windows. Every room on the west front looked across a

lawn to the beginning of the avenue immediately beyond tall iron

palisades and gates.

Having visited many more rooms than could be supposed to be of any

other use than to contribute to the window-tax, and find employment for

housemaids, “Now,” said Mrs. Rushworth, “we are coming to the chapel,

which properly we ought to enter from above, and look down upon; but as

we are quite among friends, I will take you in this way, if you will

excuse me.”

They entered. Fanny’s imagination had prepared her for something

grander than a mere spacious, oblong room, fitted up for the purpose of

devotion: with nothing more striking or more solemn than the profusion

of mahogany, and the crimson velvet cushions appearing over the ledge

of the family gallery above. “I am disappointed,” said she, in a low

voice, to Edmund. “This is not my idea of a chapel. There is nothing

awful here, nothing melancholy, nothing grand. Here are no aisles, no

arches, no inscriptions, no banners. No banners, cousin, to be ‘blown

by the night wind of heaven.’ No signs that a ‘Scottish monarch sleeps

below.’”

“You forget, Fanny, how lately all this has been built, and for how

confined a purpose, compared with the old chapels of castles and

monasteries. It was only for the private use of the family. They have

been buried, I suppose, in the parish church. _There_ you must look for

the banners and the achievements.”

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

Mrs. Rushworth began her relation. “This chapel was fitted up as you

see it, in James the Second’s time. Before that period, as I

understand, the pews were only wainscot; and there is some reason to

think that the linings and cushions of the pulpit and family seat were

only purple cloth; but this is not quite certain. It is a handsome

chapel, and was formerly in constant use both morning and evening.

Prayers were always read in it by the domestic chaplain, within the

memory of many; but the late Mr. Rushworth left it off.”

“Every generation has its improvements,” said Miss Crawford, with a

smile, to Edmund.

Mrs. Rushworth was gone to repeat her lesson to Mr. Crawford; and

Edmund, Fanny, and Miss Crawford remained in a cluster together.

“It is a pity,” cried Fanny, “that the custom should have been

discontinued. It was a valuable part of former times. There is

something in a chapel and chaplain so much in character with a great

house, with one’s ideas of what such a household should be! A whole

family assembling regularly for the purpose of prayer is fine!”

“Very fine indeed,” said Miss Crawford, laughing. “It must do the heads

of the family a great deal of good to force all the poor housemaids and

footmen to leave business and pleasure, and say their prayers here

twice a day, while they are inventing excuses themselves for staying

away.”

“_That_ is hardly Fanny’s idea of a family assembling,” said Edmund.

“If the master and mistress do _not_ attend themselves, there must be

more harm than good in the custom.”

“At any rate, it is safer to leave people to their own devices on such

subjects. Everybody likes to go their own way—to chuse their own time

and manner of devotion. The obligation of attendance, the formality,

the restraint, the length of time—altogether it is a formidable thing,

and what nobody likes; and if the good people who used to kneel and

gape in that gallery could have foreseen that the time would ever come

when men and women might lie another ten minutes in bed, when they woke

with a headache, without danger of reprobation, because chapel was

missed, they would have jumped with joy and envy. Cannot you imagine

with what unwilling feelings the former belles of the house of

Rushworth did many a time repair to this chapel? The young Mrs.

Eleanors and Mrs. Bridgets—starched up into seeming piety, but with

heads full of something very different—especially if the poor chaplain

were not worth looking at—and, in those days, I fancy parsons were very

inferior even to what they are now.”

For a few moments she was unanswered. Fanny coloured and looked at

Edmund, but felt too angry for speech; and he needed a little

recollection before he could say, “Your lively mind can hardly be

serious even on serious subjects. You have given us an amusing sketch,

and human nature cannot say it was not so. We must all feel _at_

_times_ the difficulty of fixing our thoughts as we could wish; but if

you are supposing it a frequent thing, that is to say, a weakness grown

into a habit from neglect, what could be expected from the _private_

devotions of such persons? Do you think the minds which are suffered,

which are indulged in wanderings in a chapel, would be more collected

in a closet?”

“Yes, very likely. They would have two chances at least in their

favour. There would be less to distract the attention from without, and

it would not be tried so long.”

“The mind which does not struggle against itself under _one_

circumstance, would find objects to distract it in the _other_, I

believe; and the influence of the place and of example may often rouse

better feelings than are begun with. The greater length of the service,

however, I admit to be sometimes too hard a stretch upon the mind. One

wishes it were not so; but I have not yet left Oxford long enough to

forget what chapel prayers are.”

While this was passing, the rest of the party being scattered about the

chapel, Julia called Mr. Crawford’s attention to her sister, by saying,

“Do look at Mr. Rushworth and Maria, standing side by side, exactly as

if the ceremony were going to be performed. Have not they completely

the air of it?”

Mr. Crawford smiled his acquiescence, and stepping forward to Maria,

said, in a voice which she only could hear, “I do not like to see Miss

Bertram so near the altar.”

Starting, the lady instinctively moved a step or two, but recovering

herself in a moment, affected to laugh, and asked him, in a tone not

much louder, “If he would give her away?”

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

of meaning.

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

“Upon my word, it is really a pity that it should not take place

directly, if we had but a proper licence, for here we are altogether,

and nothing in the world could be more snug and pleasant.” And she

talked and laughed about it with so little caution as to catch the

comprehension of Mr. Rushworth and his mother, and expose her sister to

the whispered gallantries of her lover, while Mrs. Rushworth spoke with

proper smiles and dignity of its being a most happy event to her

whenever it took place.

“If Edmund were but in orders!” cried Julia, and running to where he

stood with Miss Crawford and Fanny: “My dear Edmund, if you were but in

orders now, you might perform the ceremony directly. How unlucky that

you are not ordained; Mr. Rushworth and Maria are quite ready.”

Miss Crawford’s countenance, as Julia spoke, might have amused a

disinterested observer. She looked almost aghast under the new idea she

was receiving. Fanny pitied her. “How distressed she will be at what

she said just now,” passed across her mind.

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

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

Christmas.”

Miss Crawford, rallying her spirits, and recovering her complexion,

replied only, “If I had known this before, I would have spoken of the

cloth with more respect,” and turned the subject.

The chapel was soon afterwards left to the silence and stillness which

reigned in it, with few interruptions, throughout the year. Miss

Bertram, displeased with her sister, led the way, and all seemed to

feel that they had been there long enough.

The lower part of the house had been now entirely shewn, and Mrs.

Rushworth, never weary in the cause, would have proceeded towards the

principal staircase, and taken them through all the rooms above, if her

son had not interposed with a doubt of there being time enough. “For

if,” said he, with the sort of self-evident proposition which many a

clearer head does not always avoid, “we are _too_ long going over the

house, we shall not have time for what is to be done out of doors. It

is past two, and we are to dine at five.”

Mrs. Rushworth submitted; and the question of surveying the grounds,

with the who and the how, was likely to be more fully agitated, and

Mrs. Norris was beginning to arrange by what junction of carriages and

horses most could be done, when the young people, meeting with an

outward door, temptingly open on a flight of steps which led

immediately to turf and shrubs, and all the sweets of pleasure-grounds,

as by one impulse, one wish for air and liberty, all walked out.

“Suppose we turn down here for the present,” said Mrs. Rushworth,

civilly taking the hint and following them. “Here are the greatest

number of our plants, and here are the curious pheasants.”

“Query,” said Mr. Crawford, looking round him, “whether we may not find

something to employ us here before we go farther? I see walls of great

promise. Mr. Rushworth, shall we summon a council on this lawn?”

“James,” said Mrs. Rushworth to her son, “I believe the wilderness will

be new to all the party. The Miss Bertrams have never seen the

wilderness yet.”

No objection was made, but for some time there seemed no inclination to

move in any plan, or to any distance. All were attracted at first by

the plants or the pheasants, and all dispersed about in happy

independence. Mr. Crawford was the first to move forward to examine the

capabilities of that end of the house. The lawn, bounded on each side

by a high wall, contained beyond the first planted area a

bowling-green, and beyond the bowling-green a long terrace walk, backed

by iron palisades, and commanding a view over them into the tops of the

trees of the wilderness immediately adjoining. It was a good spot for

fault-finding. Mr. Crawford was soon followed by Miss Bertram and Mr.

Rushworth; and when, after a little time, the others began to form into

parties, these three were found in busy consultation on the terrace by

Edmund, Miss Crawford, and Fanny, who seemed as naturally to unite, and

who, after a short participation of their regrets and difficulties,

left them and walked on. The remaining three, Mrs. Rushworth, Mrs.

Norris, and Julia, were still far behind; for Julia, whose happy star

no longer prevailed, was obliged to keep by the side of Mrs. Rushworth,

and restrain her impatient feet to that lady’s slow pace, while her

aunt, having fallen in with the housekeeper, who was come out to feed

the pheasants, was lingering behind in gossip with her. Poor Julia, the

only one out of the nine not tolerably satisfied with their lot, was

now in a state of complete penance, and as different from the Julia of

the barouche-box as could well be imagined. The politeness which she

had been brought up to practise as a duty made it impossible for her to

escape; while the want of that higher species of self-command, that

just consideration of others, that knowledge of her own heart, that

principle of right, which had not formed any essential part of her

education, made her miserable under it.

“This is insufferably hot,” said Miss Crawford, when they had taken one

turn on the terrace, and were drawing a second time to the door in the

middle which opened to the wilderness. “Shall any of us object to being

comfortable? Here is a nice little wood, if one can but get into it.

What happiness if the door should not be locked! but of course it is;

for in these great places the gardeners are the only people who can go

where they like.”

The door, however, proved not to be locked, and they were all agreed in

turning joyfully through it, and leaving the unmitigated glare of day

behind. A considerable flight of steps landed them in the wilderness,

which was a planted wood of about two acres, and though chiefly of

larch and laurel, and beech cut down, and though laid out with too much

regularity, was darkness and shade, and natural beauty, compared with

the bowling-green and the terrace. They all felt the refreshment of it,

and for some time could only walk and admire. At length, after a short

pause, Miss Crawford began with, “So you are to be a clergyman, Mr.

Bertram. This is rather a surprise to me.”

“Why should it surprise you? You must suppose me designed for some

profession, and might perceive that I am neither a lawyer, nor a

soldier, nor a sailor.”

“Very true; but, in short, it had not occurred to me. And you know

there is generally an uncle or a grandfather to leave a fortune to the

second son.”

“A very praiseworthy practice,” said Edmund, “but not quite universal.

I am one of the exceptions, and _being_ one, must do something for

myself.”

“But why are you to be a clergyman? I thought _that_ was always the lot

of the youngest, where there were many to chuse before him.”

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

“_Never_ is a black word. But yes, in the _never_ of conversation,

which means _not_ _very_ _often_, I do think it. For what is to be done

in the church? Men love to distinguish themselves, and in either of the

other lines distinction may be gained, but not in the church. A

clergyman is nothing.”

“The _nothing_ of conversation has its gradations, I hope, as well as

the _never_. A clergyman cannot be high in state or fashion. He must

not head mobs, or set the ton in dress. But I cannot call that

situation nothing which has the charge of all that is of the first

importance to mankind, individually or collectively considered,

temporally and eternally, which has the guardianship of religion and

morals, and consequently of the manners which result from their

influence. No one here can call the _office_ nothing. If the man who

holds it is so, it is by the neglect of his duty, by foregoing its just

importance, and stepping out of his place to appear what he ought not

to appear.”

“_You_ assign greater consequence to the clergyman than one has been

used to hear given, or than I can quite comprehend. One does not see

much of this influence and importance in society, and how can it be

acquired where they are so seldom seen themselves? How can two sermons

a week, even supposing them worth hearing, supposing the preacher to

have the sense to prefer Blair’s to his own, do all that you speak of?

govern the conduct and fashion the manners of a large congregation for

the rest of the week? One scarcely sees a clergyman out of his pulpit.”

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

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

“Not, I should hope, of the proportion of virtue to vice throughout the

kingdom. We do not look in great cities for our best morality. It is

not there that respectable people of any denomination can do most good;

and it certainly is not there that the influence of the clergy can be

most felt. A fine preacher is followed and admired; but it is not in

fine preaching only that a good clergyman will be useful in his parish

and his neighbourhood, where the parish and neighbourhood are of a size

capable of knowing his private character, and observing his general

conduct, which in London can rarely be the case. The clergy are lost

there in the crowds of their parishioners. They are known to the

largest part only as preachers. And with regard to their influencing

public manners, Miss Crawford must not misunderstand me, or suppose I

mean to call them the arbiters of good-breeding, the regulators of

refinement and courtesy, the masters of the ceremonies of life. The

_manners_ I speak of might rather be called _conduct_, perhaps, the

result of good principles; the effect, in short, of those doctrines

which it is their duty to teach and recommend; and it will, I believe,

be everywhere found, that as the clergy are, or are not what they ought

to be, so are the rest of the nation.”

“Certainly,” said Fanny, with gentle earnestness.

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

already.”

“I wish I could convince Miss Crawford too.”

“I do not think you ever will,” said she, with an arch smile; “I am

just as much surprised now as I was at first that you should intend to

take orders. You really are fit for something better. Come, do change

your mind. It is not too late. Go into the law.”

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

wilderness.”

“Now you are going to say something about law being the worst

wilderness of the two, but I forestall you; remember, I have

forestalled you.”

“You need not hurry when the object is only to prevent my saying a

_bon_ _mot_, for there is not the least wit in my nature. I am a very

matter-of-fact, plain-spoken being, and may blunder on the borders of a

repartee for half an hour together without striking it out.”

A general silence succeeded. Each was thoughtful. Fanny made the first

interruption by saying, “I wonder that I should be tired with only

walking in this sweet wood; but the next time we come to a seat, if it

is not disagreeable to you, I should be glad to sit down for a little

while.”

“My dear Fanny,” cried Edmund, immediately drawing her arm within his,

“how thoughtless I have been! I hope you are not very tired. Perhaps,”

turning to Miss Crawford, “my other companion may do me the honour of

taking an arm.”

“Thank you, but I am not at all tired.” She took it, however, as she

spoke, and the gratification of having her do so, of feeling such a

connexion for the first time, made him a little forgetful of Fanny.

“You scarcely touch me,” said he. “You do not make me of any use. What

a difference in the weight of a woman’s arm from that of a man! At

Oxford I have been a good deal used to have a man lean on me for the

length of a street, and you are only a fly in the comparison.”

“I am really not tired, which I almost wonder at; for we must have

walked at least a mile in this wood. Do not you think we have?”

“Not half a mile,” was his sturdy answer; for he was not yet so much in

love as to measure distance, or reckon time, with feminine lawlessness.

“Oh! you do not consider how much we have wound about. We have taken

such a very serpentine course, and the wood itself must be half a mile

long in a straight line, for we have never seen the end of it yet since

we left the first great path.”

“But if you remember, before we left that first great path, we saw

directly to the end of it. We looked down the whole vista, and saw it

closed by iron gates, and it could not have been more than a furlong in

length.”

“Oh! I know nothing of your furlongs, but I am sure it is a very long

wood, and that we have been winding in and out ever since we came into

it; and therefore, when I say that we have walked a mile in it, I must

speak within compass.”

“We have been exactly a quarter of an hour here,” said Edmund, taking

out his watch. “Do you think we are walking four miles an hour?”

“Oh! do not attack me with your watch. A watch is always too fast or

too slow. I cannot be dictated to by a watch.”

A few steps farther brought them out at the bottom of the very walk

they had been talking of; and standing back, well shaded and sheltered,

and looking over a ha-ha into the park, was a comfortable-sized bench,

on which they all sat down.

“I am afraid you are very tired, Fanny,” said Edmund, observing her;

“why would not you speak sooner? This will be a bad day’s amusement for

you if you are to be knocked up. Every sort of exercise fatigues her so

soon, Miss Crawford, except riding.”

“How abominable in you, then, to let me engross her horse as I did all

last week! I am ashamed of you and of myself, but it shall never happen

again.”

“_Your_ attentiveness and consideration makes me more sensible of my

own neglect. Fanny’s interest seems in safer hands with you than with

me.”

“That she should be tired now, however, gives me no surprise; for there

is nothing in the course of one’s duties so fatiguing as what we have

been doing this morning: seeing a great house, dawdling from one room

to another, straining one’s eyes and one’s attention, hearing what one

does not understand, admiring what one does not care for. It is

generally allowed to be the greatest bore in the world, and Miss Price

has found it so, though she did not know it.”

“I shall soon be rested,” said Fanny; “to sit in the shade on a fine

day, and look upon verdure, is the most perfect refreshment.”

After sitting a little while Miss Crawford was up again. “I must move,”

said she; “resting fatigues me. I have looked across the ha-ha till I

am weary. I must go and look through that iron gate at the same view,

without being able to see it so well.”

Edmund left the seat likewise. “Now, Miss Crawford, if you will look up

the walk, you will convince yourself that it cannot be half a mile

long, or half half a mile.”

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

He still reasoned with her, but in vain. She would not calculate, she

would not compare. She would only smile and assert. The greatest degree

of rational consistency could not have been more engaging, and they

talked with mutual satisfaction. At last it was agreed that they should

endeavour to determine the dimensions of the wood by walking a little

more about it. They would go to one end of it, in the line they were

then in—for there was a straight green walk along the bottom by the

side of the ha-ha—and perhaps turn a little way in some other

direction, if it seemed likely to assist them, and be back in a few

minutes. Fanny said she was rested, and would have moved too, but this

was not suffered. Edmund urged her remaining where she was with an

earnestness which she could not resist, and she was left on the bench

to think with pleasure of her cousin’s care, but with great regret that

she was not stronger. She watched them till they had turned the corner,

and listened till all sound of them had ceased.

CHAPTER X

A quarter of an hour, twenty minutes, passed away, and Fanny was still

thinking of Edmund, Miss Crawford, and herself, without interruption

from any one. She began to be surprised at being left so long, and to

listen with an anxious desire of hearing their steps and their voices

again. She listened, and at length she heard; she heard voices and feet

approaching; but she had just satisfied herself that it was not those

she wanted, when Miss Bertram, Mr. Rushworth, and Mr. Crawford issued

from the same path which she had trod herself, and were before her.

“Miss Price all alone” and “My dear Fanny, how comes this?” were the

first salutations. She told her story. “Poor dear Fanny,” cried her

cousin, “how ill you have been used by them! You had better have staid

with us.”

Then seating herself with a gentleman on each side, she resumed the

conversation which had engaged them before, and discussed the

possibility of improvements with much animation. Nothing was fixed on;

but Henry Crawford was full of ideas and projects, and, generally

speaking, whatever he proposed was immediately approved, first by her,

and then by Mr. Rushworth, whose principal business seemed to be to

hear the others, and who scarcely risked an original thought of his own

beyond a wish that they had seen his friend Smith’s place.

After some minutes spent in this way, Miss Bertram, observing the iron

gate, expressed a wish of passing through it into the park, that their

views and their plans might be more comprehensive. It was the very

thing of all others to be wished, it was the best, it was the only way

of proceeding with any advantage, in Henry Crawford’s opinion; and he

directly saw a knoll not half a mile off, which would give them exactly

the requisite command of the house. Go therefore they must to that

knoll, and through that gate; but the gate was locked. Mr. Rushworth

wished he had brought the key; he had been very near thinking whether

he should not bring the key; he was determined he would never come

without the key again; but still this did not remove the present evil.

They could not get through; and as Miss Bertram’s inclination for so

doing did by no means lessen, it ended in Mr. Rushworth’s declaring

outright that he would go and fetch the key. He set off accordingly.

“It is undoubtedly the best thing we can do now, as we are so far from

the house already,” said Mr. Crawford, when he was gone.

“Yes, there is nothing else to be done. But now, sincerely, do not you

find the place altogether worse than you expected?”

“No, indeed, far otherwise. I find it better, grander, more complete in

its style, though that style may not be the best. And to tell you the

truth,” speaking rather lower, “I do not think that _I_ shall ever see

Sotherton again with so much pleasure as I do now. Another summer will

hardly improve it to me.”

After a moment’s embarrassment the lady replied, “You are too much a

man of the world not to see with the eyes of the world. If other people

think Sotherton improved, I have no doubt that you will.”

“I am afraid I am not quite so much the man of the world as might be

good for me in some points. My feelings are not quite so evanescent,

nor my memory of the past under such easy dominion as one finds to be

the case with men of the world.”

This was followed by a short silence. Miss Bertram began again. “You

seemed to enjoy your drive here very much this morning. I was glad to

see you so well entertained. You and Julia were laughing the whole

way.”

“Were we? Yes, I believe we were; but I have not the least recollection

at what. Oh! I believe I was relating to her some ridiculous stories of

an old Irish groom of my uncle’s. Your sister loves to laugh.”

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

“More easily amused,” he replied; “consequently, you know,” smiling,

“better company. I could not have hoped to entertain you with Irish

anecdotes during a ten miles’ drive.”

“Naturally, I believe, I am as lively as Julia, but I have more to

think of now.”

“You have, undoubtedly; and there are situations in which very high

spirits would denote insensibility. Your prospects, however, are too

fair to justify want of spirits. You have a very smiling scene before

you.”

“Do you mean literally or figuratively? Literally, I conclude. Yes,

certainly, the sun shines, and the park looks very cheerful. But

unluckily that iron gate, that ha-ha, give me a feeling of restraint

and hardship. ‘I cannot get out,’ as the starling said.” As she spoke,

and it was with expression, she walked to the gate: he followed her.

“Mr. Rushworth is so long fetching this key!”

“And for the world you would not get out without the key and without

Mr. Rushworth’s authority and protection, or I think you might with

little difficulty pass round the edge of the gate, here, with my

assistance; I think it might be done, if you really wished to be more

at large, and could allow yourself to think it not prohibited.”

“Prohibited! nonsense! I certainly can get out that way, and I will.

Mr. Rushworth will be here in a moment, you know; we shall not be out

of sight.”

“Or if we are, Miss Price will be so good as to tell him that he will

find us near that knoll: the grove of oak on the knoll.”

Fanny, feeling all this to be wrong, could not help making an effort to

prevent it. “You will hurt yourself, Miss Bertram,” she cried; “you

will certainly hurt yourself against those spikes; you will tear your

gown; you will be in danger of slipping into the ha-ha. You had better

not go.”

Her cousin was safe on the other side while these words were spoken,

and, smiling with all the good-humour of success, she said, “Thank you,

my dear Fanny, but I and my gown are alive and well, and so good-bye.”

Fanny was again left to her solitude, and with no increase of pleasant

feelings, for she was sorry for almost all that she had seen and heard,

astonished at Miss Bertram, and angry with Mr. Crawford. By taking a

circuitous, and, as it appeared to her, very unreasonable direction to

the knoll, they were soon beyond her eye; and for some minutes longer

she remained without sight or sound of any companion. She seemed to

have the little wood all to herself. She could almost have thought that

Edmund and Miss Crawford had left it, but that it was impossible for

Edmund to forget her so entirely.

She was again roused from disagreeable musings by sudden footsteps:

somebody was coming at a quick pace down the principal walk. She

expected Mr. Rushworth, but it was Julia, who, hot and out of breath,

and with a look of disappointment, cried out on seeing her, “Heyday!

Where are the others? I thought Maria and Mr. Crawford were with you.”

Fanny explained.

“A pretty trick, upon my word! I cannot see them anywhere,” looking

eagerly into the park. “But they cannot be very far off, and I think I

am equal to as much as Maria, even without help.”

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

wait for Mr. Rushworth.”

“Not I, indeed. I have had enough of the family for one morning. Why,

child, I have but this moment escaped from his horrible mother. Such a

penance as I have been enduring, while you were sitting here so

composed and so happy! It might have been as well, perhaps, if you had

been in my place, but you always contrive to keep out of these

scrapes.”

This was a most unjust reflection, but Fanny could allow for it, and

let it pass: Julia was vexed, and her temper was hasty; but she felt

that it would not last, and therefore, taking no notice, only asked her

if she had not seen Mr. Rushworth.

“Yes, yes, we saw him. He was posting away as if upon life and death,

and could but just spare time to tell us his errand, and where you all

were.”

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

“_That_ is Miss Maria’s concern. I am not obliged to punish myself for

_her_ sins. The mother I could not avoid, as long as my tiresome aunt

was dancing about with the housekeeper, but the son I _can_ get away

from.”

And she immediately scrambled across the fence, and walked away, not

attending to Fanny’s last question of whether she had seen anything of

Miss Crawford and Edmund. The sort of dread in which Fanny now sat of

seeing Mr. Rushworth prevented her thinking so much of their continued

absence, however, as she might have done. She felt that he had been

very ill-used, and was quite unhappy in having to communicate what had

passed. He joined her within five minutes after Julia’s exit; and

though she made the best of the story, he was evidently mortified and

displeased in no common degree. At first he scarcely said anything; his

looks only expressed his extreme surprise and vexation, and he walked

to the gate and stood there, without seeming to know what to do.

“They desired me to stay—my cousin Maria charged me to say that you

would find them at that knoll, or thereabouts.”

“I do not believe I shall go any farther,” said he sullenly; “I see

nothing of them. By the time I get to the knoll they may be gone

somewhere else. I have had walking enough.”

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

“I am very sorry,” said she; “it is very unlucky.” And she longed to be

able to say something more to the purpose.

After an interval of silence, “I think they might as well have staid

for me,” said he.

“Miss Bertram thought you would follow her.”

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

This could not be denied, and Fanny was silenced. After another pause,

he went on—“Pray, Miss Price, are you such a great admirer of this Mr.

Crawford as some people are? For my part, I can see nothing in him.”

“I do not think him at all handsome.”

“Handsome! Nobody can call such an undersized man handsome. He is not

five foot nine. I should not wonder if he is not more than five foot

eight. I think he is an ill-looking fellow. In my opinion, these

Crawfords are no addition at all. We did very well without them.”

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

him.

“If I had made any difficulty about fetching the key, there might have

been some excuse, but I went the very moment she said she wanted it.”

“Nothing could be more obliging than your manner, I am sure, and I dare

say you walked as fast as you could; but still it is some distance, you

know, from this spot to the house, quite into the house; and when

people are waiting, they are bad judges of time, and every half minute

seems like five.”

He got up and walked to the gate again, and “wished he had had the key

about him at the time.” Fanny thought she discerned in his standing

there an indication of relenting, which encouraged her to another

attempt, and she said, therefore, “It is a pity you should not join

them. They expected to have a better view of the house from that part

of the park, and will be thinking how it may be improved; and nothing

of that sort, you know, can be settled without you.”

She found herself more successful in sending away than in retaining a

companion. Mr. Rushworth was worked on. “Well,” said he, “if you really

think I had better go: it would be foolish to bring the key for

nothing.” And letting himself out, he walked off without farther

ceremony.

Fanny’s thoughts were now all engrossed by the two who had left her so

long ago, and getting quite impatient, she resolved to go in search of

them. She followed their steps along the bottom walk, and had just

turned up into another, when the voice and the laugh of Miss Crawford

once more caught her ear; the sound approached, and a few more windings

brought them before her. They were just returned into the wilderness

from the park, to which a sidegate, not fastened, had tempted them very

soon after their leaving her, and they had been across a portion of the

park into the very avenue which Fanny had been hoping the whole morning

to reach at last, and had been sitting down under one of the trees.

This was their history. It was evident that they had been spending

their time pleasantly, and were not aware of the length of their

absence. Fanny’s best consolation was in being assured that Edmund had

wished for her very much, and that he should certainly have come back

for her, had she not been tired already; but this was not quite

sufficient to do away with the pain of having been left a whole hour,

when he had talked of only a few minutes, nor to banish the sort of

curiosity she felt to know what they had been conversing about all that

time; and the result of the whole was to her disappointment and

depression, as they prepared by general agreement to return to the

house.

On reaching the bottom of the steps to the terrace, Mrs. Rushworth and

Mrs. Norris presented themselves at the top, just ready for the

wilderness, at the end of an hour and a half from their leaving the

house. Mrs. Norris had been too well employed to move faster. Whatever

cross-accidents had occurred to intercept the pleasures of her nieces,

she had found a morning of complete enjoyment; for the housekeeper,

after a great many courtesies on the subject of pheasants, had taken

her to the dairy, told her all about their cows, and given her the

receipt for a famous cream cheese; and since Julia’s leaving them they

had been met by the gardener, with whom she had made a most

satisfactory acquaintance, for she had set him right as to his

grandson’s illness, convinced him that it was an ague, and promised him

a charm for it; and he, in return, had shewn her all his choicest

nursery of plants, and actually presented her with a very curious

specimen of heath.

On this _rencontre_ they all returned to the house together, there to

lounge away the time as they could with sofas, and chit-chat, and

Quarterly Reviews, till the return of the others, and the arrival of

dinner. It was late before the Miss Bertrams and the two gentlemen came

in, and their ramble did not appear to have been more than partially

agreeable, or at all productive of anything useful with regard to the

object of the day. By their own accounts they had been all walking

after each other, and the junction which had taken place at last

seemed, to Fanny’s observation, to have been as much too late for

re-establishing harmony, as it confessedly had been for determining on

any alteration. She felt, as she looked at Julia and Mr. Rushworth,

that hers was not the only dissatisfied bosom amongst them: there was

gloom on the face of each. Mr. Crawford and Miss Bertram were much more

gay, and she thought that he was taking particular pains, during

dinner, to do away any little resentment of the other two, and restore

general good-humour.

Dinner was soon followed by tea and coffee, a ten miles’ drive home

allowed no waste of hours; and from the time of their sitting down to

table, it was a quick succession of busy nothings till the carriage

came to the door, and Mrs. Norris, having fidgeted about, and obtained

a few pheasants’ eggs and a cream cheese from the housekeeper, and made

abundance of civil speeches to Mrs. Rushworth, was ready to lead the

way. At the same moment Mr. Crawford, approaching Julia, said, “I hope

I am not to lose my companion, unless she is afraid of the evening air

in so exposed a seat.” The request had not been foreseen, but was very

graciously received, and Julia’s day was likely to end almost as well

as it began. Miss Bertram had made up her mind to something different,

and was a little disappointed; but her conviction of being really the

one preferred comforted her under it, and enabled her to receive Mr.

Rushworth’s parting attentions as she ought. He was certainly better

pleased to hand her into the barouche than to assist her in ascending

the box, and his complacency seemed confirmed by the arrangement.

“Well, Fanny, this has been a fine day for you, upon my word,” said

Mrs. Norris, as they drove through the park. “Nothing but pleasure from

beginning to end! I am sure you ought to be very much obliged to your

aunt Bertram and me for contriving to let you go. A pretty good day’s

amusement you have had!”

Maria was just discontented enough to say directly, “I think _you_ have

done pretty well yourself, ma’am. Your lap seems full of good things,

and here is a basket of something between us which has been knocking my

elbow unmercifully.”

“My dear, it is only a beautiful little heath, which that nice old

gardener would make me take; but if it is in your way, I will have it

in my lap directly. There, Fanny, you shall carry that parcel for me;

take great care of it: do not let it fall; it is a cream cheese, just

like the excellent one we had at dinner. Nothing would satisfy that

good old Mrs. Whitaker, but my taking one of the cheeses. I stood out

as long as I could, till the tears almost came into her eyes, and I

knew it was just the sort that my sister would be delighted with. That

Mrs. Whitaker is a treasure! She was quite shocked when I asked her

whether wine was allowed at the second table, and she has turned away

two housemaids for wearing white gowns. Take care of the cheese, Fanny.

Now I can manage the other parcel and the basket very well.”

“What else have you been spunging?” said Maria, half-pleased that

Sotherton should be so complimented.

“Spunging, my dear! It is nothing but four of those beautiful

pheasants’ eggs, which Mrs. Whitaker would quite force upon me: she

would not take a denial. She said it must be such an amusement to me,

as she understood I lived quite alone, to have a few living creatures

of that sort; and so to be sure it will. I shall get the dairymaid to

set them under the first spare hen, and if they come to good I can have

them moved to my own house and borrow a coop; and it will be a great

delight to me in my lonely hours to attend to them. And if I have good

luck, your mother shall have some.”

It was a beautiful evening, mild and still, and the drive was as

pleasant as the serenity of Nature could make it; but when Mrs. Norris

ceased speaking, it was altogether a silent drive to those within.

Their spirits were in general exhausted; and to determine whether the

day had afforded most pleasure or pain, might occupy the meditations of

almost all.

CHAPTER XI

The day at Sotherton, with all its imperfections, afforded the Miss

Bertrams much more agreeable feelings than were derived from the

letters from Antigua, which soon afterwards reached Mansfield. It was

much pleasanter to think of Henry Crawford than of their father; and to

think of their father in England again within a certain period, which

these letters obliged them to do, was a most unwelcome exercise.

November was the black month fixed for his return. Sir Thomas wrote of

it with as much decision as experience and anxiety could authorise. His

business was so nearly concluded as to justify him in proposing to take

his passage in the September packet, and he consequently looked forward

with the hope of being with his beloved family again early in November.

Maria was more to be pitied than Julia; for to her the father brought a

husband, and the return of the friend most solicitous for her happiness

would unite her to the lover, on whom she had chosen that happiness

should depend. It was a gloomy prospect, and all she could do was to

throw a mist over it, and hope when the mist cleared away she should

see something else. It would hardly be _early_ in November, there were

generally delays, a bad passage or _something_; that favouring

_something_ which everybody who shuts their eyes while they look, or

their understandings while they reason, feels the comfort of. It would

probably be the middle of November at least; the middle of November was

three months off. Three months comprised thirteen weeks. Much might

happen in thirteen weeks.

Sir Thomas would have been deeply mortified by a suspicion of half that

his daughters felt on the subject of his return, and would hardly have

found consolation in a knowledge of the interest it excited in the

breast of another young lady. Miss Crawford, on walking up with her

brother to spend the evening at Mansfield Park, heard the good news;

and though seeming to have no concern in the affair beyond politeness,

and to have vented all her feelings in a quiet congratulation, heard it

with an attention not so easily satisfied. Mrs. Norris gave the

particulars of the letters, and the subject was dropt; but after tea,

as Miss Crawford was standing at an open window with Edmund and Fanny

looking out on a twilight scene, while the Miss Bertrams, Mr.

Rushworth, and Henry Crawford were all busy with candles at the

pianoforte, she suddenly revived it by turning round towards the group,

and saying, “How happy Mr. Rushworth looks! He is thinking of

November.”

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

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

“It will, indeed, after such an absence; an absence not only long, but

including so many dangers.”

“It will be the forerunner also of other interesting events: your

sister’s marriage, and your taking orders.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t be affronted,” said she, laughing, “but it does put me in mind

of some of the old heathen heroes, who, after performing great exploits

in a foreign land, offered sacrifices to the gods on their safe

return.”

“There is no sacrifice in the case,” replied Edmund, with a serious

smile, and glancing at the pianoforte again; “it is entirely her own

doing.”

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

what every young woman would do; and I have no doubt of her being

extremely happy. My other sacrifice, of course, you do not understand.”

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

marrying.”

“It is fortunate that your inclination and your father’s convenience

should accord so well. There is a very good living kept for you, I

understand, hereabouts.”

“Which you suppose has biassed me?”

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

“Thank you for your good word, Fanny, but it is more than I would

affirm myself. On the contrary, the knowing that there was such a

provision for me probably did bias me. Nor can I think it wrong that it

should. There was no natural disinclination to be overcome, and I see

no reason why a man should make a worse clergyman for knowing that he

will have a competence early in life. I was in safe hands. I hope I

should not have been influenced myself in a wrong way, and I am sure my

father was too conscientious to have allowed it. I have no doubt that I

was biased, but I think it was blamelessly.”

“It is the same sort of thing,” said Fanny, after a short pause, “as

for the son of an admiral to go into the navy, or the son of a general

to be in the army, and nobody sees anything wrong in that. Nobody

wonders that they should prefer the line where their friends can serve

them best, or suspects them to be less in earnest in it than they

appear.”

“No, my dear Miss Price, and for reasons good. The profession, either

navy or army, is its own justification. It has everything in its

favour: heroism, danger, bustle, fashion. Soldiers and sailors are

always acceptable in society. Nobody can wonder that men are soldiers

and sailors.”

“But the motives of a man who takes orders with the certainty of

preferment may be fairly suspected, you think?” said Edmund. “To be

justified in your eyes, he must do it in the most complete uncertainty

of any provision.”

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

absolute madness.”

“Shall I ask you how the church is to be filled, if a man is neither to

take orders with a living nor without? No; for you certainly would not

know what to say. But I must beg some advantage to the clergyman from

your own argument. As he cannot be influenced by those feelings which

you rank highly as temptation and reward to the soldier and sailor in

their choice of a profession, as heroism, and noise, and fashion, are

all against him, he ought to be less liable to the suspicion of wanting

sincerity or good intentions in the choice of his.”

“Oh! no doubt he is very sincere in preferring an income ready made, to

the trouble of working for one; and has the best intentions of doing

nothing all the rest of his days but eat, drink, and grow fat. It is

indolence, Mr. Bertram, indeed. Indolence and love of ease; a want of

all laudable ambition, of taste for good company, or of inclination to

take the trouble of being agreeable, which make men clergymen. A

clergyman has nothing to do but be slovenly and selfish—read the

newspaper, watch the weather, and quarrel with his wife. His curate

does all the work, and the business of his own life is to dine.”

“There are such clergymen, no doubt, but I think they are not so common

as to justify Miss Crawford in esteeming it their general character. I

suspect that in this comprehensive and (may I say) commonplace censure,

you are not judging from yourself, but from prejudiced persons, whose

opinions you have been in the habit of hearing. It is impossible that

your own observation can have given you much knowledge of the clergy.

You can have been personally acquainted with very few of a set of men

you condemn so conclusively. You are speaking what you have been told

at your uncle’s table.”

“I speak what appears to me the general opinion; and where an opinion

is general, it is usually correct. Though _I_ have not seen much of the

domestic lives of clergymen, it is seen by too many to leave any

deficiency of information.”

“Where any one body of educated men, of whatever denomination, are

condemned indiscriminately, there must be a deficiency of information,

or (smiling) of something else. Your uncle, and his brother admirals,

perhaps knew little of clergymen beyond the chaplains whom, good or

bad, they were always wishing away.”

“Poor William! He has met with great kindness from the chaplain of the

Antwerp,” was a tender apostrophe of Fanny’s, very much to the purpose

of her own feelings if not of the conversation.

“I have been so little addicted to take my opinions from my uncle,”

said Miss Crawford, “that I can hardly suppose—and since you push me so

hard, I must observe, that I am not entirely without the means of

seeing what clergymen are, being at this present time the guest of my

own brother, Dr. Grant. And though Dr. Grant is most kind and obliging

to me, and though he is really a gentleman, and, I dare say, a good

scholar and clever, and often preaches good sermons, and is very

respectable, _I_ see him to be an indolent, selfish _bon_ _vivant_, who

must have his palate consulted in everything; who will not stir a

finger for the convenience of any one; and who, moreover, if the cook

makes a blunder, is out of humour with his excellent wife. To own the

truth, Henry and I were partly driven out this very evening by a

disappointment about a green goose, which he could not get the better

of. My poor sister was forced to stay and bear it.”

“I do not wonder at your disapprobation, upon my word. It is a great

defect of temper, made worse by a very faulty habit of self-indulgence;

and to see your sister suffering from it must be exceedingly painful to

such feelings as yours. Fanny, it goes against us. We cannot attempt to

defend Dr. Grant.”

“No,” replied Fanny, “but we need not give up his profession for all

that; because, whatever profession Dr. Grant had chosen, he would have

taken a—not a good temper into it; and as he must, either in the navy

or army, have had a great many more people under his command than he

has now, I think more would have been made unhappy by him as a sailor

or soldier than as a clergyman. Besides, I cannot but suppose that

whatever there may be to wish otherwise in Dr. Grant would have been in

a greater danger of becoming worse in a more active and worldly

profession, where he would have had less time and obligation—where he

might have escaped that knowledge of himself, the _frequency_, at

least, of that knowledge which it is impossible he should escape as he

is now. A man—a sensible man like Dr. Grant, cannot be in the habit of

teaching others their duty every week, cannot go to church twice every

Sunday, and preach such very good sermons in so good a manner as he

does, without being the better for it himself. It must make him think;

and I have no doubt that he oftener endeavours to restrain himself than

he would if he had been anything but a clergyman.”

“We cannot prove to the contrary, to be sure; but I wish you a better

fate, Miss Price, than to be the wife of a man whose amiableness

depends upon his own sermons; for though he may preach himself into a

good-humour every Sunday, it will be bad enough to have him quarrelling

about green geese from Monday morning till Saturday night.”

“I think the man who could often quarrel with Fanny,” said Edmund

affectionately, “must be beyond the reach of any sermons.”

Fanny turned farther into the window; and Miss Crawford had only time

to say, in a pleasant manner, “I fancy Miss Price has been more used to

deserve praise than to hear it”; when, being earnestly invited by the

Miss Bertrams to join in a glee, she tripped off to the instrument,

leaving Edmund looking after her in an ecstasy of admiration of all her

many virtues, from her obliging manners down to her light and graceful

tread.

“There goes good-humour, I am sure,” said he presently. “There goes a

temper which would never give pain! How well she walks! and how readily

she falls in with the inclination of others! joining them the moment

she is asked. What a pity,” he added, after an instant’s reflection,

“that she should have been in such hands!”

Fanny agreed to it, and had the pleasure of seeing him continue at the

window with her, in spite of the expected glee; and of having his eyes

soon turned, like hers, towards the scene without, where all that was

solemn, and soothing, and lovely, appeared in the brilliancy of an

unclouded night, and the contrast of the deep shade of the woods. Fanny

spoke her feelings. “Here’s harmony!” said she; “here’s repose! Here’s

what may leave all painting and all music behind, and what poetry only

can attempt to describe! Here’s what may tranquillise every care, and

lift the heart to rapture! When I look out on such a night as this, I

feel as if there could be neither wickedness nor sorrow in the world;

and there certainly would be less of both if the sublimity of Nature

were more attended to, and people were carried more out of themselves

by contemplating such a scene.”

“I like to hear your enthusiasm, Fanny. It is a lovely night, and they

are much to be pitied who have not been taught to feel, in some degree,

as you do; who have not, at least, been given a taste for Nature in

early life. They lose a great deal.”

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

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

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

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

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

star-gazing.”

“Yes; I do not know how it has happened.” The glee began. “We will stay

till this is finished, Fanny,” said he, turning his back on the window;

and as it advanced, she had the mortification of seeing him advance

too, moving forward by gentle degrees towards the instrument, and when

it ceased, he was close by the singers, among the most urgent in

requesting to hear the glee again.

Fanny sighed alone at the window till scolded away by Mrs. Norris’s

threats of catching cold.

CHAPTER XII

Sir Thomas was to return in November, and his eldest son had duties to

call him earlier home. The approach of September brought tidings of Mr.

Bertram, first in a letter to the gamekeeper and then in a letter to

Edmund; and by the end of August he arrived himself, to be gay,

agreeable, and gallant again as occasion served, or Miss Crawford

demanded; to tell of races and Weymouth, and parties and friends, to

which she might have listened six weeks before with some interest, and

altogether to give her the fullest conviction, by the power of actual

comparison, of her preferring his younger brother.

It was very vexatious, and she was heartily sorry for it; but so it

was; and so far from now meaning to marry the elder, she did not even

want to attract him beyond what the simplest claims of conscious beauty

required: his lengthened absence from Mansfield, without anything but

pleasure in view, and his own will to consult, made it perfectly clear

that he did not care about her; and his indifference was so much more

than equalled by her own, that were he now to step forth the owner of

Mansfield Park, the Sir Thomas complete, which he was to be in time,

she did not believe she could accept him.

The season and duties which brought Mr. Bertram back to Mansfield took

Mr. Crawford into Norfolk. Everingham could not do without him in the

beginning of September. He went for a fortnight—a fortnight of such

dullness to the Miss Bertrams as ought to have put them both on their

guard, and made even Julia admit, in her jealousy of her sister, the

absolute necessity of distrusting his attentions, and wishing him not

to return; and a fortnight of sufficient leisure, in the intervals of

shooting and sleeping, to have convinced the gentleman that he ought to

keep longer away, had he been more in the habit of examining his own

motives, and of reflecting to what the indulgence of his idle vanity

was tending; but, thoughtless and selfish from prosperity and bad

example, he would not look beyond the present moment. The sisters,

handsome, clever, and encouraging, were an amusement to his sated mind;

and finding nothing in Norfolk to equal the social pleasures of

Mansfield, he gladly returned to it at the time appointed, and was

welcomed thither quite as gladly by those whom he came to trifle with

further.

Maria, with only Mr. Rushworth to attend to her, and doomed to the

repeated details of his day’s sport, good or bad, his boast of his

dogs, his jealousy of his neighbours, his doubts of their

qualifications, and his zeal after poachers, subjects which will not

find their way to female feelings without some talent on one side or

some attachment on the other, had missed Mr. Crawford grievously; and

Julia, unengaged and unemployed, felt all the right of missing him much

more. Each sister believed herself the favourite. Julia might be

justified in so doing by the hints of Mrs. Grant, inclined to credit

what she wished, and Maria by the hints of Mr. Crawford himself.

Everything returned into the same channel as before his absence; his

manners being to each so animated and agreeable as to lose no ground

with either, and just stopping short of the consistence, the

steadiness, the solicitude, and the warmth which might excite general

notice.

Fanny was the only one of the party who found anything to dislike; but

since the day at Sotherton, she could never see Mr. Crawford with

either sister without observation, and seldom without wonder or

censure; and had her confidence in her own judgment been equal to her

exercise of it in every other respect, had she been sure that she was

seeing clearly, and judging candidly, she would probably have made some

important communications to her usual confidant. As it was, however,

she only hazarded a hint, and the hint was lost. “I am rather

surprised,” said she, “that Mr. Crawford should come back again so

soon, after being here so long before, full seven weeks; for I had

understood he was so very fond of change and moving about, that I

thought something would certainly occur, when he was once gone, to take

him elsewhere. He is used to much gayer places than Mansfield.”

“It is to his credit,” was Edmund’s answer; “and I dare say it gives

his sister pleasure. She does not like his unsettled habits.”

“What a favourite he is with my cousins!”

“Yes, his manners to women are such as must please. Mrs. Grant, I

believe, suspects him of a preference for Julia; I have never seen much

symptom of it, but I wish it may be so. He has no faults but what a

serious attachment would remove.”

“If Miss Bertram were not engaged,” said Fanny cautiously, “I could

sometimes almost think that he admired her more than Julia.”

“Which is, perhaps, more in favour of his liking Julia best, than you,

Fanny, may be aware; for I believe it often happens that a man, before

he has quite made up his own mind, will distinguish the sister or

intimate friend of the woman he is really thinking of more than the

woman herself. Crawford has too much sense to stay here if he found

himself in any danger from Maria; and I am not at all afraid for her,

after such a proof as she has given that her feelings are not strong.”

Fanny supposed she must have been mistaken, and meant to think

differently in future; but with all that submission to Edmund could do,

and all the help of the coinciding looks and hints which she

occasionally noticed in some of the others, and which seemed to say

that Julia was Mr. Crawford’s choice, she knew not always what to

think. She was privy, one evening, to the hopes of her aunt Norris on

the subject, as well as to her feelings, and the feelings of Mrs.

Rushworth, on a point of some similarity, and could not help wondering

as she listened; and glad would she have been not to be obliged to

listen, for it was while all the other young people were dancing, and

she sitting, most unwillingly, among the chaperons at the fire, longing

for the re-entrance of her elder cousin, on whom all her own hopes of a

partner then depended. It was Fanny’s first ball, though without the

preparation or splendour of many a young lady’s first ball, being the

thought only of the afternoon, built on the late acquisition of a

violin player in the servants’ hall, and the possibility of raising

five couple with the help of Mrs. Grant and a new intimate friend of

Mr. Bertram’s just arrived on a visit. It had, however, been a very

happy one to Fanny through four dances, and she was quite grieved to be

losing even a quarter of an hour. While waiting and wishing, looking

now at the dancers and now at the door, this dialogue between the two

above-mentioned ladies was forced on her—

“I think, ma’am,” said Mrs. Norris, her eyes directed towards Mr.

Rushworth and Maria, who were partners for the second time, “we shall

see some happy faces again now.”

“Yes, ma’am, indeed,” replied the other, with a stately simper, “there

will be some satisfaction in looking on _now_, and I think it was

rather a pity they should have been obliged to part. Young folks in

their situation should be excused complying with the common forms. I

wonder my son did not propose it.”

“I dare say he did, ma’am. Mr. Rushworth is never remiss. But dear

Maria has such a strict sense of propriety, so much of that true

delicacy which one seldom meets with nowadays, Mrs. Rushworth—that wish

of avoiding particularity! Dear ma’am, only look at her face at this

moment; how different from what it was the two last dances!”

Miss Bertram did indeed look happy, her eyes were sparkling with

pleasure, and she was speaking with great animation, for Julia and her

partner, Mr. Crawford, were close to her; they were all in a cluster

together. How she had looked before, Fanny could not recollect, for she

had been dancing with Edmund herself, and had not thought about her.

Mrs. Norris continued, “It is quite delightful, ma’am, to see young

people so properly happy, so well suited, and so much the thing! I

cannot but think of dear Sir Thomas’s delight. And what do you say,

ma’am, to the chance of another match? Mr. Rushworth has set a good

example, and such things are very catching.”

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

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

“Oh dear! Miss Julia and Mr. Crawford. Yes, indeed, a very pretty

match. What is his property?”

“Four thousand a year.”

“Very well. Those who have not more must be satisfied with what they

have. Four thousand a year is a pretty estate, and he seems a very

genteel, steady young man, so I hope Miss Julia will be very happy.”

“It is not a settled thing, ma’am, yet. We only speak of it among

friends. But I have very little doubt it _will_ be. He is growing

extremely particular in his attentions.”

Fanny could listen no farther. Listening and wondering were all

suspended for a time, for Mr. Bertram was in the room again; and though

feeling it would be a great honour to be asked by him, she thought it

must happen. He came towards their little circle; but instead of asking

her to dance, drew a chair near her, and gave her an account of the

present state of a sick horse, and the opinion of the groom, from whom

he had just parted. Fanny found that it was not to be, and in the

modesty of her nature immediately felt that she had been unreasonable

in expecting it. When he had told of his horse, he took a newspaper

from the table, and looking over it, said in a languid way, “If you

want to dance, Fanny, I will stand up with you.” With more than equal

civility the offer was declined; she did not wish to dance. “I am glad

of it,” said he, in a much brisker tone, and throwing down the

newspaper again, “for I am tired to death. I only wonder how the good

people can keep it up so long. They had need be _all_ in love, to find

any amusement in such folly; and so they are, I fancy. If you look at

them you may see they are so many couple of lovers—all but Yates and

Mrs. Grant—and, between ourselves, she, poor woman, must want a lover

as much as any one of them. A desperate dull life hers must be with the

doctor,” making a sly face as he spoke towards the chair of the latter,

who proving, however, to be close at his elbow, made so instantaneous a

change of expression and subject necessary, as Fanny, in spite of

everything, could hardly help laughing at. “A strange business this in

America, Dr. Grant! What is your opinion? I always come to you to know

what I am to think of public matters.”

“My dear Tom,” cried his aunt soon afterwards, “as you are not dancing,

I dare say you will have no objection to join us in a rubber; shall

you?” Then leaving her seat, and coming to him to enforce the proposal,

added in a whisper, “We want to make a table for Mrs. Rushworth, you

know. Your mother is quite anxious about it, but cannot very well spare

time to sit down herself, because of her fringe. Now, you and I and Dr.

Grant will just do; and though _we_ play but half-crowns, you know, you

may bet half-guineas with _him_.”

“I should be most happy,” replied he aloud, and jumping up with

alacrity, “it would give me the greatest pleasure; but that I am this

moment going to dance. Come, Fanny,” taking her hand, “do not be

dawdling any longer, or the dance will be over.”

Fanny was led off very willingly, though it was impossible for her to

feel much gratitude towards her cousin, or distinguish, as he certainly

did, between the selfishness of another person and his own.

“A pretty modest request upon my word,” he indignantly exclaimed as

they walked away. “To want to nail me to a card-table for the next two

hours with herself and Dr. Grant, who are always quarrelling, and that

poking old woman, who knows no more of whist than of algebra. I wish my

good aunt would be a little less busy! And to ask me in such a way too!

without ceremony, before them all, so as to leave me no possibility of

refusing. _That_ is what I dislike most particularly. It raises my

spleen more than anything, to have the pretence of being asked, of

being given a choice, and at the same time addressed in such a way as

to oblige one to do the very thing, whatever it be! If I had not

luckily thought of standing up with you I could not have got out of it.

It is a great deal too bad. But when my aunt has got a fancy in her

head, nothing can stop her.”

CHAPTER XIII

The Honourable John Yates, this new friend, had not much to recommend

him beyond habits of fashion and expense, and being the younger son of

a lord with a tolerable independence; and Sir Thomas would probably

have thought his introduction at Mansfield by no means desirable. Mr.

Bertram’s acquaintance with him had begun at Weymouth, where they had

spent ten days together in the same society, and the friendship, if

friendship it might be called, had been proved and perfected by Mr.

Yates’s being invited to take Mansfield in his way, whenever he could,

and by his promising to come; and he did come rather earlier than had

been expected, in consequence of the sudden breaking-up of a large

party assembled for gaiety at the house of another friend, which he had

left Weymouth to join. He came on the wings of disappointment, and with

his head full of acting, for it had been a theatrical party; and the

play in which he had borne a part was within two days of

representation, when the sudden death of one of the nearest connexions

of the family had destroyed the scheme and dispersed the performers. To

be so near happiness, so near fame, so near the long paragraph in

praise of the private theatricals at Ecclesford, the seat of the Right

Hon. Lord Ravenshaw, in Cornwall, which would of course have

immortalised the whole party for at least a twelvemonth! and being so

near, to lose it all, was an injury to be keenly felt, and Mr. Yates

could talk of nothing else. Ecclesford and its theatre, with its

arrangements and dresses, rehearsals and jokes, was his never-failing

subject, and to boast of the past his only consolation.

Happily for him, a love of the theatre is so general, an itch for

acting so strong among young people, that he could hardly out-talk the

interest of his hearers. From the first casting of the parts to the

epilogue it was all bewitching, and there were few who did not wish to

have been a party concerned, or would have hesitated to try their

skill. The play had been Lovers’ Vows, and Mr. Yates was to have been

Count Cassel. “A trifling part,” said he, “and not at all to my taste,

and such a one as I certainly would not accept again; but I was

determined to make no difficulties. Lord Ravenshaw and the duke had

appropriated the only two characters worth playing before I reached

Ecclesford; and though Lord Ravenshaw offered to resign his to me, it

was impossible to take it, you know. I was sorry for _him_ that he

should have so mistaken his powers, for he was no more equal to the

Baron—a little man with a weak voice, always hoarse after the first ten

minutes. It must have injured the piece materially; but _I_ was

resolved to make no difficulties. Sir Henry thought the duke not equal

to Frederick, but that was because Sir Henry wanted the part himself;

whereas it was certainly in the best hands of the two. I was surprised

to see Sir Henry such a stick. Luckily the strength of the piece did

not depend upon him. Our Agatha was inimitable, and the duke was

thought very great by many. And upon the whole, it would certainly have

gone off wonderfully.”

“It was a hard case, upon my word”; and, “I do think you were very much

to be pitied,” were the kind responses of listening sympathy.

“It is not worth complaining about; but to be sure the poor old dowager

could not have died at a worse time; and it is impossible to help

wishing that the news could have been suppressed for just the three

days we wanted. It was but three days; and being only a grandmother,

and all happening two hundred miles off, I think there would have been

no great harm, and it was suggested, I know; but Lord Ravenshaw, who I

suppose is one of the most correct men in England, would not hear of

it.”

“An afterpiece instead of a comedy,” said Mr. Bertram. “Lovers’ Vows

were at an end, and Lord and Lady Ravenshaw left to act My Grandmother

by themselves. Well, the jointure may comfort _him_; and perhaps,

between friends, he began to tremble for his credit and his lungs in

the Baron, and was not sorry to withdraw; and to make _you_ amends,

Yates, I think we must raise a little theatre at Mansfield, and ask you

to be our manager.”

This, though the thought of the moment, did not end with the moment;

for the inclination to act was awakened, and in no one more strongly

than in him who was now master of the house; and who, having so much

leisure as to make almost any novelty a certain good, had likewise such

a degree of lively talents and comic taste, as were exactly adapted to

the novelty of acting. The thought returned again and again. “Oh for

the Ecclesford theatre and scenery to try something with.” Each sister

could echo the wish; and Henry Crawford, to whom, in all the riot of

his gratifications it was yet an untasted pleasure, was quite alive at

the idea. “I really believe,” said he, “I could be fool enough at this

moment to undertake any character that ever was written, from Shylock

or Richard III down to the singing hero of a farce in his scarlet coat

and cocked hat. I feel as if I could be anything or everything; as if I

could rant and storm, or sigh or cut capers, in any tragedy or comedy

in the English language. Let us be doing something. Be it only half a

play, an act, a scene; what should prevent us? Not these countenances,

I am sure,” looking towards the Miss Bertrams; “and for a theatre, what

signifies a theatre? We shall be only amusing ourselves. Any room in

this house might suffice.”

“We must have a curtain,” said Tom Bertram; “a few yards of green baize

for a curtain, and perhaps that may be enough.”

“Oh, quite enough,” cried Mr. Yates, “with only just a side wing or two

run up, doors in flat, and three or four scenes to be let down; nothing

more would be necessary on such a plan as this. For mere amusement

among ourselves we should want nothing more.”

“I believe we must be satisfied with _less_,” said Maria. “There would

not be time, and other difficulties would arise. We must rather adopt

Mr. Crawford’s views, and make the _performance_, not the _theatre_,

our object. Many parts of our best plays are independent of scenery.”

“Nay,” said Edmund, who began to listen with alarm. “Let us do nothing

by halves. If we are to act, let it be in a theatre completely fitted

up with pit, boxes, and gallery, and let us have a play entire from

beginning to end; so as it be a German play, no matter what, with a

good tricking, shifting afterpiece, and a figure-dance, and a hornpipe,

and a song between the acts. If we do not outdo Ecclesford, we do

nothing.”

“Now, Edmund, do not be disagreeable,” said Julia. “Nobody loves a play

better than you do, or can have gone much farther to see one.”

“True, to see real acting, good hardened real acting; but I would

hardly walk from this room to the next to look at the raw efforts of

those who have not been bred to the trade: a set of gentlemen and

ladies, who have all the disadvantages of education and decorum to

struggle through.”

After a short pause, however, the subject still continued, and was

discussed with unabated eagerness, every one’s inclination increasing

by the discussion, and a knowledge of the inclination of the rest; and

though nothing was settled but that Tom Bertram would prefer a comedy,

and his sisters and Henry Crawford a tragedy, and that nothing in the

world could be easier than to find a piece which would please them all,

the resolution to act something or other seemed so decided as to make

Edmund quite uncomfortable. He was determined to prevent it, if

possible, though his mother, who equally heard the conversation which

passed at table, did not evince the least disapprobation.

The same evening afforded him an opportunity of trying his strength.

Maria, Julia, Henry Crawford, and Mr. Yates were in the billiard-room.

Tom, returning from them into the drawing-room, where Edmund was

standing thoughtfully by the fire, while Lady Bertram was on the sofa

at a little distance, and Fanny close beside her arranging her work,

thus began as he entered—“Such a horribly vile billiard-table as ours

is not to be met with, I believe, above ground. I can stand it no

longer, and I think, I may say, that nothing shall ever tempt me to it

again; but one good thing I have just ascertained: it is the very room

for a theatre, precisely the shape and length for it; and the doors at

the farther end, communicating with each other, as they may be made to

do in five minutes, by merely moving the bookcase in my father’s room,

is the very thing we could have desired, if we had sat down to wish for

it; and my father’s room will be an excellent greenroom. It seems to

join the billiard-room on purpose.”

“You are not serious, Tom, in meaning to act?” said Edmund, in a low

voice, as his brother approached the fire.

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

you in it?”

“I think it would be very wrong. In a _general_ light, private

theatricals are open to some objections, but as _we_ are circumstanced,

I must think it would be highly injudicious, and more than injudicious

to attempt anything of the kind. It would shew great want of feeling on

my father’s account, absent as he is, and in some degree of constant

danger; and it would be imprudent, I think, with regard to Maria, whose

situation is a very delicate one, considering everything, extremely

delicate.”

“You take up a thing so seriously! as if we were going to act three

times a week till my father’s return, and invite all the country. But

it is not to be a display of that sort. We mean nothing but a little

amusement among ourselves, just to vary the scene, and exercise our

powers in something new. We want no audience, no publicity. We may be

trusted, I think, in chusing some play most perfectly unexceptionable;

and I can conceive no greater harm or danger to any of us in conversing

in the elegant written language of some respectable author than in

chattering in words of our own. I have no fears and no scruples. And as

to my father’s being absent, it is so far from an objection, that I

consider it rather as a motive; for the expectation of his return must

be a very anxious period to my mother; and if we can be the means of

amusing that anxiety, and keeping up her spirits for the next few

weeks, I shall think our time very well spent, and so, I am sure, will

he. It is a _very_ anxious period for her.”

As he said this, each looked towards their mother. Lady Bertram, sunk

back in one corner of the sofa, the picture of health, wealth, ease,

and tranquillity, was just falling into a gentle doze, while Fanny was

getting through the few difficulties of her work for her.

Edmund smiled and shook his head.

“By Jove! this won’t do,” cried Tom, throwing himself into a chair with

a hearty laugh. “To be sure, my dear mother, your anxiety—I was unlucky

there.”

“What is the matter?” asked her ladyship, in the heavy tone of one

half-roused; “I was not asleep.”

“Oh dear, no, ma’am, nobody suspected you! Well, Edmund,” he continued,

returning to the former subject, posture, and voice, as soon as Lady

Bertram began to nod again, “but _this_ I _will_ maintain, that we

shall be doing no harm.”

“I cannot agree with you; I am convinced that my father would totally

disapprove it.”

“And I am convinced to the contrary. Nobody is fonder of the exercise

of talent in young people, or promotes it more, than my father, and for

anything of the acting, spouting, reciting kind, I think he has always

a decided taste. I am sure he encouraged it in us as boys. How many a

time have we mourned over the dead body of Julius Caesar, and to _be’d_

and not _to_ _be’d_, in this very room, for his amusement? And I am

sure, _my_ _name_ _was_ _Norval_, every evening of my life through one

Christmas holidays.”

“It was a very different thing. You must see the difference yourself.

My father wished us, as schoolboys, to speak well, but he would never

wish his grown-up daughters to be acting plays. His sense of decorum is

strict.”

“I know all that,” said Tom, displeased. “I know my father as well as

you do; and I’ll take care that his daughters do nothing to distress

him. Manage your own concerns, Edmund, and I’ll take care of the rest

of the family.”

“If you are resolved on acting,” replied the persevering Edmund, “I

must hope it will be in a very small and quiet way; and I think a

theatre ought not to be attempted. It would be taking liberties with my

father’s house in his absence which could not be justified.”

“For everything of that nature I will be answerable,” said Tom, in a

decided tone. “His house shall not be hurt. I have quite as great an

interest in being careful of his house as you can have; and as to such

alterations as I was suggesting just now, such as moving a bookcase, or

unlocking a door, or even as using the billiard-room for the space of a

week without playing at billiards in it, you might just as well suppose

he would object to our sitting more in this room, and less in the

breakfast-room, than we did before he went away, or to my sister’s

pianoforte being moved from one side of the room to the other. Absolute

nonsense!”

“The innovation, if not wrong as an innovation, will be wrong as an

expense.”

“Yes, the expense of such an undertaking would be prodigious! Perhaps

it might cost a whole twenty pounds. Something of a theatre we must

have undoubtedly, but it will be on the simplest plan: a green curtain

and a little carpenter’s work, and that’s all; and as the carpenter’s

work may be all done at home by Christopher Jackson himself, it will be

too absurd to talk of expense; and as long as Jackson is employed,

everything will be right with Sir Thomas. Don’t imagine that nobody in

this house can see or judge but yourself. Don’t act yourself, if you do

not like it, but don’t expect to govern everybody else.”

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

against.”

Tom walked out of the room as he said it, and Edmund was left to sit

down and stir the fire in thoughtful vexation.

Fanny, who had heard it all, and borne Edmund company in every feeling

throughout the whole, now ventured to say, in her anxiety to suggest

some comfort, “Perhaps they may not be able to find any play to suit

them. Your brother’s taste and your sisters’ seem very different.”

“I have no hope there, Fanny. If they persist in the scheme, they will

find something. I shall speak to my sisters and try to dissuade _them_,

and that is all I can do.”

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

“I dare say she would, but she has no influence with either Tom or my

sisters that could be of any use; and if I cannot convince them myself,

I shall let things take their course, without attempting it through

her. Family squabbling is the greatest evil of all, and we had better

do anything than be altogether by the ears.”

His sisters, to whom he had an opportunity of speaking the next

morning, were quite as impatient of his advice, quite as unyielding to

his representation, quite as determined in the cause of pleasure, as

Tom. Their mother had no objection to the plan, and they were not in

the least afraid of their father’s disapprobation. There could be no

harm in what had been done in so many respectable families, and by so

many women of the first consideration; and it must be scrupulousness

run mad that could see anything to censure in a plan like theirs,

comprehending only brothers and sisters and intimate friends, and which

would never be heard of beyond themselves. Julia _did_ seem inclined to

admit that Maria’s situation might require particular caution and

delicacy—but that could not extend to _her_—she was at liberty; and

Maria evidently considered her engagement as only raising her so much

more above restraint, and leaving her less occasion than Julia to

consult either father or mother. Edmund had little to hope, but he was

still urging the subject when Henry Crawford entered the room, fresh

from the Parsonage, calling out, “No want of hands in our theatre, Miss

Bertram. No want of understrappers: my sister desires her love, and

hopes to be admitted into the company, and will be happy to take the

part of any old duenna or tame confidante, that you may not like to do

yourselves.”

Maria gave Edmund a glance, which meant, “What say you now? Can we be

wrong if Mary Crawford feels the same?” And Edmund, silenced, was

obliged to acknowledge that the charm of acting might well carry

fascination to the mind of genius; and with the ingenuity of love, to

dwell more on the obliging, accommodating purport of the message than

on anything else.

The scheme advanced. Opposition was vain; and as to Mrs. Norris, he was

mistaken in supposing she would wish to make any. She started no

difficulties that were not talked down in five minutes by her eldest

nephew and niece, who were all-powerful with her; and as the whole

arrangement was to bring very little expense to anybody, and none at

all to herself, as she foresaw in it all the comforts of hurry, bustle,

and importance, and derived the immediate advantage of fancying herself

obliged to leave her own house, where she had been living a month at

her own cost, and take up her abode in theirs, that every hour might be

spent in their service, she was, in fact, exceedingly delighted with

the project.

CHAPTER XIV

Fanny seemed nearer being right than Edmund had supposed. The business

of finding a play that would suit everybody proved to be no trifle; and

the carpenter had received his orders and taken his measurements, had

suggested and removed at least two sets of difficulties, and having

made the necessity of an enlargement of plan and expense fully evident,

was already at work, while a play was still to seek. Other preparations

were also in hand. An enormous roll of green baize had arrived from

Northampton, and been cut out by Mrs. Norris (with a saving by her good

management of full three-quarters of a yard), and was actually forming

into a curtain by the housemaids, and still the play was wanting; and

as two or three days passed away in this manner, Edmund began almost to

hope that none might ever be found.

There were, in fact, so many things to be attended to, so many people

to be pleased, so many best characters required, and, above all, such a

need that the play should be at once both tragedy and comedy, that

there did seem as little chance of a decision as anything pursued by

youth and zeal could hold out.

On the tragic side were the Miss Bertrams, Henry Crawford, and Mr.

Yates; on the comic, Tom Bertram, not _quite_ alone, because it was

evident that Mary Crawford’s wishes, though politely kept back,

inclined the same way: but his determinateness and his power seemed to

make allies unnecessary; and, independent of this great irreconcilable

difference, they wanted a piece containing very few characters in the

whole, but every character first-rate, and three principal women. All

the best plays were run over in vain. Neither Hamlet, nor Macbeth, nor

Othello, nor Douglas, nor The Gamester, presented anything that could

satisfy even the tragedians; and The Rivals, The School for Scandal,

Wheel of Fortune, Heir at Law, and a long et cetera, were successively

dismissed with yet warmer objections. No piece could be proposed that

did not supply somebody with a difficulty, and on one side or the other

it was a continual repetition of, “Oh no, _that_ will never do! Let us

have no ranting tragedies. Too many characters. Not a tolerable woman’s

part in the play. Anything but _that_, my dear Tom. It would be

impossible to fill it up. One could not expect anybody to take such a

part. Nothing but buffoonery from beginning to end. _That_ might do,

perhaps, but for the low parts. If I _must_ give my opinion, I have

always thought it the most insipid play in the English language. _I_ do

not wish to make objections; I shall be happy to be of any use, but I

think we could not chuse worse.”

Fanny looked on and listened, not unamused to observe the selfishness

which, more or less disguised, seemed to govern them all, and wondering

how it would end. For her own gratification she could have wished that

something might be acted, for she had never seen even half a play, but

everything of higher consequence was against it.

“This will never do,” said Tom Bertram at last. “We are wasting time

most abominably. Something must be fixed on. No matter what, so that

something is chosen. We must not be so nice. A few characters too many

must not frighten us. We must _double_ them. We must descend a little.

If a part is insignificant, the greater our credit in making anything

of it. From this moment I make no difficulties. I take any part you

chuse to give me, so as it be comic. Let it but be comic, I condition

for nothing more.”

For about the fifth time he then proposed the Heir at Law, doubting

only whether to prefer Lord Duberley or Dr. Pangloss for himself; and

very earnestly, but very unsuccessfully, trying to persuade the others

that there were some fine tragic parts in the rest of the Dramatis

Personæ.

The pause which followed this fruitless effort was ended by the same

speaker, who, taking up one of the many volumes of plays that lay on

the table, and turning it over, suddenly exclaimed—“Lovers’ Vows! And

why should not Lovers’ Vows do for _us_ as well as for the Ravenshaws?

How came it never to be thought of before? It strikes me as if it would

do exactly. What say you all? Here are two capital tragic parts for

Yates and Crawford, and here is the rhyming Butler for me, if nobody

else wants it; a trifling part, but the sort of thing I should not

dislike, and, as I said before, I am determined to take anything and do

my best. And as for the rest, they may be filled up by anybody. It is

only Count Cassel and Anhalt.”

The suggestion was generally welcome. Everybody was growing weary of

indecision, and the first idea with everybody was, that nothing had

been proposed before so likely to suit them all. Mr. Yates was

particularly pleased: he had been sighing and longing to do the Baron

at Ecclesford, had grudged every rant of Lord Ravenshaw’s, and been

forced to re-rant it all in his own room. The storm through Baron

Wildenheim was the height of his theatrical ambition; and with the

advantage of knowing half the scenes by heart already, he did now, with

the greatest alacrity, offer his services for the part. To do him

justice, however, he did not resolve to appropriate it; for remembering

that there was some very good ranting-ground in Frederick, he professed

an equal willingness for that. Henry Crawford was ready to take either.

Whichever Mr. Yates did not chuse would perfectly satisfy him, and a

short parley of compliment ensued. Miss Bertram, feeling all the

interest of an Agatha in the question, took on her to decide it, by

observing to Mr. Yates that this was a point in which height and figure

ought to be considered, and that _his_ being the tallest, seemed to fit

him peculiarly for the Baron. She was acknowledged to be quite right,

and the two parts being accepted accordingly, she was certain of the

proper Frederick. Three of the characters were now cast, besides Mr.

Rushworth, who was always answered for by Maria as willing to do

anything; when Julia, meaning, like her sister, to be Agatha, began to

be scrupulous on Miss Crawford’s account.

“This is not behaving well by the absent,” said she. “Here are not

women enough. Amelia and Agatha may do for Maria and me, but here is

nothing for your sister, Mr. Crawford.”

Mr. Crawford desired _that_ might not be thought of: he was very sure

his sister had no wish of acting but as she might be useful, and that

she would not allow herself to be considered in the present case. But

this was immediately opposed by Tom Bertram, who asserted the part of

Amelia to be in every respect the property of Miss Crawford, if she

would accept it. “It falls as naturally, as necessarily to her,” said

he, “as Agatha does to one or other of my sisters. It can be no

sacrifice on their side, for it is highly comic.”

A short silence followed. Each sister looked anxious; for each felt the

best claim to Agatha, and was hoping to have it pressed on her by the

rest. Henry Crawford, who meanwhile had taken up the play, and with

seeming carelessness was turning over the first act, soon settled the

business.

“I must entreat Miss _Julia_ Bertram,” said he, “not to engage in the

part of Agatha, or it will be the ruin of all my solemnity. You must

not, indeed you must not” (turning to her). “I could not stand your

countenance dressed up in woe and paleness. The many laughs we have had

together would infallibly come across me, and Frederick and his

knapsack would be obliged to run away.”

Pleasantly, courteously, it was spoken; but the manner was lost in the

matter to Julia’s feelings. She saw a glance at Maria which confirmed

the injury to herself: it was a scheme, a trick; she was slighted,

Maria was preferred; the smile of triumph which Maria was trying to

suppress shewed how well it was understood; and before Julia could

command herself enough to speak, her brother gave his weight against

her too, by saying, “Oh yes! Maria must be Agatha. Maria will be the

best Agatha. Though Julia fancies she prefers tragedy, I would not

trust her in it. There is nothing of tragedy about her. She has not the

look of it. Her features are not tragic features, and she walks too

quick, and speaks too quick, and would not keep her countenance. She

had better do the old countrywoman: the Cottager’s wife; you had,

indeed, Julia. Cottager’s wife is a very pretty part, I assure you. The

old lady relieves the high-flown benevolence of her husband with a good

deal of spirit. You shall be Cottager’s wife.”

“Cottager’s wife!” cried Mr. Yates. “What are you talking of? The most

trivial, paltry, insignificant part; the merest commonplace; not a

tolerable speech in the whole. Your sister do that! It is an insult to

propose it. At Ecclesford the governess was to have done it. We all

agreed that it could not be offered to anybody else. A little more

justice, Mr. Manager, if you please. You do not deserve the office, if

you cannot appreciate the talents of your company a little better.”

“Why, as to _that_, my good friend, till I and my company have really

acted there must be some guesswork; but I mean no disparagement to

Julia. We cannot have two Agathas, and we must have one Cottager’s

wife; and I am sure I set her the example of moderation myself in being

satisfied with the old Butler. If the part is trifling she will have

more credit in making something of it; and if she is so desperately

bent against everything humorous, let her take Cottager’s speeches

instead of Cottager’s wife’s, and so change the parts all through; _he_

is solemn and pathetic enough, I am sure. It could make no difference

in the play, and as for Cottager himself, when he has got his wife’s

speeches, _I_ would undertake him with all my heart.”

“With all your partiality for Cottager’s wife,” said Henry Crawford,

“it will be impossible to make anything of it fit for your sister, and

we must not suffer her good-nature to be imposed on. We must not

_allow_ her to accept the part. She must not be left to her own

complaisance. Her talents will be wanted in Amelia. Amelia is a

character more difficult to be well represented than even Agatha. I

consider Amelia is the most difficult character in the whole piece. It

requires great powers, great nicety, to give her playfulness and

simplicity without extravagance. I have seen good actresses fail in the

part. Simplicity, indeed, is beyond the reach of almost every actress

by profession. It requires a delicacy of feeling which they have not.

It requires a gentlewoman—a Julia Bertram. You _will_ undertake it, I

hope?” turning to her with a look of anxious entreaty, which softened

her a little; but while she hesitated what to say, her brother again

interposed with Miss Crawford’s better claim.

“No, no, Julia must not be Amelia. It is not at all the part for her.

She would not like it. She would not do well. She is too tall and

robust. Amelia should be a small, light, girlish, skipping figure. It

is fit for Miss Crawford, and Miss Crawford only. She looks the part,

and I am persuaded will do it admirably.”

Without attending to this, Henry Crawford continued his supplication.

“You must oblige us,” said he, “indeed you must. When you have studied

the character, I am sure you will feel it suit you. Tragedy may be your

choice, but it will certainly appear that comedy chuses _you_. You will

be to visit me in prison with a basket of provisions; you will not

refuse to visit me in prison? I think I see you coming in with your

basket.”

The influence of his voice was felt. Julia wavered; but was he only

trying to soothe and pacify her, and make her overlook the previous

affront? She distrusted him. The slight had been most determined. He

was, perhaps, but at treacherous play with her. She looked suspiciously

at her sister; Maria’s countenance was to decide it: if she were vexed

and alarmed—but Maria looked all serenity and satisfaction, and Julia

well knew that on this ground Maria could not be happy but at her

expense. With hasty indignation, therefore, and a tremulous voice, she

said to him, “You do not seem afraid of not keeping your countenance

when I come in with a basket of provisions—though one might have

supposed—but it is only as Agatha that I was to be so overpowering!”

She stopped—Henry Crawford looked rather foolish, and as if he did not

know what to say. Tom Bertram began again—

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

“Do not be afraid of _my_ wanting the character,” cried Julia, with

angry quickness: “I am _not_ to be Agatha, and I am sure I will do

nothing else; and as to Amelia, it is of all parts in the world the

most disgusting to me. I quite detest her. An odious, little, pert,

unnatural, impudent girl. I have always protested against comedy, and

this is comedy in its worst form.” And so saying, she walked hastily

out of the room, leaving awkward feelings to more than one, but

exciting small compassion in any except Fanny, who had been a quiet

auditor of the whole, and who could not think of her as under the

agitations of _jealousy_ without great pity.

A short silence succeeded her leaving them; but her brother soon

returned to business and Lovers’ Vows, and was eagerly looking over the

play, with Mr. Yates’s help, to ascertain what scenery would be

necessary—while Maria and Henry Crawford conversed together in an

under-voice, and the declaration with which she began of, “I am sure I

would give up the part to Julia most willingly, but that though I shall

probably do it very ill, I feel persuaded _she_ would do it worse,” was

doubtless receiving all the compliments it called for.

When this had lasted some time, the division of the party was completed

by Tom Bertram and Mr. Yates walking off together to consult farther in

the room now beginning to be called _the_ _Theatre_, and Miss Bertram’s

resolving to go down to the Parsonage herself with the offer of Amelia

to Miss Crawford; and Fanny remained alone.

The first use she made of her solitude was to take up the volume which

had been left on the table, and begin to acquaint herself with the play

of which she had heard so much. Her curiosity was all awake, and she

ran through it with an eagerness which was suspended only by intervals

of astonishment, that it could be chosen in the present instance, that

it could be proposed and accepted in a private theatre! Agatha and

Amelia appeared to her in their different ways so totally improper for

home representation—the situation of one, and the language of the

other, so unfit to be expressed by any woman of modesty, that she could

hardly suppose her cousins could be aware of what they were engaging

in; and longed to have them roused as soon as possible by the

remonstrance which Edmund would certainly make.

CHAPTER XV

Miss Crawford accepted the part very readily; and soon after Miss

Bertram’s return from the Parsonage, Mr. Rushworth arrived, and another

character was consequently cast. He had the offer of Count Cassel and

Anhalt, and at first did not know which to chuse, and wanted Miss

Bertram to direct him; but upon being made to understand the different

style of the characters, and which was which, and recollecting that he

had once seen the play in London, and had thought Anhalt a very stupid

fellow, he soon decided for the Count. Miss Bertram approved the

decision, for the less he had to learn the better; and though she could

not sympathise in his wish that the Count and Agatha might be to act

together, nor wait very patiently while he was slowly turning over the

leaves with the hope of still discovering such a scene, she very kindly

took his part in hand, and curtailed every speech that admitted being

shortened; besides pointing out the necessity of his being very much

dressed, and chusing his colours. Mr. Rushworth liked the idea of his

finery very well, though affecting to despise it; and was too much

engaged with what his own appearance would be to think of the others,

or draw any of those conclusions, or feel any of that displeasure which

Maria had been half prepared for.

Thus much was settled before Edmund, who had been out all the morning,

knew anything of the matter; but when he entered the drawing-room

before dinner, the buzz of discussion was high between Tom, Maria, and

Mr. Yates; and Mr. Rushworth stepped forward with great alacrity to

tell him the agreeable news.

“We have got a play,” said he. “It is to be Lovers’ Vows; and I am to

be Count Cassel, and am to come in first with a blue dress and a pink

satin cloak, and afterwards am to have another fine fancy suit, by way

of a shooting-dress. I do not know how I shall like it.”

Fanny’s eyes followed Edmund, and her heart beat for him as she heard

this speech, and saw his look, and felt what his sensations must be.

“Lovers’ Vows!” in a tone of the greatest amazement, was his only reply

to Mr. Rushworth, and he turned towards his brother and sisters as if

hardly doubting a contradiction.

“Yes,” cried Mr. Yates. “After all our debatings and difficulties, we

find there is nothing that will suit us altogether so well, nothing so

unexceptionable, as Lovers’ Vows. The wonder is that it should not have

been thought of before. My stupidity was abominable, for here we have

all the advantage of what I saw at Ecclesford; and it is so useful to

have anything of a model! We have cast almost every part.”

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

Maria.

Maria blushed in spite of herself as she answered, “I take the part

which Lady Ravenshaw was to have done, and” (with a bolder eye) “Miss

Crawford is to be Amelia.”

“I should not have thought it the sort of play to be so easily filled

up, with _us_,” replied Edmund, turning away to the fire, where sat his

mother, aunt, and Fanny, and seating himself with a look of great

vexation.

Mr. Rushworth followed him to say, “I come in three times, and have

two-and-forty speeches. That’s something, is not it? But I do not much

like the idea of being so fine. I shall hardly know myself in a blue

dress and a pink satin cloak.”

Edmund could not answer him. In a few minutes Mr. Bertram was called

out of the room to satisfy some doubts of the carpenter; and being

accompanied by Mr. Yates, and followed soon afterwards by Mr.

Rushworth, Edmund almost immediately took the opportunity of saying, “I

cannot, before Mr. Yates, speak what I feel as to this play, without

reflecting on his friends at Ecclesford; but I must now, my dear Maria,

tell _you_, that I think it exceedingly unfit for private

representation, and that I hope you will give it up. I cannot but

suppose you _will_ when you have read it carefully over. Read only the

first act aloud to either your mother or aunt, and see how you can

approve it. It will not be necessary to send you to your _father’s_

judgment, I am convinced.”

“We see things very differently,” cried Maria. “I am perfectly

acquainted with the play, I assure you; and with a very few omissions,

and so forth, which will be made, of course, I can see nothing

objectionable in it; and _I_ am not the _only_ young woman you find who

thinks it very fit for private representation.”

“I am sorry for it,” was his answer; “but in this matter it is _you_

who are to lead. _You_ must set the example. If others have blundered,

it is your place to put them right, and shew them what true delicacy

is. In all points of decorum _your_ conduct must be law to the rest of

the party.”

This picture of her consequence had some effect, for no one loved

better to lead than Maria; and with far more good-humour she answered,

“I am much obliged to you, Edmund; you mean very well, I am sure: but I

still think you see things too strongly; and I really cannot undertake

to harangue all the rest upon a subject of this kind. _There_ would be

the greatest indecorum, I think.”

“Do you imagine that I could have such an idea in my head? No; let your

conduct be the only harangue. Say that, on examining the part, you feel

yourself unequal to it; that you find it requiring more exertion and

confidence than you can be supposed to have. Say this with firmness,

and it will be quite enough. All who can distinguish will understand

your motive. The play will be given up, and your delicacy honoured as

it ought.”

“Do not act anything improper, my dear,” said Lady Bertram. “Sir Thomas

would not like it.—Fanny, ring the bell; I must have my dinner.—To be

sure, Julia is dressed by this time.”

“I am convinced, madam,” said Edmund, preventing Fanny, “that Sir

Thomas would not like it.”

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

“If I were to decline the part,” said Maria, with renewed zeal, “Julia

would certainly take it.”

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

“Oh! she might think the difference between us—the difference in our

situations—that _she_ need not be so scrupulous as _I_ might feel

necessary. I am sure she would argue so. No; you must excuse me; I

cannot retract my consent; it is too far settled, everybody would be so

disappointed, Tom would be quite angry; and if we are so very nice, we

shall never act anything.”

“I was just going to say the very same thing,” said Mrs. Norris. “If

every play is to be objected to, you will act nothing, and the

preparations will be all so much money thrown away, and I am sure

_that_ would be a discredit to us all. I do not know the play; but, as

Maria says, if there is anything a little too warm (and it is so with

most of them) it can be easily left out. We must not be over-precise,

Edmund. As Mr. Rushworth is to act too, there can be no harm. I only

wish Tom had known his own mind when the carpenters began, for there

was the loss of half a day’s work about those side-doors. The curtain

will be a good job, however. The maids do their work very well, and I

think we shall be able to send back some dozens of the rings. There is

no occasion to put them so very close together. I _am_ of some use, I

hope, in preventing waste and making the most of things. There should

always be one steady head to superintend so many young ones. I forgot

to tell Tom of something that happened to me this very day. I had been

looking about me in the poultry-yard, and was just coming out, when who

should I see but Dick Jackson making up to the servants’ hall-door with

two bits of deal board in his hand, bringing them to father, you may be

sure; mother had chanced to send him of a message to father, and then

father had bid him bring up them two bits of board, for he could not no

how do without them. I knew what all this meant, for the servants’

dinner-bell was ringing at the very moment over our heads; and as I

hate such encroaching people (the Jacksons are very encroaching, I have

always said so: just the sort of people to get all they can), I said to

the boy directly (a great lubberly fellow of ten years old, you know,

who ought to be ashamed of himself), ‘_I’ll_ take the boards to your

father, Dick, so get you home again as fast as you can.’ The boy looked

very silly, and turned away without offering a word, for I believe I

might speak pretty sharp; and I dare say it will cure him of coming

marauding about the house for one while. I hate such greediness—so good

as your father is to the family, employing the man all the year round!”

Nobody was at the trouble of an answer; the others soon returned; and

Edmund found that to have endeavoured to set them right must be his

only satisfaction.

Dinner passed heavily. Mrs. Norris related again her triumph over Dick

Jackson, but neither play nor preparation were otherwise much talked

of, for Edmund’s disapprobation was felt even by his brother, though he

would not have owned it. Maria, wanting Henry Crawford’s animating

support, thought the subject better avoided. Mr. Yates, who was trying

to make himself agreeable to Julia, found her gloom less impenetrable

on any topic than that of his regret at her secession from their

company; and Mr. Rushworth, having only his own part and his own dress

in his head, had soon talked away all that could be said of either.

But the concerns of the theatre were suspended only for an hour or two:

there was still a great deal to be settled; and the spirits of evening

giving fresh courage, Tom, Maria, and Mr. Yates, soon after their being

reassembled in the drawing-room, seated themselves in committee at a

separate table, with the play open before them, and were just getting

deep in the subject when a most welcome interruption was given by the

entrance of Mr. and Miss Crawford, who, late and dark and dirty as it

was, could not help coming, and were received with the most grateful

joy.

“Well, how do you go on?” and “What have you settled?” and “Oh! we can

do nothing without you,” followed the first salutations; and Henry

Crawford was soon seated with the other three at the table, while his

sister made her way to Lady Bertram, and with pleasant attention was

complimenting _her_. “I must really congratulate your ladyship,” said

she, “on the play being chosen; for though you have borne it with

exemplary patience, I am sure you must be sick of all our noise and

difficulties. The actors may be glad, but the bystanders must be

infinitely more thankful for a decision; and I do sincerely give you

joy, madam, as well as Mrs. Norris, and everybody else who is in the

same predicament,” glancing half fearfully, half slyly, beyond Fanny to

Edmund.

She was very civilly answered by Lady Bertram, but Edmund said nothing.

His being only a bystander was not disclaimed. After continuing in chat

with the party round the fire a few minutes, Miss Crawford returned to

the party round the table; and standing by them, seemed to interest

herself in their arrangements till, as if struck by a sudden

recollection, she exclaimed, “My good friends, you are most composedly

at work upon these cottages and alehouses, inside and out; but pray let

me know my fate in the meanwhile. Who is to be Anhalt? What gentleman

among you am I to have the pleasure of making love to?”

For a moment no one spoke; and then many spoke together to tell the

same melancholy truth, that they had not yet got any Anhalt. “Mr.

Rushworth was to be Count Cassel, but no one had yet undertaken

Anhalt.”

“I had my choice of the parts,” said Mr. Rushworth; “but I thought I

should like the Count best, though I do not much relish the finery I am

to have.”

“You chose very wisely, I am sure,” replied Miss Crawford, with a

brightened look; “Anhalt is a heavy part.”

“_The_ _Count_ has two-and-forty speeches,” returned Mr. Rushworth,

“which is no trifle.”

“I am not at all surprised,” said Miss Crawford, after a short pause,

“at this want of an Anhalt. Amelia deserves no better. Such a forward

young lady may well frighten the men.”

“I should be but too happy in taking the part, if it were possible,”

cried Tom; “but, unluckily, the Butler and Anhalt are in together. I

will not entirely give it up, however; I will try what can be done—I

will look it over again.”

“Your _brother_ should take the part,” said Mr. Yates, in a low voice.

“Do not you think he would?”

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

Miss Crawford talked of something else, and soon afterwards rejoined

the party at the fire.

“They do not want me at all,” said she, seating herself. “I only puzzle

them, and oblige them to make civil speeches. Mr. Edmund Bertram, as

you do not act yourself, you will be a disinterested adviser; and,

therefore, I apply to _you_. What shall we do for an Anhalt? Is it

practicable for any of the others to double it? What is your advice?”

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

“_I_ should have no objection,” she replied; “for though I should not

particularly dislike the part of Amelia if well supported, that is, if

everything went well, I shall be sorry to be an inconvenience; but as

they do not chuse to hear your advice at _that_ _table_” (looking

round), “it certainly will not be taken.”

Edmund said no more.

“If _any_ part could tempt _you_ to act, I suppose it would be Anhalt,”

observed the lady archly, after a short pause; “for he is a clergyman,

you know.”

“_That_ circumstance would by no means tempt me,” he replied, “for I

should be sorry to make the character ridiculous by bad acting. It must

be very difficult to keep Anhalt from appearing a formal, solemn

lecturer; and the man who chuses the profession itself is, perhaps, one

of the last who would wish to represent it on the stage.”

Miss Crawford was silenced, and with some feelings of resentment and

mortification, moved her chair considerably nearer the tea-table, and

gave all her attention to Mrs. Norris, who was presiding there.

“Fanny,” cried Tom Bertram, from the other table, where the conference

was eagerly carrying on, and the conversation incessant, “we want your

services.”

Fanny was up in a moment, expecting some errand; for the habit of

employing her in that way was not yet overcome, in spite of all that

Edmund could do.

“Oh! we do not want to disturb you from your seat. We do not want your

_present_ services. We shall only want you in our play. You must be

Cottager’s wife.”

“Me!” cried Fanny, sitting down again with a most frightened look.

“Indeed you must excuse me. I could not act anything if you were to

give me the world. No, indeed, I cannot act.”

“Indeed, but you must, for we cannot excuse you. It need not frighten

you: it is a nothing of a part, a mere nothing, not above half a dozen

speeches altogether, and it will not much signify if nobody hears a

word you say; so you may be as creep-mouse as you like, but we must

have you to look at.”

“If you are afraid of half a dozen speeches,” cried Mr. Rushworth,

“what would you do with such a part as mine? I have forty-two to

learn.”

“It is not that I am afraid of learning by heart,” said Fanny, shocked

to find herself at that moment the only speaker in the room, and to

feel that almost every eye was upon her; “but I really cannot act.”

“Yes, yes, you can act well enough for _us_. Learn your part, and we

will teach you all the rest. You have only two scenes, and as I shall

be Cottager, I’ll put you in and push you about, and you will do it

very well, I’ll answer for it.”

“No, indeed, Mr. Bertram, you must excuse me. You cannot have an idea.

It would be absolutely impossible for me. If I were to undertake it, I

should only disappoint you.”

“Phoo! Phoo! Do not be so shamefaced. You’ll do it very well. Every

allowance will be made for you. We do not expect perfection. You must

get a brown gown, and a white apron, and a mob cap, and we must make

you a few wrinkles, and a little of the crowsfoot at the corner of your

eyes, and you will be a very proper, little old woman.”

“You must excuse me, indeed you must excuse me,” cried Fanny, growing

more and more red from excessive agitation, and looking distressfully

at Edmund, who was kindly observing her; but unwilling to exasperate

his brother by interference, gave her only an encouraging smile. Her

entreaty had no effect on Tom: he only said again what he had said

before; and it was not merely Tom, for the requisition was now backed

by Maria, and Mr. Crawford, and Mr. Yates, with an urgency which

differed from his but in being more gentle or more ceremonious, and

which altogether was quite overpowering to Fanny; and before she could

breathe after it, Mrs. Norris completed the whole by thus addressing

her in a whisper at once angry and audible—“What a piece of work here

is about nothing: I am quite ashamed of you, Fanny, to make such a

difficulty of obliging your cousins in a trifle of this sort—so kind as

they are to you! Take the part with a good grace, and let us hear no

more of the matter, I entreat.”

“Do not urge her, madam,” said Edmund. “It is not fair to urge her in

this manner. You see she does not like to act. Let her chuse for

herself, as well as the rest of us. Her judgment may be quite as safely

trusted. Do not urge her any more.”

“I am not going to urge her,” replied Mrs. Norris sharply; “but I shall

think her a very obstinate, ungrateful girl, if she does not do what

her aunt and cousins wish her—very ungrateful, indeed, considering who

and what she is.”

Edmund was too angry to speak; but Miss Crawford, looking for a moment

with astonished eyes at Mrs. Norris, and then at Fanny, whose tears

were beginning to shew themselves, immediately said, with some

keenness, “I do not like my situation: this _place_ is too hot for me,”

and moved away her chair to the opposite side of the table, close to

Fanny, saying to her, in a kind, low whisper, as she placed herself,

“Never mind, my dear Miss Price, this is a cross evening: everybody is

cross and teasing, but do not let us mind them”; and with pointed

attention continued to talk to her and endeavour to raise her spirits,

in spite of being out of spirits herself. By a look at her brother she

prevented any farther entreaty from the theatrical board, and the

really good feelings by which she was almost purely governed were

rapidly restoring her to all the little she had lost in Edmund’s

favour.

Fanny did not love Miss Crawford; but she felt very much obliged to her

for her present kindness; and when, from taking notice of her work, and

wishing _she_ could work as well, and begging for the pattern, and

supposing Fanny was now preparing for her _appearance_, as of course

she would come out when her cousin was married, Miss Crawford proceeded

to inquire if she had heard lately from her brother at sea, and said

that she had quite a curiosity to see him, and imagined him a very fine

young man, and advised Fanny to get his picture drawn before he went to

sea again—she could not help admitting it to be very agreeable

flattery, or help listening, and answering with more animation than she

had intended.

The consultation upon the play still went on, and Miss Crawford’s

attention was first called from Fanny by Tom Bertram’s telling her,

with infinite regret, that he found it absolutely impossible for him to

undertake the part of Anhalt in addition to the Butler: he had been

most anxiously trying to make it out to be feasible, but it would not

do; he must give it up. “But there will not be the smallest difficulty

in filling it,” he added. “We have but to speak the word; we may pick

and chuse. I could name, at this moment, at least six young men within

six miles of us, who are wild to be admitted into our company, and

there are one or two that would not disgrace us: I should not be afraid

to trust either of the Olivers or Charles Maddox. Tom Oliver is a very

clever fellow, and Charles Maddox is as gentlemanlike a man as you will

see anywhere, so I will take my horse early to-morrow morning and ride

over to Stoke, and settle with one of them.”

While he spoke, Maria was looking apprehensively round at Edmund in

full expectation that he must oppose such an enlargement of the plan as

this: so contrary to all their first protestations; but Edmund said

nothing. After a moment’s thought, Miss Crawford calmly replied, “As

far as I am concerned, I can have no objection to anything that you all

think eligible. Have I ever seen either of the gentlemen? Yes, Mr.

Charles Maddox dined at my sister’s one day, did not he, Henry? A

quiet-looking young man. I remember him. Let _him_ be applied to, if

you please, for it will be less unpleasant to me than to have a perfect

stranger.”

Charles Maddox was to be the man. Tom repeated his resolution of going

to him early on the morrow; and though Julia, who had scarcely opened

her lips before, observed, in a sarcastic manner, and with a glance

first at Maria and then at Edmund, that “the Mansfield theatricals

would enliven the whole neighbourhood exceedingly,” Edmund still held

his peace, and shewed his feelings only by a determined gravity.

“I am not very sanguine as to our play,” said Miss Crawford, in an

undervoice to Fanny, after some consideration; “and I can tell Mr.

Maddox that I shall shorten some of _his_ speeches, and a great many of

_my_ _own_, before we rehearse together. It will be very disagreeable,

and by no means what I expected.”

CHAPTER XVI

It was not in Miss Crawford’s power to talk Fanny into any real

forgetfulness of what had passed. When the evening was over, she went

to bed full of it, her nerves still agitated by the shock of such an

attack from her cousin Tom, so public and so persevered in, and her

spirits sinking under her aunt’s unkind reflection and reproach. To be

called into notice in such a manner, to hear that it was but the

prelude to something so infinitely worse, to be told that she must do

what was so impossible as to act; and then to have the charge of

obstinacy and ingratitude follow it, enforced with such a hint at the

dependence of her situation, had been too distressing at the time to

make the remembrance when she was alone much less so, especially with

the superadded dread of what the morrow might produce in continuation

of the subject. Miss Crawford had protected her only for the time; and

if she were applied to again among themselves with all the

authoritative urgency that Tom and Maria were capable of, and Edmund

perhaps away, what should she do? She fell asleep before she could

answer the question, and found it quite as puzzling when she awoke the

next morning. The little white attic, which had continued her

sleeping-room ever since her first entering the family, proving

incompetent to suggest any reply, she had recourse, as soon as she was

dressed, to another apartment more spacious and more meet for walking

about in and thinking, and of which she had now for some time been

almost equally mistress. It had been their school-room; so called till

the Miss Bertrams would not allow it to be called so any longer, and

inhabited as such to a later period. There Miss Lee had lived, and

there they had read and written, and talked and laughed, till within

the last three years, when she had quitted them. The room had then

become useless, and for some time was quite deserted, except by Fanny,

when she visited her plants, or wanted one of the books, which she was

still glad to keep there, from the deficiency of space and

accommodation in her little chamber above: but gradually, as her value

for the comforts of it increased, she had added to her possessions, and

spent more of her time there; and having nothing to oppose her, had so

naturally and so artlessly worked herself into it, that it was now

generally admitted to be hers. The East room, as it had been called

ever since Maria Bertram was sixteen, was now considered Fanny’s,

almost as decidedly as the white attic: the smallness of the one making

the use of the other so evidently reasonable that the Miss Bertrams,

with every superiority in their own apartments which their own sense of

superiority could demand, were entirely approving it; and Mrs. Norris,

having stipulated for there never being a fire in it on Fanny’s

account, was tolerably resigned to her having the use of what nobody

else wanted, though the terms in which she sometimes spoke of the

indulgence seemed to imply that it was the best room in the house.

The aspect was so favourable that even without a fire it was habitable

in many an early spring and late autumn morning to such a willing mind

as Fanny’s; and while there was a gleam of sunshine she hoped not to be

driven from it entirely, even when winter came. The comfort of it in

her hours of leisure was extreme. She could go there after anything

unpleasant below, and find immediate consolation in some pursuit, or

some train of thought at hand. Her plants, her books—of which she had

been a collector from the first hour of her commanding a shilling—her

writing-desk, and her works of charity and ingenuity, were all within

her reach; or if indisposed for employment, if nothing but musing would

do, she could scarcely see an object in that room which had not an

interesting remembrance connected with it. Everything was a friend, or

bore her thoughts to a friend; and though there had been sometimes much

of suffering to her; though her motives had often been misunderstood,

her feelings disregarded, and her comprehension undervalued; though she

had known the pains of tyranny, of ridicule, and neglect, yet almost

every recurrence of either had led to something consolatory: her aunt

Bertram had spoken for her, or Miss Lee had been encouraging, or, what

was yet more frequent or more dear, Edmund had been her champion and

her friend: he had supported her cause or explained her meaning, he had

told her not to cry, or had given her some proof of affection which

made her tears delightful; and the whole was now so blended together,

so harmonised by distance, that every former affliction had its charm.

The room was most dear to her, and she would not have changed its

furniture for the handsomest in the house, though what had been

originally plain had suffered all the ill-usage of children; and its

greatest elegancies and ornaments were a faded footstool of Julia’s

work, too ill done for the drawing-room, three transparencies, made in

a rage for transparencies, for the three lower panes of one window,

where Tintern Abbey held its station between a cave in Italy and a

moonlight lake in Cumberland, a collection of family profiles, thought

unworthy of being anywhere else, over the mantelpiece, and by their

side, and pinned against the wall, a small sketch of a ship sent four

years ago from the Mediterranean by William, with H.M.S. Antwerp at the

bottom, in letters as tall as the mainmast.

To this nest of comforts Fanny now walked down to try its influence on

an agitated, doubting spirit, to see if by looking at Edmund’s profile

she could catch any of his counsel, or by giving air to her geraniums

she might inhale a breeze of mental strength herself. But she had more

than fears of her own perseverance to remove: she had begun to feel

undecided as to what she _ought_ _to_ _do_; and as she walked round the

room her doubts were increasing. Was she _right_ in refusing what was

so warmly asked, so strongly wished for—what might be so essential to a

scheme on which some of those to whom she owed the greatest

complaisance had set their hearts? Was it not ill-nature, selfishness,

and a fear of exposing herself? And would Edmund’s judgment, would his

persuasion of Sir Thomas’s disapprobation of the whole, be enough to

justify her in a determined denial in spite of all the rest? It would

be so horrible to her to act that she was inclined to suspect the truth

and purity of her own scruples; and as she looked around her, the

claims of her cousins to being obliged were strengthened by the sight

of present upon present that she had received from them. The table

between the windows was covered with work-boxes and netting-boxes which

had been given her at different times, principally by Tom; and she grew

bewildered as to the amount of the debt which all these kind

remembrances produced. A tap at the door roused her in the midst of

this attempt to find her way to her duty, and her gentle “Come in” was

answered by the appearance of one, before whom all her doubts were wont

to be laid. Her eyes brightened at the sight of Edmund.

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

“Yes, certainly.”

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

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

gratified her.

“Yes, your advice and opinion. I do not know what to do. This acting

scheme gets worse and worse, you see. They have chosen almost as bad a

play as they could, and now, to complete the business, are going to ask

the help of a young man very slightly known to any of us. This is the

end of all the privacy and propriety which was talked about at first. I

know no harm of Charles Maddox; but the excessive intimacy which must

spring from his being admitted among us in this manner is highly

objectionable, the _more_ than intimacy—the familiarity. I cannot think

of it with any patience; and it does appear to me an evil of such

magnitude as must, _if_ _possible_, be prevented. Do not you see it in

the same light?”

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

“There is but _one_ thing to be done, Fanny. I must take Anhalt myself.

I am well aware that nothing else will quiet Tom.”

Fanny could not answer him.

“It is not at all what I like,” he continued. “No man can like being

driven into the _appearance_ of such inconsistency. After being known

to oppose the scheme from the beginning, there is absurdity in the face

of my joining them _now_, when they are exceeding their first plan in

every respect; but I can think of no other alternative. Can you,

Fanny?”

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

“But what? I see your judgment is not with me. Think it a little over.

Perhaps you are not so much aware as I am of the mischief that _may_,

of the unpleasantness that _must_ arise from a young man’s being

received in this manner: domesticated among us; authorised to come at

all hours, and placed suddenly on a footing which must do away all

restraints. To think only of the licence which every rehearsal must

tend to create. It is all very bad! Put yourself in Miss Crawford’s

place, Fanny. Consider what it would be to act Amelia with a stranger.

She has a right to be felt for, because she evidently feels for

herself. I heard enough of what she said to you last night to

understand her unwillingness to be acting with a stranger; and as she

probably engaged in the part with different expectations—perhaps

without considering the subject enough to know what was likely to be—it

would be ungenerous, it would be really wrong to expose her to it. Her

feelings ought to be respected. Does it not strike you so, Fanny? You

hesitate.”

“I am sorry for Miss Crawford; but I am more sorry to see you drawn in

to do what you had resolved against, and what you are known to think

will be disagreeable to my uncle. It will be such a triumph to the

others!”

“They will not have much cause of triumph when they see how infamously

I act. But, however, triumph there certainly will be, and I must brave

it. But if I can be the means of restraining the publicity of the

business, of limiting the exhibition, of concentrating our folly, I

shall be well repaid. As I am now, I have no influence, I can do

nothing: I have offended them, and they will not hear me; but when I

have put them in good-humour by this concession, I am not without hopes

of persuading them to confine the representation within a much smaller

circle than they are now in the high road for. This will be a material

gain. My object is to confine it to Mrs. Rushworth and the Grants. Will

not this be worth gaining?”

“Yes, it will be a great point.”

“But still it has not your approbation. Can you mention any other

measure by which I have a chance of doing equal good?”

“No, I cannot think of anything else.”

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

it.”

“Oh, cousin!”

“If you are against me, I ought to distrust myself, and yet—But it is

absolutely impossible to let Tom go on in this way, riding about the

country in quest of anybody who can be persuaded to act—no matter whom:

the look of a gentleman is to be enough. I thought _you_ would have

entered more into Miss Crawford’s feelings.”

“No doubt she will be very glad. It must be a great relief to her,”

said Fanny, trying for greater warmth of manner.

“She never appeared more amiable than in her behaviour to you last

night. It gave her a very strong claim on my goodwill.”

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

She could not finish the generous effusion. Her conscience stopt her in

the middle, but Edmund was satisfied.

“I shall walk down immediately after breakfast,” said he, “and am sure

of giving pleasure there. And now, dear Fanny, I will not interrupt you

any longer. You want to be reading. But I could not be easy till I had

spoken to you, and come to a decision. Sleeping or waking, my head has

been full of this matter all night. It is an evil, but I am certainly

making it less than it might be. If Tom is up, I shall go to him

directly and get it over, and when we meet at breakfast we shall be all

in high good-humour at the prospect of acting the fool together with

such unanimity. _You_, in the meanwhile, will be taking a trip into

China, I suppose. How does Lord Macartney go on?”—opening a volume on

the table and then taking up some others. “And here are Crabbe’s Tales,

and the Idler, at hand to relieve you, if you tire of your great book.

I admire your little establishment exceedingly; and as soon as I am

gone, you will empty your head of all this nonsense of acting, and sit

comfortably down to your table. But do not stay here to be cold.”

He went; but there was no reading, no China, no composure for Fanny. He

had told her the most extraordinary, the most inconceivable, the most

unwelcome news; and she could think of nothing else. To be acting!

After all his objections—objections so just and so public! After all

that she had heard him say, and seen him look, and known him to be

feeling. Could it be possible? Edmund so inconsistent! Was he not

deceiving himself? Was he not wrong? Alas! it was all Miss Crawford’s

doing. She had seen her influence in every speech, and was miserable.

The doubts and alarms as to her own conduct, which had previously

distressed her, and which had all slept while she listened to him, were

become of little consequence now. This deeper anxiety swallowed them

up. Things should take their course; she cared not how it ended. Her

cousins might attack, but could hardly tease her. She was beyond their

reach; and if at last obliged to yield—no matter—it was all misery now.

CHAPTER XVII

It was, indeed, a triumphant day to Mr. Bertram and Maria. Such a

victory over Edmund’s discretion had been beyond their hopes, and was

most delightful. There was no longer anything to disturb them in their

darling project, and they congratulated each other in private on the

jealous weakness to which they attributed the change, with all the glee

of feelings gratified in every way. Edmund might still look grave, and

say he did not like the scheme in general, and must disapprove the play

in particular; their point was gained: he was to act, and he was driven

to it by the force of selfish inclinations only. Edmund had descended

from that moral elevation which he had maintained before, and they were

both as much the better as the happier for the descent.

They behaved very well, however, to _him_ on the occasion, betraying no

exultation beyond the lines about the corners of the mouth, and seemed

to think it as great an escape to be quit of the intrusion of Charles

Maddox, as if they had been forced into admitting him against their

inclination. “To have it quite in their own family circle was what they

had particularly wished. A stranger among them would have been the

destruction of all their comfort”; and when Edmund, pursuing that idea,

gave a hint of his hope as to the limitation of the audience, they were

ready, in the complaisance of the moment, to promise anything. It was

all good-humour and encouragement. Mrs. Norris offered to contrive his

dress, Mr. Yates assured him that Anhalt’s last scene with the Baron

admitted a good deal of action and emphasis, and Mr. Rushworth

undertook to count his speeches.

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

Perhaps you may persuade _her_.”

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

“Oh! very well.” And not another word was said; but Fanny felt herself

again in danger, and her indifference to the danger was beginning to

fail her already.

There were not fewer smiles at the Parsonage than at the Park on this

change in Edmund; Miss Crawford looked very lovely in hers, and entered

with such an instantaneous renewal of cheerfulness into the whole

affair as could have but one effect on him. “He was certainly right in

respecting such feelings; he was glad he had determined on it.” And the

morning wore away in satisfactions very sweet, if not very sound. One

advantage resulted from it to Fanny: at the earnest request of Miss

Crawford, Mrs. Grant had, with her usual good-humour, agreed to

undertake the part for which Fanny had been wanted; and this was all

that occurred to gladden _her_ heart during the day; and even this,

when imparted by Edmund, brought a pang with it, for it was Miss

Crawford to whom she was obliged—it was Miss Crawford whose kind

exertions were to excite her gratitude, and whose merit in making them

was spoken of with a glow of admiration. She was safe; but peace and

safety were unconnected here. Her mind had been never farther from

peace. She could not feel that she had done wrong herself, but she was

disquieted in every other way. Her heart and her judgment were equally

against Edmund’s decision: she could not acquit his unsteadiness, and

his happiness under it made her wretched. She was full of jealousy and

agitation. Miss Crawford came with looks of gaiety which seemed an

insult, with friendly expressions towards herself which she could

hardly answer calmly. Everybody around her was gay and busy, prosperous

and important; each had their object of interest, their part, their

dress, their favourite scene, their friends and confederates: all were

finding employment in consultations and comparisons, or diversion in

the playful conceits they suggested. She alone was sad and

insignificant: she had no share in anything; she might go or stay; she

might be in the midst of their noise, or retreat from it to the

solitude of the East room, without being seen or missed. She could

almost think anything would have been preferable to this. Mrs. Grant

was of consequence: _her_ good-nature had honourable mention; her taste

and her time were considered; her presence was wanted; she was sought

for, and attended, and praised; and Fanny was at first in some danger

of envying her the character she had accepted. But reflection brought

better feelings, and shewed her that Mrs. Grant was entitled to

respect, which could never have belonged to _her_; and that, had she

received even the greatest, she could never have been easy in joining a

scheme which, considering only her uncle, she must condemn altogether.

Fanny’s heart was not absolutely the only saddened one amongst them, as

she soon began to acknowledge to herself. Julia was a sufferer too,

though not quite so blamelessly.

Henry Crawford had trifled with her feelings; but she had very long

allowed and even sought his attentions, with a jealousy of her sister

so reasonable as ought to have been their cure; and now that the

conviction of his preference for Maria had been forced on her, she

submitted to it without any alarm for Maria’s situation, or any

endeavour at rational tranquillity for herself. She either sat in

gloomy silence, wrapt in such gravity as nothing could subdue, no

curiosity touch, no wit amuse; or allowing the attentions of Mr. Yates,

was talking with forced gaiety to him alone, and ridiculing the acting

of the others.

For a day or two after the affront was given, Henry Crawford had

endeavoured to do it away by the usual attack of gallantry and

compliment, but he had not cared enough about it to persevere against a

few repulses; and becoming soon too busy with his play to have time for

more than one flirtation, he grew indifferent to the quarrel, or rather

thought it a lucky occurrence, as quietly putting an end to what might

ere long have raised expectations in more than Mrs. Grant. She was not

pleased to see Julia excluded from the play, and sitting by

disregarded; but as it was not a matter which really involved her

happiness, as Henry must be the best judge of his own, and as he did

assure her, with a most persuasive smile, that neither he nor Julia had

ever had a serious thought of each other, she could only renew her

former caution as to the elder sister, entreat him not to risk his

tranquillity by too much admiration there, and then gladly take her

share in anything that brought cheerfulness to the young people in

general, and that did so particularly promote the pleasure of the two

so dear to her.

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

to Mary.

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

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

Mr. Rushworth!”

“You had better tell Miss Bertram to think of Mr. Rushworth. It may do

_her_ some good. I often think of Mr. Rushworth’s property and

independence, and wish them in other hands; but I never think of him. A

man might represent the county with such an estate; a man might escape

a profession and represent the county.”

“I dare say he _will_ be in parliament soon. When Sir Thomas comes, I

dare say he will be in for some borough, but there has been nobody to

put him in the way of doing anything yet.”

“Sir Thomas is to achieve many mighty things when he comes home,” said

Mary, after a pause. “Do you remember Hawkins Browne’s ‘Address to

Tobacco,’ in imitation of Pope?—

Blest leaf! whose aromatic gales dispense

To Templars modesty, to Parsons sense.

I will parody them—

Blest Knight! whose dictatorial looks dispense

To Children affluence, to Rushworth sense.

Will not that do, Mrs. Grant? Everything seems to depend upon Sir

Thomas’s return.”

“You will find his consequence very just and reasonable when you see

him in his family, I assure you. I do not think we do so well without

him. He has a fine dignified manner, which suits the head of such a

house, and keeps everybody in their place. Lady Bertram seems more of a

cipher now than when he is at home; and nobody else can keep Mrs.

Norris in order. But, Mary, do not fancy that Maria Bertram cares for

Henry. I am sure _Julia_ does not, or she would not have flirted as she

did last night with Mr. Yates; and though he and Maria are very good

friends, I think she likes Sotherton too well to be inconstant.”

“I would not give much for Mr. Rushworth’s chance if Henry stept in

before the articles were signed.”

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

the play is all over, we will talk to him seriously and make him know

his own mind; and if he means nothing, we will send him off, though he

is Henry, for a time.”

Julia _did_ suffer, however, though Mrs. Grant discerned it not, and

though it escaped the notice of many of her own family likewise. She

had loved, she did love still, and she had all the suffering which a

warm temper and a high spirit were likely to endure under the

disappointment of a dear, though irrational hope, with a strong sense

of ill-usage. Her heart was sore and angry, and she was capable only of

angry consolations. The sister with whom she was used to be on easy

terms was now become her greatest enemy: they were alienated from each

other; and Julia was not superior to the hope of some distressing end

to the attentions which were still carrying on there, some punishment

to Maria for conduct so shameful towards herself as well as towards Mr.

Rushworth. With no material fault of temper, or difference of opinion,

to prevent their being very good friends while their interests were the

same, the sisters, under such a trial as this, had not affection or

principle enough to make them merciful or just, to give them honour or

compassion. Maria felt her triumph, and pursued her purpose, careless

of Julia; and Julia could never see Maria distinguished by Henry

Crawford without trusting that it would create jealousy, and bring a

public disturbance at last.

Fanny saw and pitied much of this in Julia; but there was no outward

fellowship between them. Julia made no communication, and Fanny took no

liberties. They were two solitary sufferers, or connected only by

Fanny’s consciousness.

The inattention of the two brothers and the aunt to Julia’s

discomposure, and their blindness to its true cause, must be imputed to

the fullness of their own minds. They were totally preoccupied. Tom was

engrossed by the concerns of his theatre, and saw nothing that did not

immediately relate to it. Edmund, between his theatrical and his real

part, between Miss Crawford’s claims and his own conduct, between love

and consistency, was equally unobservant; and Mrs. Norris was too busy

in contriving and directing the general little matters of the company,

superintending their various dresses with economical expedient, for

which nobody thanked her, and saving, with delighted integrity, half a

crown here and there to the absent Sir Thomas, to have leisure for

watching the behaviour, or guarding the happiness of his daughters.

CHAPTER XVIII

Everything was now in a regular train: theatre, actors, actresses, and

dresses, were all getting forward; but though no other great

impediments arose, Fanny found, before many days were past, that it was

not all uninterrupted enjoyment to the party themselves, and that she

had not to witness the continuance of such unanimity and delight as had

been almost too much for her at first. Everybody began to have their

vexation. Edmund had many. Entirely against _his_ judgment, a

scene-painter arrived from town, and was at work, much to the increase

of the expenses, and, what was worse, of the eclat of their

proceedings; and his brother, instead of being really guided by him as

to the privacy of the representation, was giving an invitation to every

family who came in his way. Tom himself began to fret over the

scene-painter’s slow progress, and to feel the miseries of waiting. He

had learned his part—all his parts, for he took every trifling one that

could be united with the Butler, and began to be impatient to be

acting; and every day thus unemployed was tending to increase his sense

of the insignificance of all his parts together, and make him more

ready to regret that some other play had not been chosen.

Fanny, being always a very courteous listener, and often the only

listener at hand, came in for the complaints and the distresses of most

of them. _She_ knew that Mr. Yates was in general thought to rant

dreadfully; that Mr. Yates was disappointed in Henry Crawford; that Tom

Bertram spoke so quick he would be unintelligible; that Mrs. Grant

spoiled everything by laughing; that Edmund was behindhand with his

part, and that it was misery to have anything to do with Mr. Rushworth,

who was wanting a prompter through every speech. She knew, also, that

poor Mr. Rushworth could seldom get anybody to rehearse with him: _his_

complaint came before her as well as the rest; and so decided to her

eye was her cousin Maria’s avoidance of him, and so needlessly often

the rehearsal of the first scene between her and Mr. Crawford, that she

had soon all the terror of other complaints from _him_. So far from

being all satisfied and all enjoying, she found everybody requiring

something they had not, and giving occasion of discontent to the

others. Everybody had a part either too long or too short; nobody would

attend as they ought; nobody would remember on which side they were to

come in; nobody but the complainer would observe any directions.

Fanny believed herself to derive as much innocent enjoyment from the

play as any of them; Henry Crawford acted well, and it was a pleasure

to _her_ to creep into the theatre, and attend the rehearsal of the

first act, in spite of the feelings it excited in some speeches for

Maria. Maria, she also thought, acted well, too well; and after the

first rehearsal or two, Fanny began to be their only audience; and

sometimes as prompter, sometimes as spectator, was often very useful.

As far as she could judge, Mr. Crawford was considerably the best actor

of all: he had more confidence than Edmund, more judgment than Tom,

more talent and taste than Mr. Yates. She did not like him as a man,

but she must admit him to be the best actor, and on this point there

were not many who differed from her. Mr. Yates, indeed, exclaimed

against his tameness and insipidity; and the day came at last, when Mr.

Rushworth turned to her with a black look, and said, “Do you think

there is anything so very fine in all this? For the life and soul of

me, I cannot admire him; and, between ourselves, to see such an

undersized, little, mean-looking man, set up for a fine actor, is very

ridiculous in my opinion.”

From this moment there was a return of his former jealousy, which

Maria, from increasing hopes of Crawford, was at little pains to

remove; and the chances of Mr. Rushworth’s ever attaining to the

knowledge of his two-and-forty speeches became much less. As to his

ever making anything _tolerable_ of them, nobody had the smallest idea

of that except his mother; _she_, indeed, regretted that his part was

not more considerable, and deferred coming over to Mansfield till they

were forward enough in their rehearsal to comprehend all his scenes;

but the others aspired at nothing beyond his remembering the catchword,

and the first line of his speech, and being able to follow the prompter

through the rest. Fanny, in her pity and kindheartedness, was at great

pains to teach him how to learn, giving him all the helps and

directions in her power, trying to make an artificial memory for him,

and learning every word of his part herself, but without his being much

the forwarder.

Many uncomfortable, anxious, apprehensive feelings she certainly had;

but with all these, and other claims on her time and attention, she was

as far from finding herself without employment or utility amongst them,

as without a companion in uneasiness; quite as far from having no

demand on her leisure as on her compassion. The gloom of her first

anticipations was proved to have been unfounded. She was occasionally

useful to all; she was perhaps as much at peace as any.

There was a great deal of needlework to be done, moreover, in which her

help was wanted; and that Mrs. Norris thought her quite as well off as

the rest, was evident by the manner in which she claimed it—“Come,

Fanny,” she cried, “these are fine times for you, but you must not be

always walking from one room to the other, and doing the lookings-on at

your ease, in this way; I want you here. I have been slaving myself

till I can hardly stand, to contrive Mr. Rushworth’s cloak without

sending for any more satin; and now I think you may give me your help

in putting it together. There are but three seams; you may do them in a

trice. It would be lucky for me if I had nothing but the executive part

to do. _You_ are best off, I can tell you: but if nobody did more than

_you_, we should not get on very fast.”

Fanny took the work very quietly, without attempting any defence; but

her kinder aunt Bertram observed on her behalf—

“One cannot wonder, sister, that Fanny _should_ be delighted: it is all

new to her, you know; you and I used to be very fond of a play

ourselves, and so am I still; and as soon as I am a little more at

leisure, _I_ mean to look in at their rehearsals too. What is the play

about, Fanny? you have never told me.”

“Oh! sister, pray do not ask her now; for Fanny is not one of those who

can talk and work at the same time. It is about Lovers’ Vows.”

“I believe,” said Fanny to her aunt Bertram, “there will be three acts

rehearsed to-morrow evening, and that will give you an opportunity of

seeing all the actors at once.”

“You had better stay till the curtain is hung,” interposed Mrs. Norris;

“the curtain will be hung in a day or two—there is very little sense in

a play without a curtain—and I am much mistaken if you do not find it

draw up into very handsome festoons.”

Lady Bertram seemed quite resigned to waiting. Fanny did not share her

aunt’s composure: she thought of the morrow a great deal, for if the

three acts were rehearsed, Edmund and Miss Crawford would then be

acting together for the first time; the third act would bring a scene

between them which interested her most particularly, and which she was

longing and dreading to see how they would perform. The whole subject

of it was love—a marriage of love was to be described by the gentleman,

and very little short of a declaration of love be made by the lady.

She had read and read the scene again with many painful, many wondering

emotions, and looked forward to their representation of it as a

circumstance almost too interesting. She did not _believe_ they had yet

rehearsed it, even in private.

The morrow came, the plan for the evening continued, and Fanny’s

consideration of it did not become less agitated. She worked very

diligently under her aunt’s directions, but her diligence and her

silence concealed a very absent, anxious mind; and about noon she made

her escape with her work to the East room, that she might have no

concern in another, and, as she deemed it, most unnecessary rehearsal

of the first act, which Henry Crawford was just proposing, desirous at

once of having her time to herself, and of avoiding the sight of Mr.

Rushworth. A glimpse, as she passed through the hall, of the two ladies

walking up from the Parsonage made no change in her wish of retreat,

and she worked and meditated in the East room, undisturbed, for a

quarter of an hour, when a gentle tap at the door was followed by the

entrance of Miss Crawford.

“Am I right? Yes; this is the East room. My dear Miss Price, I beg your

pardon, but I have made my way to you on purpose to entreat your help.”

Fanny, quite surprised, endeavoured to shew herself mistress of the

room by her civilities, and looked at the bright bars of her empty

grate with concern.

“Thank you; I am quite warm, very warm. Allow me to stay here a little

while, and do have the goodness to hear me my third act. I have brought

my book, and if you would but rehearse it with me, I should be _so_

obliged! I came here to-day intending to rehearse it with Edmund—by

ourselves—against the evening, but he is not in the way; and if he

_were_, I do not think I could go through it with _him_, till I have

hardened myself a little; for really there is a speech or two. You will

be so good, won’t you?”

Fanny was most civil in her assurances, though she could not give them

in a very steady voice.

“Have you ever happened to look at the part I mean?” continued Miss

Crawford, opening her book. “Here it is. I did not think much of it at

first—but, upon my word. There, look at _that_ speech, and _that_, and

_that_. How am I ever to look him in the face and say such things?

Could you do it? But then he is your cousin, which makes all the

difference. You must rehearse it with me, that I may fancy _you_ him,

and get on by degrees. You _have_ a look of _his_ sometimes.”

“Have I? I will do my best with the greatest readiness; but I must

_read_ the part, for I can say very little of it.”

“_None_ of it, I suppose. You are to have the book, of course. Now for

it. We must have two chairs at hand for you to bring forward to the

front of the stage. There—very good school-room chairs, not made for a

theatre, I dare say; much more fitted for little girls to sit and kick

their feet against when they are learning a lesson. What would your

governess and your uncle say to see them used for such a purpose? Could

Sir Thomas look in upon us just now, he would bless himself, for we are

rehearsing all over the house. Yates is storming away in the

dining-room. I heard him as I came upstairs, and the theatre is engaged

of course by those indefatigable rehearsers, Agatha and Frederick. If

_they_ are not perfect, I _shall_ be surprised. By the bye, I looked in

upon them five minutes ago, and it happened to be exactly at one of the

times when they were trying _not_ to embrace, and Mr. Rushworth was

with me. I thought he began to look a little queer, so I turned it off

as well as I could, by whispering to him, ‘We shall have an excellent

Agatha; there is something so _maternal_ in her manner, so completely

_maternal_ in her voice and countenance.’ Was not that well done of me?

He brightened up directly. Now for my soliloquy.”

She began, and Fanny joined in with all the modest feeling which the

idea of representing Edmund was so strongly calculated to inspire; but

with looks and voice so truly feminine as to be no very good picture of

a man. With such an Anhalt, however, Miss Crawford had courage enough;

and they had got through half the scene, when a tap at the door brought

a pause, and the entrance of Edmund, the next moment, suspended it all.

Surprise, consciousness, and pleasure appeared in each of the three on

this unexpected meeting; and as Edmund was come on the very same

business that had brought Miss Crawford, consciousness and pleasure

were likely to be more than momentary in _them_. He too had his book,

and was seeking Fanny, to ask her to rehearse with him, and help him to

prepare for the evening, without knowing Miss Crawford to be in the

house; and great was the joy and animation of being thus thrown

together, of comparing schemes, and sympathising in praise of Fanny’s

kind offices.

_She_ could not equal them in their warmth. _Her_ spirits sank under

the glow of theirs, and she felt herself becoming too nearly nothing to

both to have any comfort in having been sought by either. They must now

rehearse together. Edmund proposed, urged, entreated it, till the lady,

not very unwilling at first, could refuse no longer, and Fanny was

wanted only to prompt and observe them. She was invested, indeed, with

the office of judge and critic, and earnestly desired to exercise it

and tell them all their faults; but from doing so every feeling within

her shrank—she could not, would not, dared not attempt it: had she been

otherwise qualified for criticism, her conscience must have restrained

her from venturing at disapprobation. She believed herself to feel too

much of it in the aggregate for honesty or safety in particulars. To

prompt them must be enough for her; and it was sometimes _more_ than

enough; for she could not always pay attention to the book. In watching

them she forgot herself; and, agitated by the increasing spirit of

Edmund’s manner, had once closed the page and turned away exactly as he

wanted help. It was imputed to very reasonable weariness, and she was

thanked and pitied; but she deserved their pity more than she hoped

they would ever surmise. At last the scene was over, and Fanny forced

herself to add her praise to the compliments each was giving the other;

and when again alone and able to recall the whole, she was inclined to

believe their performance would, indeed, have such nature and feeling

in it as must ensure their credit, and make it a very suffering

exhibition to herself. Whatever might be its effect, however, she must

stand the brunt of it again that very day.

The first regular rehearsal of the three first acts was certainly to

take place in the evening: Mrs. Grant and the Crawfords were engaged to

return for that purpose as soon as they could after dinner; and every

one concerned was looking forward with eagerness. There seemed a

general diffusion of cheerfulness on the occasion. Tom was enjoying

such an advance towards the end; Edmund was in spirits from the

morning’s rehearsal, and little vexations seemed everywhere smoothed

away. All were alert and impatient; the ladies moved soon, the

gentlemen soon followed them, and with the exception of Lady Bertram,

Mrs. Norris, and Julia, everybody was in the theatre at an early hour;

and having lighted it up as well as its unfinished state admitted, were

waiting only the arrival of Mrs. Grant and the Crawfords to begin.

They did not wait long for the Crawfords, but there was no Mrs. Grant.

She could not come. Dr. Grant, professing an indisposition, for which

he had little credit with his fair sister-in-law, could not spare his

wife.

“Dr. Grant is ill,” said she, with mock solemnity. “He has been ill

ever since he did not eat any of the pheasant today. He fancied it

tough, sent away his plate, and has been suffering ever since”.

Here was disappointment! Mrs. Grant’s non-attendance was sad indeed.

Her pleasant manners and cheerful conformity made her always valuable

amongst them; but _now_ she was absolutely necessary. They could not

act, they could not rehearse with any satisfaction without her. The

comfort of the whole evening was destroyed. What was to be done? Tom,

as Cottager, was in despair. After a pause of perplexity, some eyes

began to be turned towards Fanny, and a voice or two to say, “If Miss

Price would be so good as to _read_ the part.” She was immediately

surrounded by supplications; everybody asked it; even Edmund said, “Do,

Fanny, if it is not _very_ disagreeable to you.”

But Fanny still hung back. She could not endure the idea of it. Why was

not Miss Crawford to be applied to as well? Or why had not she rather

gone to her own room, as she had felt to be safest, instead of

attending the rehearsal at all? She had known it would irritate and

distress her; she had known it her duty to keep away. She was properly

punished.

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

entreaty.

“And I do believe she can say every word of it,” added Maria, “for she

could put Mrs. Grant right the other day in twenty places. Fanny, I am

sure you know the part.”

Fanny could not say she did _not_; and as they all persevered, as

Edmund repeated his wish, and with a look of even fond dependence on

her good-nature, she must yield. She would do her best. Everybody was

satisfied; and she was left to the tremors of a most palpitating heart,

while the others prepared to begin.

They _did_ begin; and being too much engaged in their own noise to be

struck by an unusual noise in the other part of the house, had

proceeded some way when the door of the room was thrown open, and

Julia, appearing at it, with a face all aghast, exclaimed, “My father

is come! He is in the hall at this moment.”

CHAPTER XIX

How is the consternation of the party to be described? To the greater

number it was a moment of absolute horror. Sir Thomas in the house! All

felt the instantaneous conviction. Not a hope of imposition or mistake

was harboured anywhere. Julia’s looks were an evidence of the fact that

made it indisputable; and after the first starts and exclamations, not

a word was spoken for half a minute: each with an altered countenance

was looking at some other, and almost each was feeling it a stroke the

most unwelcome, most ill-timed, most appalling! Mr. Yates might

consider it only as a vexatious interruption for the evening, and Mr.

Rushworth might imagine it a blessing; but every other heart was

sinking under some degree of self-condemnation or undefined alarm,

every other heart was suggesting, “What will become of us? what is to

be done now?” It was a terrible pause; and terrible to every ear were

the corroborating sounds of opening doors and passing footsteps.

Julia was the first to move and speak again. Jealousy and bitterness

had been suspended: selfishness was lost in the common cause; but at

the moment of her appearance, Frederick was listening with looks of

devotion to Agatha’s narrative, and pressing her hand to his heart; and

as soon as she could notice this, and see that, in spite of the shock

of her words, he still kept his station and retained her sister’s hand,

her wounded heart swelled again with injury, and looking as red as she

had been white before, she turned out of the room, saying, “_I_ need

not be afraid of appearing before him.”

Her going roused the rest; and at the same moment the two brothers

stepped forward, feeling the necessity of doing something. A very few

words between them were sufficient. The case admitted no difference of

opinion: they must go to the drawing-room directly. Maria joined them

with the same intent, just then the stoutest of the three; for the very

circumstance which had driven Julia away was to her the sweetest

support. Henry Crawford’s retaining her hand at such a moment, a moment

of such peculiar proof and importance, was worth ages of doubt and

anxiety. She hailed it as an earnest of the most serious determination,

and was equal even to encounter her father. They walked off, utterly

heedless of Mr. Rushworth’s repeated question of, “Shall I go too? Had

not I better go too? Will not it be right for me to go too?” but they

were no sooner through the door than Henry Crawford undertook to answer

the anxious inquiry, and, encouraging him by all means to pay his

respects to Sir Thomas without delay, sent him after the others with

delighted haste.

Fanny was left with only the Crawfords and Mr. Yates. She had been

quite overlooked by her cousins; and as her own opinion of her claims

on Sir Thomas’s affection was much too humble to give her any idea of

classing herself with his children, she was glad to remain behind and

gain a little breathing-time. Her agitation and alarm exceeded all that

was endured by the rest, by the right of a disposition which not even

innocence could keep from suffering. She was nearly fainting: all her

former habitual dread of her uncle was returning, and with it

compassion for him and for almost every one of the party on the

development before him, with solicitude on Edmund’s account

indescribable. She had found a seat, where in excessive trembling she

was enduring all these fearful thoughts, while the other three, no

longer under any restraint, were giving vent to their feelings of

vexation, lamenting over such an unlooked-for premature arrival as a

most untoward event, and without mercy wishing poor Sir Thomas had been

twice as long on his passage, or were still in Antigua.

The Crawfords were more warm on the subject than Mr. Yates, from better

understanding the family, and judging more clearly of the mischief that

must ensue. The ruin of the play was to them a certainty: they felt the

total destruction of the scheme to be inevitably at hand; while Mr.

Yates considered it only as a temporary interruption, a disaster for

the evening, and could even suggest the possibility of the rehearsal

being renewed after tea, when the bustle of receiving Sir Thomas were

over, and he might be at leisure to be amused by it. The Crawfords

laughed at the idea; and having soon agreed on the propriety of their

walking quietly home and leaving the family to themselves, proposed Mr.

Yates’s accompanying them and spending the evening at the Parsonage.

But Mr. Yates, having never been with those who thought much of

parental claims, or family confidence, could not perceive that anything

of the kind was necessary; and therefore, thanking them, said, “he

preferred remaining where he was, that he might pay his respects to the

old gentleman handsomely since he _was_ come; and besides, he did not

think it would be fair by the others to have everybody run away.”

Fanny was just beginning to collect herself, and to feel that if she

staid longer behind it might seem disrespectful, when this point was

settled, and being commissioned with the brother and sister’s apology,

saw them preparing to go as she quitted the room herself to perform the

dreadful duty of appearing before her uncle.

Too soon did she find herself at the drawing-room door; and after

pausing a moment for what she knew would not come, for a courage which

the outside of no door had ever supplied to her, she turned the lock in

desperation, and the lights of the drawing-room, and all the collected

family, were before her. As she entered, her own name caught her ear.

Sir Thomas was at that moment looking round him, and saying, “But where

is Fanny? Why do not I see my little Fanny?”—and on perceiving her,

came forward with a kindness which astonished and penetrated her,

calling her his dear Fanny, kissing her affectionately, and observing

with decided pleasure how much she was grown! Fanny knew not how to

feel, nor where to look. She was quite oppressed. He had never been so

kind, so _very_ kind to her in his life. His manner seemed changed, his

voice was quick from the agitation of joy; and all that had been awful

in his dignity seemed lost in tenderness. He led her nearer the light

and looked at her again—inquired particularly after her health, and

then, correcting himself, observed that he need not inquire, for her

appearance spoke sufficiently on that point. A fine blush having

succeeded the previous paleness of her face, he was justified in his

belief of her equal improvement in health and beauty. He inquired next

after her family, especially William: and his kindness altogether was

such as made her reproach herself for loving him so little, and

thinking his return a misfortune; and when, on having courage to lift

her eyes to his face, she saw that he was grown thinner, and had the

burnt, fagged, worn look of fatigue and a hot climate, every tender

feeling was increased, and she was miserable in considering how much

unsuspected vexation was probably ready to burst on him.

Sir Thomas was indeed the life of the party, who at his suggestion now

seated themselves round the fire. He had the best right to be the

talker; and the delight of his sensations in being again in his own

house, in the centre of his family, after such a separation, made him

communicative and chatty in a very unusual degree; and he was ready to

give every information as to his voyage, and answer every question of

his two sons almost before it was put. His business in Antigua had

latterly been prosperously rapid, and he came directly from Liverpool,

having had an opportunity of making his passage thither in a private

vessel, instead of waiting for the packet; and all the little

particulars of his proceedings and events, his arrivals and departures,

were most promptly delivered, as he sat by Lady Bertram and looked with

heartfelt satisfaction on the faces around him—interrupting himself

more than once, however, to remark on his good fortune in finding them

all at home—coming unexpectedly as he did—all collected together

exactly as he could have wished, but dared not depend on. Mr. Rushworth

was not forgotten: a most friendly reception and warmth of hand-shaking

had already met him, and with pointed attention he was now included in

the objects most intimately connected with Mansfield. There was nothing

disagreeable in Mr. Rushworth’s appearance, and Sir Thomas was liking

him already.

By not one of the circle was he listened to with such unbroken,

unalloyed enjoyment as by his wife, who was really extremely happy to

see him, and whose feelings were so warmed by his sudden arrival as to

place her nearer agitation than she had been for the last twenty years.

She had been _almost_ fluttered for a few minutes, and still remained

so sensibly animated as to put away her work, move Pug from her side,

and give all her attention and all the rest of her sofa to her husband.

She had no anxieties for anybody to cloud _her_ pleasure: her own time

had been irreproachably spent during his absence: she had done a great

deal of carpet-work, and made many yards of fringe; and she would have

answered as freely for the good conduct and useful pursuits of all the

young people as for her own. It was so agreeable to her to see him

again, and hear him talk, to have her ear amused and her whole

comprehension filled by his narratives, that she began particularly to

feel how dreadfully she must have missed him, and how impossible it

would have been for her to bear a lengthened absence.

Mrs. Norris was by no means to be compared in happiness to her sister.

Not that _she_ was incommoded by many fears of Sir Thomas’s

disapprobation when the present state of his house should be known, for

her judgment had been so blinded that, except by the instinctive

caution with which she had whisked away Mr. Rushworth’s pink satin

cloak as her brother-in-law entered, she could hardly be said to shew

any sign of alarm; but she was vexed by the _manner_ of his return. It

had left her nothing to do. Instead of being sent for out of the room,

and seeing him first, and having to spread the happy news through the

house, Sir Thomas, with a very reasonable dependence, perhaps, on the

nerves of his wife and children, had sought no confidant but the

butler, and had been following him almost instantaneously into the

drawing-room. Mrs. Norris felt herself defrauded of an office on which

she had always depended, whether his arrival or his death were to be

the thing unfolded; and was now trying to be in a bustle without having

anything to bustle about, and labouring to be important where nothing

was wanted but tranquillity and silence. Would Sir Thomas have

consented to eat, she might have gone to the housekeeper with

troublesome directions, and insulted the footmen with injunctions of

despatch; but Sir Thomas resolutely declined all dinner: he would take

nothing, nothing till tea came—he would rather wait for tea. Still Mrs.

Norris was at intervals urging something different; and in the most

interesting moment of his passage to England, when the alarm of a

French privateer was at the height, she burst through his recital with

the proposal of soup. “Sure, my dear Sir Thomas, a basin of soup would

be a much better thing for you than tea. Do have a basin of soup.”

Sir Thomas could not be provoked. “Still the same anxiety for

everybody’s comfort, my dear Mrs. Norris,” was his answer. “But indeed

I would rather have nothing but tea.”

“Well, then, Lady Bertram, suppose you speak for tea directly; suppose

you hurry Baddeley a little; he seems behindhand to-night.” She carried

this point, and Sir Thomas’s narrative proceeded.

At length there was a pause. His immediate communications were

exhausted, and it seemed enough to be looking joyfully around him, now

at one, now at another of the beloved circle; but the pause was not

long: in the elation of her spirits Lady Bertram became talkative, and

what were the sensations of her children upon hearing her say, “How do

you think the young people have been amusing themselves lately, Sir

Thomas? They have been acting. We have been all alive with acting.”

“Indeed! and what have you been acting?”

“Oh! they’ll tell you all about it.”

“The _all_ will soon be told,” cried Tom hastily, and with affected

unconcern; “but it is not worth while to bore my father with it now.

You will hear enough of it to-morrow, sir. We have just been trying, by

way of doing something, and amusing my mother, just within the last

week, to get up a few scenes, a mere trifle. We have had such incessant

rains almost since October began, that we have been nearly confined to

the house for days together. I have hardly taken out a gun since the

3rd. Tolerable sport the first three days, but there has been no

attempting anything since. The first day I went over Mansfield Wood,

and Edmund took the copses beyond Easton, and we brought home six brace

between us, and might each have killed six times as many, but we

respect your pheasants, sir, I assure you, as much as you could desire.

I do not think you will find your woods by any means worse stocked than

they were. _I_ never saw Mansfield Wood so full of pheasants in my life

as this year. I hope you will take a day’s sport there yourself, sir,

soon.”

For the present the danger was over, and Fanny’s sick feelings

subsided; but when tea was soon afterwards brought in, and Sir Thomas,

getting up, said that he found that he could not be any longer in the

house without just looking into his own dear room, every agitation was

returning. He was gone before anything had been said to prepare him for

the change he must find there; and a pause of alarm followed his

disappearance. Edmund was the first to speak—

“Something must be done,” said he.

“It is time to think of our visitors,” said Maria, still feeling her

hand pressed to Henry Crawford’s heart, and caring little for anything

else. “Where did you leave Miss Crawford, Fanny?”

Fanny told of their departure, and delivered their message.

“Then poor Yates is all alone,” cried Tom. “I will go and fetch him. He

will be no bad assistant when it all comes out.”

To the theatre he went, and reached it just in time to witness the

first meeting of his father and his friend. Sir Thomas had been a good

deal surprised to find candles burning in his room; and on casting his

eye round it, to see other symptoms of recent habitation and a general

air of confusion in the furniture. The removal of the bookcase from

before the billiard-room door struck him especially, but he had

scarcely more than time to feel astonished at all this, before there

were sounds from the billiard-room to astonish him still farther. Some

one was talking there in a very loud accent; he did not know the

voice—more than talking—almost hallooing. He stepped to the door,

rejoicing at that moment in having the means of immediate

communication, and, opening it, found himself on the stage of a

theatre, and opposed to a ranting young man, who appeared likely to

knock him down backwards. At the very moment of Yates perceiving Sir

Thomas, and giving perhaps the very best start he had ever given in the

whole course of his rehearsals, Tom Bertram entered at the other end of

the room; and never had he found greater difficulty in keeping his

countenance. His father’s looks of solemnity and amazement on this his

first appearance on any stage, and the gradual metamorphosis of the

impassioned Baron Wildenheim into the well-bred and easy Mr. Yates,

making his bow and apology to Sir Thomas Bertram, was such an

exhibition, such a piece of true acting, as he would not have lost upon

any account. It would be the last—in all probability—the last scene on

that stage; but he was sure there could not be a finer. The house would

close with the greatest eclat.

There was little time, however, for the indulgence of any images of

merriment. It was necessary for him to step forward, too, and assist

the introduction, and with many awkward sensations he did his best. Sir

Thomas received Mr. Yates with all the appearance of cordiality which

was due to his own character, but was really as far from pleased with

the necessity of the acquaintance as with the manner of its

commencement. Mr. Yates’s family and connexions were sufficiently known

to him to render his introduction as the “particular friend,” another

of the hundred particular friends of his son, exceedingly unwelcome;

and it needed all the felicity of being again at home, and all the

forbearance it could supply, to save Sir Thomas from anger on finding

himself thus bewildered in his own house, making part of a ridiculous

exhibition in the midst of theatrical nonsense, and forced in so

untoward a moment to admit the acquaintance of a young man whom he felt

sure of disapproving, and whose easy indifference and volubility in the

course of the first five minutes seemed to mark him the most at home of

the two.

Tom understood his father’s thoughts, and heartily wishing he might be

always as well disposed to give them but partial expression, began to

see, more clearly than he had ever done before, that there might be

some ground of offence, that there might be some reason for the glance

his father gave towards the ceiling and stucco of the room; and that

when he inquired with mild gravity after the fate of the

billiard-table, he was not proceeding beyond a very allowable

curiosity. A few minutes were enough for such unsatisfactory sensations

on each side; and Sir Thomas having exerted himself so far as to speak

a few words of calm approbation in reply to an eager appeal of Mr.

Yates, as to the happiness of the arrangement, the three gentlemen

returned to the drawing-room together, Sir Thomas with an increase of

gravity which was not lost on all.

“I come from your theatre,” said he composedly, as he sat down; “I

found myself in it rather unexpectedly. Its vicinity to my own room—but

in every respect, indeed, it took me by surprise, as I had not the

smallest suspicion of your acting having assumed so serious a

character. It appears a neat job, however, as far as I could judge by

candlelight, and does my friend Christopher Jackson credit.” And then

he would have changed the subject, and sipped his coffee in peace over

domestic matters of a calmer hue; but Mr. Yates, without discernment to

catch Sir Thomas’s meaning, or diffidence, or delicacy, or discretion

enough to allow him to lead the discourse while he mingled among the

others with the least obtrusiveness himself, would keep him on the

topic of the theatre, would torment him with questions and remarks

relative to it, and finally would make him hear the whole history of

his disappointment at Ecclesford. Sir Thomas listened most politely,

but found much to offend his ideas of decorum, and confirm his

ill-opinion of Mr. Yates’s habits of thinking, from the beginning to

the end of the story; and when it was over, could give him no other

assurance of sympathy than what a slight bow conveyed.

“This was, in fact, the origin of _our_ acting,” said Tom, after a

moment’s thought. “My friend Yates brought the infection from

Ecclesford, and it spread—as those things always spread, you know,

sir—the faster, probably, from _your_ having so often encouraged the

sort of thing in us formerly. It was like treading old ground again.”

Mr. Yates took the subject from his friend as soon as possible, and

immediately gave Sir Thomas an account of what they had done and were

doing: told him of the gradual increase of their views, the happy

conclusion of their first difficulties, and present promising state of

affairs; relating everything with so blind an interest as made him not

only totally unconscious of the uneasy movements of many of his friends

as they sat, the change of countenance, the fidget, the hem! of

unquietness, but prevented him even from seeing the expression of the

face on which his own eyes were fixed—from seeing Sir Thomas’s dark

brow contract as he looked with inquiring earnestness at his daughters

and Edmund, dwelling particularly on the latter, and speaking a

language, a remonstrance, a reproof, which _he_ felt at his heart. Not

less acutely was it felt by Fanny, who had edged back her chair behind

her aunt’s end of the sofa, and, screened from notice herself, saw all

that was passing before her. Such a look of reproach at Edmund from his

father she could never have expected to witness; and to feel that it

was in any degree deserved was an aggravation indeed. Sir Thomas’s look

implied, “On your judgment, Edmund, I depended; what have you been

about?” She knelt in spirit to her uncle, and her bosom swelled to

utter, “Oh, not to _him_! Look so to all the others, but not to _him_!”

Mr. Yates was still talking. “To own the truth, Sir Thomas, we were in

the middle of a rehearsal when you arrived this evening. We were going

through the three first acts, and not unsuccessfully upon the whole.

Our company is now so dispersed, from the Crawfords being gone home,

that nothing more can be done to-night; but if you will give us the

honour of your company to-morrow evening, I should not be afraid of the

result. We bespeak your indulgence, you understand, as young

performers; we bespeak your indulgence.”

“My indulgence shall be given, sir,” replied Sir Thomas gravely, “but

without any other rehearsal.” And with a relenting smile, he added, “I

come home to be happy and indulgent.” Then turning away towards any or

all of the rest, he tranquilly said, “Mr. and Miss Crawford were

mentioned in my last letters from Mansfield. Do you find them agreeable

acquaintance?”

Tom was the only one at all ready with an answer, but he being entirely

without particular regard for either, without jealousy either in love

or acting, could speak very handsomely of both. “Mr. Crawford was a

most pleasant, gentleman-like man; his sister a sweet, pretty, elegant,

lively girl.”

Mr. Rushworth could be silent no longer. “I do not say he is not

gentleman-like, considering; but you should tell your father he is not

above five feet eight, or he will be expecting a well-looking man.”

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

at the speaker.

“If I must say what I think,” continued Mr. Rushworth, “in my opinion

it is very disagreeable to be always rehearsing. It is having too much

of a good thing. I am not so fond of acting as I was at first. I think

we are a great deal better employed, sitting comfortably here among

ourselves, and doing nothing.”

Sir Thomas looked again, and then replied with an approving smile, “I

am happy to find our sentiments on this subject so much the same. It

gives me sincere satisfaction. That I should be cautious and

quick-sighted, and feel many scruples which my children do _not_ feel,

is perfectly natural; and equally so that my value for domestic

tranquillity, for a home which shuts out noisy pleasures, should much

exceed theirs. But at your time of life to feel all this, is a most

favourable circumstance for yourself, and for everybody connected with

you; and I am sensible of the importance of having an ally of such

weight.”

Sir Thomas meant to be giving Mr. Rushworth’s opinion in better words

than he could find himself. He was aware that he must not expect a

genius in Mr. Rushworth; but as a well-judging, steady young man, with

better notions than his elocution would do justice to, he intended to

value him very highly. It was impossible for many of the others not to

smile. Mr. Rushworth hardly knew what to do with so much meaning; but

by looking, as he really felt, most exceedingly pleased with Sir

Thomas’s good opinion, and saying scarcely anything, he did his best

towards preserving that good opinion a little longer.

CHAPTER XX

Edmund’s first object the next morning was to see his father alone, and

give him a fair statement of the whole acting scheme, defending his own

share in it as far only as he could then, in a soberer moment, feel his

motives to deserve, and acknowledging, with perfect ingenuousness, that

his concession had been attended with such partial good as to make his

judgment in it very doubtful. He was anxious, while vindicating

himself, to say nothing unkind of the others: but there was only one

amongst them whose conduct he could mention without some necessity of

defence or palliation. “We have all been more or less to blame,” said

he, “every one of us, excepting Fanny. Fanny is the only one who has

judged rightly throughout; who has been consistent. _Her_ feelings have

been steadily against it from first to last. She never ceased to think

of what was due to you. You will find Fanny everything you could wish.”

Sir Thomas saw all the impropriety of such a scheme among such a party,

and at such a time, as strongly as his son had ever supposed he must;

he felt it too much, indeed, for many words; and having shaken hands

with Edmund, meant to try to lose the disagreeable impression, and

forget how much he had been forgotten himself as soon as he could,

after the house had been cleared of every object enforcing the

remembrance, and restored to its proper state. He did not enter into

any remonstrance with his other children: he was more willing to

believe they felt their error than to run the risk of investigation.

The reproof of an immediate conclusion of everything, the sweep of

every preparation, would be sufficient.

There was one person, however, in the house, whom he could not leave to

learn his sentiments merely through his conduct. He could not help

giving Mrs. Norris a hint of his having hoped that her advice might

have been interposed to prevent what her judgment must certainly have

disapproved. The young people had been very inconsiderate in forming

the plan; they ought to have been capable of a better decision

themselves; but they were young; and, excepting Edmund, he believed, of

unsteady characters; and with greater surprise, therefore, he must

regard her acquiescence in their wrong measures, her countenance of

their unsafe amusements, than that such measures and such amusements

should have been suggested. Mrs. Norris was a little confounded and as

nearly being silenced as ever she had been in her life; for she was

ashamed to confess having never seen any of the impropriety which was

so glaring to Sir Thomas, and would not have admitted that her

influence was insufficient—that she might have talked in vain. Her only

resource was to get out of the subject as fast as possible, and turn

the current of Sir Thomas’s ideas into a happier channel. She had a

great deal to insinuate in her own praise as to _general_ attention to

the interest and comfort of his family, much exertion and many

sacrifices to glance at in the form of hurried walks and sudden

removals from her own fireside, and many excellent hints of distrust

and economy to Lady Bertram and Edmund to detail, whereby a most

considerable saving had always arisen, and more than one bad servant

been detected. But her chief strength lay in Sotherton. Her greatest

support and glory was in having formed the connexion with the

Rushworths. _There_ she was impregnable. She took to herself all the

credit of bringing Mr. Rushworth’s admiration of Maria to any effect.

“If I had not been active,” said she, “and made a point of being

introduced to his mother, and then prevailed on my sister to pay the

first visit, I am as certain as I sit here that nothing would have come

of it; for Mr. Rushworth is the sort of amiable modest young man who

wants a great deal of encouragement, and there were girls enough on the

catch for him if we had been idle. But I left no stone unturned. I was

ready to move heaven and earth to persuade my sister, and at last I did

persuade her. You know the distance to Sotherton; it was in the middle

of winter, and the roads almost impassable, but I did persuade her.”

“I know how great, how justly great, your influence is with Lady

Bertram and her children, and am the more concerned that it should not

have been—”

“My dear Sir Thomas, if you had seen the state of the roads _that_ day!

I thought we should never have got through them, though we had the four

horses of course; and poor old coachman would attend us, out of his

great love and kindness, though he was hardly able to sit the box on

account of the rheumatism which I had been doctoring him for ever since

Michaelmas. I cured him at last; but he was very bad all the winter—and

this was such a day, I could not help going to him up in his room

before we set off to advise him not to venture: he was putting on his

wig; so I said, ‘Coachman, you had much better not go; your Lady and I

shall be very safe; you know how steady Stephen is, and Charles has

been upon the leaders so often now, that I am sure there is no fear.’

But, however, I soon found it would not do; he was bent upon going, and

as I hate to be worrying and officious, I said no more; but my heart

quite ached for him at every jolt, and when we got into the rough lanes

about Stoke, where, what with frost and snow upon beds of stones, it

was worse than anything you can imagine, I was quite in an agony about

him. And then the poor horses too! To see them straining away! You know

how I always feel for the horses. And when we got to the bottom of

Sandcroft Hill, what do you think I did? You will laugh at me; but I

got out and walked up. I did indeed. It might not be saving them much,

but it was something, and I could not bear to sit at my ease and be

dragged up at the expense of those noble animals. I caught a dreadful

cold, but _that_ I did not regard. My object was accomplished in the

visit.”

“I hope we shall always think the acquaintance worth any trouble that

might be taken to establish it. There is nothing very striking in Mr.

Rushworth’s manners, but I was pleased last night with what appeared to

be his opinion on one subject: his decided preference of a quiet family

party to the bustle and confusion of acting. He seemed to feel exactly

as one could wish.”

“Yes, indeed, and the more you know of him the better you will like

him. He is not a shining character, but he has a thousand good

qualities; and is so disposed to look up to you, that I am quite

laughed at about it, for everybody considers it as my doing. ‘Upon my

word, Mrs. Norris,’ said Mrs. Grant the other day, ‘if Mr. Rushworth

were a son of your own, he could not hold Sir Thomas in greater

respect.’”

Sir Thomas gave up the point, foiled by her evasions, disarmed by her

flattery; and was obliged to rest satisfied with the conviction that

where the present pleasure of those she loved was at stake, her

kindness did sometimes overpower her judgment.

It was a busy morning with him. Conversation with any of them occupied

but a small part of it. He had to reinstate himself in all the wonted

concerns of his Mansfield life: to see his steward and his bailiff; to

examine and compute, and, in the intervals of business, to walk into

his stables and his gardens, and nearest plantations; but active and

methodical, he had not only done all this before he resumed his seat as

master of the house at dinner, he had also set the carpenter to work in

pulling down what had been so lately put up in the billiard-room, and

given the scene-painter his dismissal long enough to justify the

pleasing belief of his being then at least as far off as Northampton.

The scene-painter was gone, having spoilt only the floor of one room,

ruined all the coachman’s sponges, and made five of the under-servants

idle and dissatisfied; and Sir Thomas was in hopes that another day or

two would suffice to wipe away every outward memento of what had been,

even to the destruction of every unbound copy of Lovers’ Vows in the

house, for he was burning all that met his eye.

Mr. Yates was beginning now to understand Sir Thomas’s intentions,

though as far as ever from understanding their source. He and his

friend had been out with their guns the chief of the morning, and Tom

had taken the opportunity of explaining, with proper apologies for his

father’s particularity, what was to be expected. Mr. Yates felt it as

acutely as might be supposed. To be a second time disappointed in the

same way was an instance of very severe ill-luck; and his indignation

was such, that had it not been for delicacy towards his friend, and his

friend’s youngest sister, he believed he should certainly attack the

baronet on the absurdity of his proceedings, and argue him into a

little more rationality. He believed this very stoutly while he was in

Mansfield Wood, and all the way home; but there was a something in Sir

Thomas, when they sat round the same table, which made Mr. Yates think

it wiser to let him pursue his own way, and feel the folly of it

without opposition. He had known many disagreeable fathers before, and

often been struck with the inconveniences they occasioned, but never,

in the whole course of his life, had he seen one of that class so

unintelligibly moral, so infamously tyrannical as Sir Thomas. He was

not a man to be endured but for his children’s sake, and he might be

thankful to his fair daughter Julia that Mr. Yates did yet mean to stay

a few days longer under his roof.

The evening passed with external smoothness, though almost every mind

was ruffled; and the music which Sir Thomas called for from his

daughters helped to conceal the want of real harmony. Maria was in a

good deal of agitation. It was of the utmost consequence to her that

Crawford should now lose no time in declaring himself, and she was

disturbed that even a day should be gone by without seeming to advance

that point. She had been expecting to see him the whole morning, and

all the evening, too, was still expecting him. Mr. Rushworth had set

off early with the great news for Sotherton; and she had fondly hoped

for such an immediate _eclaircissement_ as might save him the trouble

of ever coming back again. But they had seen no one from the Parsonage,

not a creature, and had heard no tidings beyond a friendly note of

congratulation and inquiry from Mrs. Grant to Lady Bertram. It was the

first day for many, many weeks, in which the families had been wholly

divided. Four-and-twenty hours had never passed before, since August

began, without bringing them together in some way or other. It was a

sad, anxious day; and the morrow, though differing in the sort of evil,

did by no means bring less. A few moments of feverish enjoyment were

followed by hours of acute suffering. Henry Crawford was again in the

house: he walked up with Dr. Grant, who was anxious to pay his respects

to Sir Thomas, and at rather an early hour they were ushered into the

breakfast-room, where were most of the family. Sir Thomas soon

appeared, and Maria saw with delight and agitation the introduction of

the man she loved to her father. Her sensations were indefinable, and

so were they a few minutes afterwards upon hearing Henry Crawford, who

had a chair between herself and Tom, ask the latter in an undervoice

whether there were any plans for resuming the play after the present

happy interruption (with a courteous glance at Sir Thomas), because, in

that case, he should make a point of returning to Mansfield at any time

required by the party: he was going away immediately, being to meet his

uncle at Bath without delay; but if there were any prospect of a

renewal of Lovers’ Vows, he should hold himself positively engaged, he

should break through every other claim, he should absolutely condition

with his uncle for attending them whenever he might be wanted. The play

should not be lost by _his_ absence.

“From Bath, Norfolk, London, York, wherever I may be,” said he; “I will

attend you from any place in England, at an hour’s notice.”

It was well at that moment that Tom had to speak, and not his sister.

He could immediately say with easy fluency, “I am sorry you are going;

but as to our play, _that_ is all over—entirely at an end” (looking

significantly at his father). “The painter was sent off yesterday, and

very little will remain of the theatre to-morrow. I knew how _that_

would be from the first. It is early for Bath. You will find nobody

there.”

“It is about my uncle’s usual time.”

“When do you think of going?”

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

“Whose stables do you use at Bath?” was the next question; and while

this branch of the subject was under discussion, Maria, who wanted

neither pride nor resolution, was preparing to encounter her share of

it with tolerable calmness.

To her he soon turned, repeating much of what he had already said, with

only a softened air and stronger expressions of regret. But what

availed his expressions or his air? He was going, and, if not

voluntarily going, voluntarily intending to stay away; for, excepting

what might be due to his uncle, his engagements were all self-imposed.

He might talk of necessity, but she knew his independence. The hand

which had so pressed hers to his heart! the hand and the heart were

alike motionless and passive now! Her spirit supported her, but the

agony of her mind was severe. She had not long to endure what arose

from listening to language which his actions contradicted, or to bury

the tumult of her feelings under the restraint of society; for general

civilities soon called his notice from her, and the farewell visit, as

it then became openly acknowledged, was a very short one. He was

gone—he had touched her hand for the last time, he had made his parting

bow, and she might seek directly all that solitude could do for her.

Henry Crawford was gone, gone from the house, and within two hours

afterwards from the parish; and so ended all the hopes his selfish

vanity had raised in Maria and Julia Bertram.

Julia could rejoice that he was gone. His presence was beginning to be

odious to her; and if Maria gained him not, she was now cool enough to

dispense with any other revenge. She did not want exposure to be added

to desertion. Henry Crawford gone, she could even pity her sister.

With a purer spirit did Fanny rejoice in the intelligence. She heard it

at dinner, and felt it a blessing. By all the others it was mentioned

with regret; and his merits honoured with due gradation of feeling—from

the sincerity of Edmund’s too partial regard, to the unconcern of his

mother speaking entirely by rote. Mrs. Norris began to look about her,

and wonder that his falling in love with Julia had come to nothing; and

could almost fear that she had been remiss herself in forwarding it;

but with so many to care for, how was it possible for even _her_

activity to keep pace with her wishes?

Another day or two, and Mr. Yates was gone likewise. In _his_ departure

Sir Thomas felt the chief interest: wanting to be alone with his

family, the presence of a stranger superior to Mr. Yates must have been

irksome; but of him, trifling and confident, idle and expensive, it was

every way vexatious. In himself he was wearisome, but as the friend of

Tom and the admirer of Julia he became offensive. Sir Thomas had been

quite indifferent to Mr. Crawford’s going or staying: but his good

wishes for Mr. Yates’s having a pleasant journey, as he walked with him

to the hall-door, were given with genuine satisfaction. Mr. Yates had

staid to see the destruction of every theatrical preparation at

Mansfield, the removal of everything appertaining to the play: he left

the house in all the soberness of its general character; and Sir Thomas

hoped, in seeing him out of it, to be rid of the worst object connected

with the scheme, and the last that must be inevitably reminding him of

its existence.

Mrs. Norris contrived to remove one article from his sight that might

have distressed him. The curtain, over which she had presided with such

talent and such success, went off with her to her cottage, where she

happened to be particularly in want of green baize.

CHAPTER XXI

Sir Thomas’s return made a striking change in the ways of the family,

independent of Lovers’ Vows. Under his government, Mansfield was an

altered place. Some members of their society sent away, and the spirits

of many others saddened—it was all sameness and gloom compared with the

past—a sombre family party rarely enlivened. There was little

intercourse with the Parsonage. Sir Thomas, drawing back from

intimacies in general, was particularly disinclined, at this time, for

any engagements but in one quarter. The Rushworths were the only

addition to his own domestic circle which he could solicit.

Edmund did not wonder that such should be his father’s feelings, nor

could he regret anything but the exclusion of the Grants. “But they,”

he observed to Fanny, “have a claim. They seem to belong to us; they

seem to be part of ourselves. I could wish my father were more sensible

of their very great attention to my mother and sisters while he was

away. I am afraid they may feel themselves neglected. But the truth is,

that my father hardly knows them. They had not been here a twelvemonth

when he left England. If he knew them better, he would value their

society as it deserves; for they are in fact exactly the sort of people

he would like. We are sometimes a little in want of animation among

ourselves: my sisters seem out of spirits, and Tom is certainly not at

his ease. Dr. and Mrs. Grant would enliven us, and make our evenings

pass away with more enjoyment even to my father.”

“Do you think so?” said Fanny: “in my opinion, my uncle would not like

_any_ addition. I think he values the very quietness you speak of, and

that the repose of his own family circle is all he wants. And it does

not appear to me that we are more serious than we used to be—I mean

before my uncle went abroad. As well as I can recollect, it was always

much the same. There was never much laughing in his presence; or, if

there is any difference, it is not more, I think, than such an absence

has a tendency to produce at first. There must be a sort of shyness;

but I cannot recollect that our evenings formerly were ever merry,

except when my uncle was in town. No young people’s are, I suppose,

when those they look up to are at home”.

“I believe you are right, Fanny,” was his reply, after a short

consideration. “I believe our evenings are rather returned to what they

were, than assuming a new character. The novelty was in their being

lively. Yet, how strong the impression that only a few weeks will give!

I have been feeling as if we had never lived so before.”

“I suppose I am graver than other people,” said Fanny. “The evenings do

not appear long to me. I love to hear my uncle talk of the West Indies.

I could listen to him for an hour together. It entertains _me_ more

than many other things have done; but then I am unlike other people, I

dare say.”

“Why should you dare say _that_?” (smiling). “Do you want to be told

that you are only unlike other people in being more wise and discreet?

But when did you, or anybody, ever get a compliment from me, Fanny? Go

to my father if you want to be complimented. He will satisfy you. Ask

your uncle what he thinks, and you will hear compliments enough: and

though they may be chiefly on your person, you must put up with it, and

trust to his seeing as much beauty of mind in time.”

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

“Your uncle thinks you very pretty, dear Fanny—and that is the long and

the short of the matter. Anybody but myself would have made something

more of it, and anybody but you would resent that you had not been

thought very pretty before; but the truth is, that your uncle never did

admire you till now—and now he does. Your complexion is so

improved!—and you have gained so much countenance!—and your figure—nay,

Fanny, do not turn away about it—it is but an uncle. If you cannot bear

an uncle’s admiration, what is to become of you? You must really begin

to harden yourself to the idea of being worth looking at. You must try

not to mind growing up into a pretty woman.”

“Oh! don’t talk so, don’t talk so,” cried Fanny, distressed by more

feelings than he was aware of; but seeing that she was distressed, he

had done with the subject, and only added more seriously—

“Your uncle is disposed to be pleased with you in every respect; and I

only wish you would talk to him more. You are one of those who are too

silent in the evening circle.”

“But I do talk to him more than I used. I am sure I do. Did not you

hear me ask him about the slave-trade last night?”

“I did—and was in hopes the question would be followed up by others. It

would have pleased your uncle to be inquired of farther.”

“And I longed to do it—but there was such a dead silence! And while my

cousins were sitting by without speaking a word, or seeming at all

interested in the subject, I did not like—I thought it would appear as

if I wanted to set myself off at their expense, by shewing a curiosity

and pleasure in his information which he must wish his own daughters to

feel.”

“Miss Crawford was very right in what she said of you the other day:

that you seemed almost as fearful of notice and praise as other women

were of neglect. We were talking of you at the Parsonage, and those

were her words. She has great discernment. I know nobody who

distinguishes characters better. For so young a woman it is remarkable!

She certainly understands _you_ better than you are understood by the

greater part of those who have known you so long; and with regard to

some others, I can perceive, from occasional lively hints, the

unguarded expressions of the moment, that she could define _many_ as

accurately, did not delicacy forbid it. I wonder what she thinks of my

father! She must admire him as a fine-looking man, with most

gentlemanlike, dignified, consistent manners; but perhaps, having seen

him so seldom, his reserve may be a little repulsive. Could they be

much together, I feel sure of their liking each other. He would enjoy

her liveliness and she has talents to value his powers. I wish they met

more frequently! I hope she does not suppose there is any dislike on

his side.”

“She must know herself too secure of the regard of all the rest of

you,” said Fanny, with half a sigh, “to have any such apprehension. And

Sir Thomas’s wishing just at first to be only with his family, is so

very natural, that she can argue nothing from that. After a little

while, I dare say, we shall be meeting again in the same sort of way,

allowing for the difference of the time of year.”

“This is the first October that she has passed in the country since her

infancy. I do not call Tunbridge or Cheltenham the country; and

November is a still more serious month, and I can see that Mrs. Grant

is very anxious for her not finding Mansfield dull as winter comes on.”

Fanny could have said a great deal, but it was safer to say nothing,

and leave untouched all Miss Crawford’s resources—her accomplishments,

her spirits, her importance, her friends, lest it should betray her

into any observations seemingly unhandsome. Miss Crawford’s kind

opinion of herself deserved at least a grateful forbearance, and she

began to talk of something else.

“To-morrow, I think, my uncle dines at Sotherton, and you and Mr.

Bertram too. We shall be quite a small party at home. I hope my uncle

may continue to like Mr. Rushworth.”

“That is impossible, Fanny. He must like him less after to-morrow’s

visit, for we shall be five hours in his company. I should dread the

stupidity of the day, if there were not a much greater evil to

follow—the impression it must leave on Sir Thomas. He cannot much

longer deceive himself. I am sorry for them all, and would give

something that Rushworth and Maria had never met.”

In this quarter, indeed, disappointment was impending over Sir Thomas.

Not all his good-will for Mr. Rushworth, not all Mr. Rushworth’s

deference for him, could prevent him from soon discerning some part of

the truth—that Mr. Rushworth was an inferior young man, as ignorant in

business as in books, with opinions in general unfixed, and without

seeming much aware of it himself.

He had expected a very different son-in-law; and beginning to feel

grave on Maria’s account, tried to understand _her_ feelings. Little

observation there was necessary to tell him that indifference was the

most favourable state they could be in. Her behaviour to Mr. Rushworth

was careless and cold. She could not, did not like him. Sir Thomas

resolved to speak seriously to her. Advantageous as would be the

alliance, and long standing and public as was the engagement, her

happiness must not be sacrificed to it. Mr. Rushworth had, perhaps,

been accepted on too short an acquaintance, and, on knowing him better,

she was repenting.

With solemn kindness Sir Thomas addressed her: told her his fears,

inquired into her wishes, entreated her to be open and sincere, and

assured her that every inconvenience should be braved, and the

connexion entirely given up, if she felt herself unhappy in the

prospect of it. He would act for her and release her. Maria had a

moment’s struggle as she listened, and only a moment’s: when her father

ceased, she was able to give her answer immediately, decidedly, and

with no apparent agitation. She thanked him for his great attention,

his paternal kindness, but he was quite mistaken in supposing she had

the smallest desire of breaking through her engagement, or was sensible

of any change of opinion or inclination since her forming it. She had

the highest esteem for Mr. Rushworth’s character and disposition, and

could not have a doubt of her happiness with him.

Sir Thomas was satisfied; too glad to be satisfied, perhaps, to urge

the matter quite so far as his judgment might have dictated to others.

It was an alliance which he could not have relinquished without pain;

and thus he reasoned. Mr. Rushworth was young enough to improve. Mr.

Rushworth must and would improve in good society; and if Maria could

now speak so securely of her happiness with him, speaking certainly

without the prejudice, the blindness of love, she ought to be believed.

Her feelings, probably, were not acute; he had never supposed them to

be so; but her comforts might not be less on that account; and if she

could dispense with seeing her husband a leading, shining character,

there would certainly be everything else in her favour. A well-disposed

young woman, who did not marry for love, was in general but the more

attached to her own family; and the nearness of Sotherton to Mansfield

must naturally hold out the greatest temptation, and would, in all

probability, be a continual supply of the most amiable and innocent

enjoyments. Such and such-like were the reasonings of Sir Thomas, happy

to escape the embarrassing evils of a rupture, the wonder, the

reflections, the reproach that must attend it; happy to secure a

marriage which would bring him such an addition of respectability and

influence, and very happy to think anything of his daughter’s

disposition that was most favourable for the purpose.

To her the conference closed as satisfactorily as to him. She was in a

state of mind to be glad that she had secured her fate beyond recall:

that she had pledged herself anew to Sotherton; that she was safe from

the possibility of giving Crawford the triumph of governing her

actions, and destroying her prospects; and retired in proud resolve,

determined only to behave more cautiously to Mr. Rushworth in future,

that her father might not be again suspecting her.

Had Sir Thomas applied to his daughter within the first three or four

days after Henry Crawford’s leaving Mansfield, before her feelings were

at all tranquillised, before she had given up every hope of him, or

absolutely resolved on enduring his rival, her answer might have been

different; but after another three or four days, when there was no

return, no letter, no message, no symptom of a softened heart, no hope

of advantage from separation, her mind became cool enough to seek all

the comfort that pride and self revenge could give.

Henry Crawford had destroyed her happiness, but he should not know that

he had done it; he should not destroy her credit, her appearance, her

prosperity, too. He should not have to think of her as pining in the

retirement of Mansfield for _him_, rejecting Sotherton and London,

independence and splendour, for _his_ sake. Independence was more

needful than ever; the want of it at Mansfield more sensibly felt. She

was less and less able to endure the restraint which her father

imposed. The liberty which his absence had given was now become

absolutely necessary. She must escape from him and Mansfield as soon as

possible, and find consolation in fortune and consequence, bustle and

the world, for a wounded spirit. Her mind was quite determined, and

varied not.

To such feelings delay, even the delay of much preparation, would have

been an evil, and Mr. Rushworth could hardly be more impatient for the

marriage than herself. In all the important preparations of the mind

she was complete: being prepared for matrimony by an hatred of home,

restraint, and tranquillity; by the misery of disappointed affection,

and contempt of the man she was to marry. The rest might wait. The

preparations of new carriages and furniture might wait for London and

spring, when her own taste could have fairer play.

The principals being all agreed in this respect, it soon appeared that

a very few weeks would be sufficient for such arrangements as must

precede the wedding.

Mrs. Rushworth was quite ready to retire, and make way for the

fortunate young woman whom her dear son had selected; and very early in

November removed herself, her maid, her footman, and her chariot, with

true dowager propriety, to Bath, there to parade over the wonders of

Sotherton in her evening parties; enjoying them as thoroughly, perhaps,

in the animation of a card-table, as she had ever done on the spot; and

before the middle of the same month the ceremony had taken place which

gave Sotherton another mistress.

It was a very proper wedding. The bride was elegantly dressed; the two

bridesmaids were duly inferior; her father gave her away; her mother

stood with salts in her hand, expecting to be agitated; her aunt tried

to cry; and the service was impressively read by Dr. Grant. Nothing

could be objected to when it came under the discussion of the

neighbourhood, except that the carriage which conveyed the bride and

bridegroom and Julia from the church-door to Sotherton was the same

chaise which Mr. Rushworth had used for a twelvemonth before. In

everything else the etiquette of the day might stand the strictest

investigation.

It was done, and they were gone. Sir Thomas felt as an anxious father

must feel, and was indeed experiencing much of the agitation which his

wife had been apprehensive of for herself, but had fortunately escaped.

Mrs. Norris, most happy to assist in the duties of the day, by spending

it at the Park to support her sister’s spirits, and drinking the health

of Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth in a supernumerary glass or two, was all

joyous delight; for she had made the match; she had done everything;

and no one would have supposed, from her confident triumph, that she

had ever heard of conjugal infelicity in her life, or could have the

smallest insight into the disposition of the niece who had been brought

up under her eye.

The plan of the young couple was to proceed, after a few days, to

Brighton, and take a house there for some weeks. Every public place was

new to Maria, and Brighton is almost as gay in winter as in summer.

When the novelty of amusement there was over, it would be time for the

wider range of London.

Julia was to go with them to Brighton. Since rivalry between the

sisters had ceased, they had been gradually recovering much of their

former good understanding; and were at least sufficiently friends to

make each of them exceedingly glad to be with the other at such a time.

Some other companion than Mr. Rushworth was of the first consequence to

his lady; and Julia was quite as eager for novelty and pleasure as

Maria, though she might not have struggled through so much to obtain

them, and could better bear a subordinate situation.

Their departure made another material change at Mansfield, a chasm

which required some time to fill up. The family circle became greatly

contracted; and though the Miss Bertrams had latterly added little to

its gaiety, they could not but be missed. Even their mother missed

them; and how much more their tenderhearted cousin, who wandered about

the house, and thought of them, and felt for them, with a degree of

affectionate regret which they had never done much to deserve!

CHAPTER XXII

Fanny’s consequence increased on the departure of her cousins.

Becoming, as she then did, the only young woman in the drawing-room,

the only occupier of that interesting division of a family in which she

had hitherto held so humble a third, it was impossible for her not to

be more looked at, more thought of and attended to, than she had ever

been before; and “Where is Fanny?” became no uncommon question, even

without her being wanted for any one’s convenience.

Not only at home did her value increase, but at the Parsonage too. In

that house, which she had hardly entered twice a year since Mr.

Norris’s death, she became a welcome, an invited guest, and in the

gloom and dirt of a November day, most acceptable to Mary Crawford. Her

visits there, beginning by chance, were continued by solicitation. Mrs.

Grant, really eager to get any change for her sister, could, by the

easiest self-deceit, persuade herself that she was doing the kindest

thing by Fanny, and giving her the most important opportunities of

improvement in pressing her frequent calls.

Fanny, having been sent into the village on some errand by her aunt

Norris, was overtaken by a heavy shower close to the Parsonage; and

being descried from one of the windows endeavouring to find shelter

under the branches and lingering leaves of an oak just beyond their

premises, was forced, though not without some modest reluctance on her

part, to come in. A civil servant she had withstood; but when Dr. Grant

himself went out with an umbrella, there was nothing to be done but to

be very much ashamed, and to get into the house as fast as possible;

and to poor Miss Crawford, who had just been contemplating the dismal

rain in a very desponding state of mind, sighing over the ruin of all

her plan of exercise for that morning, and of every chance of seeing a

single creature beyond themselves for the next twenty-four hours, the

sound of a little bustle at the front door, and the sight of Miss Price

dripping with wet in the vestibule, was delightful. The value of an

event on a wet day in the country was most forcibly brought before her.

She was all alive again directly, and among the most active in being

useful to Fanny, in detecting her to be wetter than she would at first

allow, and providing her with dry clothes; and Fanny, after being

obliged to submit to all this attention, and to being assisted and

waited on by mistresses and maids, being also obliged, on returning

downstairs, to be fixed in their drawing-room for an hour while the

rain continued, the blessing of something fresh to see and think of was

thus extended to Miss Crawford, and might carry on her spirits to the

period of dressing and dinner.

The two sisters were so kind to her, and so pleasant, that Fanny might

have enjoyed her visit could she have believed herself not in the way,

and could she have foreseen that the weather would certainly clear at

the end of the hour, and save her from the shame of having Dr. Grant’s

carriage and horses out to take her home, with which she was

threatened. As to anxiety for any alarm that her absence in such

weather might occasion at home, she had nothing to suffer on that

score; for as her being out was known only to her two aunts, she was

perfectly aware that none would be felt, and that in whatever cottage

aunt Norris might chuse to establish her during the rain, her being in

such cottage would be indubitable to aunt Bertram.

It was beginning to look brighter, when Fanny, observing a harp in the

room, asked some questions about it, which soon led to an

acknowledgment of her wishing very much to hear it, and a confession,

which could hardly be believed, of her having never yet heard it since

its being in Mansfield. To Fanny herself it appeared a very simple and

natural circumstance. She had scarcely ever been at the Parsonage since

the instrument’s arrival, there had been no reason that she should; but

Miss Crawford, calling to mind an early expressed wish on the subject,

was concerned at her own neglect; and “Shall I play to you now?” and

“What will you have?” were questions immediately following with the

readiest good-humour.

She played accordingly; happy to have a new listener, and a listener

who seemed so much obliged, so full of wonder at the performance, and

who shewed herself not wanting in taste. She played till Fanny’s eyes,

straying to the window on the weather’s being evidently fair, spoke

what she felt must be done.

“Another quarter of an hour,” said Miss Crawford, “and we shall see how

it will be. Do not run away the first moment of its holding up. Those

clouds look alarming.”

“But they are passed over,” said Fanny. “I have been watching them.

This weather is all from the south.”

“South or north, I know a black cloud when I see it; and you must not

set forward while it is so threatening. And besides, I want to play

something more to you—a very pretty piece—and your cousin Edmund’s

prime favourite. You must stay and hear your cousin’s favourite.”

Fanny felt that she must; and though she had not waited for that

sentence to be thinking of Edmund, such a memento made her particularly

awake to his idea, and she fancied him sitting in that room again and

again, perhaps in the very spot where she sat now, listening with

constant delight to the favourite air, played, as it appeared to her,

with superior tone and expression; and though pleased with it herself,

and glad to like whatever was liked by him, she was more sincerely

impatient to go away at the conclusion of it than she had been before;

and on this being evident, she was so kindly asked to call again, to

take them in her walk whenever she could, to come and hear more of the

harp, that she felt it necessary to be done, if no objection arose at

home.

Such was the origin of the sort of intimacy which took place between

them within the first fortnight after the Miss Bertrams’ going away—an

intimacy resulting principally from Miss Crawford’s desire of something

new, and which had little reality in Fanny’s feelings. Fanny went to

her every two or three days: it seemed a kind of fascination: she could

not be easy without going, and yet it was without loving her, without

ever thinking like her, without any sense of obligation for being

sought after now when nobody else was to be had; and deriving no higher

pleasure from her conversation than occasional amusement, and _that_

often at the expense of her judgment, when it was raised by pleasantry

on people or subjects which she wished to be respected. She went,

however, and they sauntered about together many an half-hour in Mrs.

Grant’s shrubbery, the weather being unusually mild for the time of

year, and venturing sometimes even to sit down on one of the benches

now comparatively unsheltered, remaining there perhaps till, in the

midst of some tender ejaculation of Fanny’s on the sweets of so

protracted an autumn, they were forced, by the sudden swell of a cold

gust shaking down the last few yellow leaves about them, to jump up and

walk for warmth.

“This is pretty, very pretty,” said Fanny, looking around her as they

were thus sitting together one day; “every time I come into this

shrubbery I am more struck with its growth and beauty. Three years ago,

this was nothing but a rough hedgerow along the upper side of the

field, never thought of as anything, or capable of becoming anything;

and now it is converted into a walk, and it would be difficult to say

whether most valuable as a convenience or an ornament; and perhaps, in

another three years, we may be forgetting—almost forgetting what it was

before. How wonderful, how very wonderful the operations of time, and

the changes of the human mind!” And following the latter train of

thought, she soon afterwards added: “If any one faculty of our nature

may be called _more_ wonderful than the rest, I do think it is memory.

There seems something more speakingly incomprehensible in the powers,

the failures, the inequalities of memory, than in any other of our

intelligences. The memory is sometimes so retentive, so serviceable, so

obedient; at others, so bewildered and so weak; and at others again, so

tyrannic, so beyond control! We are, to be sure, a miracle every way;

but our powers of recollecting and of forgetting do seem peculiarly

past finding out.”

Miss Crawford, untouched and inattentive, had nothing to say; and

Fanny, perceiving it, brought back her own mind to what she thought

must interest.

“It may seem impertinent in _me_ to praise, but I must admire the taste

Mrs. Grant has shewn in all this. There is such a quiet simplicity in

the plan of the walk! Not too much attempted!”

“Yes,” replied Miss Crawford carelessly, “it does very well for a place

of this sort. One does not think of extent _here_; and between

ourselves, till I came to Mansfield, I had not imagined a country

parson ever aspired to a shrubbery, or anything of the kind.”

“I am so glad to see the evergreens thrive!” said Fanny, in reply. “My

uncle’s gardener always says the soil here is better than his own, and

so it appears from the growth of the laurels and evergreens in general.

The evergreen! How beautiful, how welcome, how wonderful the evergreen!

When one thinks of it, how astonishing a variety of nature! In some

countries we know the tree that sheds its leaf is the variety, but that

does not make it less amazing that the same soil and the same sun

should nurture plants differing in the first rule and law of their

existence. You will think me rhapsodising; but when I am out of doors,

especially when I am sitting out of doors, I am very apt to get into

this sort of wondering strain. One cannot fix one’s eyes on the

commonest natural production without finding food for a rambling

fancy.”

“To say the truth,” replied Miss Crawford, “I am something like the

famous Doge at the court of Lewis XIV.; and may declare that I see no

wonder in this shrubbery equal to seeing myself in it. If anybody had

told me a year ago that this place would be my home, that I should be

spending month after month here, as I have done, I certainly should not

have believed them. I have now been here nearly five months; and,

moreover, the quietest five months I ever passed.”

“_Too_ quiet for you, I believe.”

“I should have thought so _theoretically_ myself, but,” and her eyes

brightened as she spoke, “take it all and all, I never spent so happy a

summer. But then,” with a more thoughtful air and lowered voice, “there

is no saying what it may lead to.”

Fanny’s heart beat quick, and she felt quite unequal to surmising or

soliciting anything more. Miss Crawford, however, with renewed

animation, soon went on—

“I am conscious of being far better reconciled to a country residence

than I had ever expected to be. I can even suppose it pleasant to spend

_half_ the year in the country, under certain circumstances, very

pleasant. An elegant, moderate-sized house in the centre of family

connexions; continual engagements among them; commanding the first

society in the neighbourhood; looked up to, perhaps, as leading it even

more than those of larger fortune, and turning from the cheerful round

of such amusements to nothing worse than a _tête-à-tête_ with the

person one feels most agreeable in the world. There is nothing

frightful in such a picture, is there, Miss Price? One need not envy

the new Mrs. Rushworth with such a home as _that_.”

“Envy Mrs. Rushworth!” was all that Fanny attempted to say. “Come,

come, it would be very un-handsome in us to be severe on Mrs.

Rushworth, for I look forward to our owing her a great many gay,

brilliant, happy hours. I expect we shall be all very much at Sotherton

another year. Such a match as Miss Bertram has made is a public

blessing; for the first pleasures of Mr. Rushworth’s wife must be to

fill her house, and give the best balls in the country.”

Fanny was silent, and Miss Crawford relapsed into thoughtfulness, till

suddenly looking up at the end of a few minutes, she exclaimed, “Ah!

here he is.” It was not Mr. Rushworth, however, but Edmund, who then

appeared walking towards them with Mrs. Grant. “My sister and Mr.

Bertram. I am so glad your eldest cousin is gone, that he may be Mr.

Bertram again. There is something in the sound of Mr. _Edmund_ Bertram

so formal, so pitiful, so younger-brother-like, that I detest it.”

“How differently we feel!” cried Fanny. “To me, the sound of _Mr._

Bertram is so cold and nothing-meaning, so entirely without warmth or

character! It just stands for a gentleman, and that’s all. But there is

nobleness in the name of Edmund. It is a name of heroism and renown; of

kings, princes, and knights; and seems to breathe the spirit of

chivalry and warm affections.”

“I grant you the name is good in itself, and _Lord_ Edmund or _Sir_

Edmund sound delightfully; but sink it under the chill, the

annihilation of a Mr., and Mr. Edmund is no more than Mr. John or Mr.

Thomas. Well, shall we join and disappoint them of half their lecture

upon sitting down out of doors at this time of year, by being up before

they can begin?”

Edmund met them with particular pleasure. It was the first time of his

seeing them together since the beginning of that better acquaintance

which he had been hearing of with great satisfaction. A friendship

between two so very dear to him was exactly what he could have wished:

and to the credit of the lover’s understanding, be it stated, that he

did not by any means consider Fanny as the only, or even as the greater

gainer by such a friendship.

“Well,” said Miss Crawford, “and do you not scold us for our

imprudence? What do you think we have been sitting down for but to be

talked to about it, and entreated and supplicated never to do so

again?”

“Perhaps I might have scolded,” said Edmund, “if either of you had been

sitting down alone; but while you do wrong together, I can overlook a

great deal.”

“They cannot have been sitting long,” cried Mrs. Grant, “for when I

went up for my shawl I saw them from the staircase window, and then

they were walking.”

“And really,” added Edmund, “the day is so mild, that your sitting down

for a few minutes can be hardly thought imprudent. Our weather must not

always be judged by the calendar. We may sometimes take greater

liberties in November than in May.”

“Upon my word,” cried Miss Crawford, “you are two of the most

disappointing and unfeeling kind friends I ever met with! There is no

giving you a moment’s uneasiness. You do not know how much we have been

suffering, nor what chills we have felt! But I have long thought Mr.

Bertram one of the worst subjects to work on, in any little manoeuvre

against common sense, that a woman could be plagued with. I had very

little hope of _him_ from the first; but you, Mrs. Grant, my sister, my

own sister, I think I had a right to alarm you a little.”

“Do not flatter yourself, my dearest Mary. You have not the smallest

chance of moving me. I have my alarms, but they are quite in a

different quarter; and if I could have altered the weather, you would

have had a good sharp east wind blowing on you the whole time—for here

are some of my plants which Robert _will_ leave out because the nights

are so mild, and I know the end of it will be, that we shall have a

sudden change of weather, a hard frost setting in all at once, taking

everybody (at least Robert) by surprise, and I shall lose every one;

and what is worse, cook has just been telling me that the turkey, which

I particularly wished not to be dressed till Sunday, because I know how

much more Dr. Grant would enjoy it on Sunday after the fatigues of the

day, will not keep beyond to-morrow. These are something like

grievances, and make me think the weather most unseasonably close.”

“The sweets of housekeeping in a country village!” said Miss Crawford

archly. “Commend me to the nurseryman and the poulterer.”

“My dear child, commend Dr. Grant to the deanery of Westminster or St.

Paul’s, and I should be as glad of your nurseryman and poulterer as you

could be. But we have no such people in Mansfield. What would you have

me do?”

“Oh! you can do nothing but what you do already: be plagued very often,

and never lose your temper.”

“Thank you; but there is no escaping these little vexations, Mary, live

where we may; and when you are settled in town and I come to see you, I

dare say I shall find you with yours, in spite of the nurseryman and

the poulterer, perhaps on their very account. Their remoteness and

unpunctuality, or their exorbitant charges and frauds, will be drawing

forth bitter lamentations.”

“I mean to be too rich to lament or to feel anything of the sort. A

large income is the best recipe for happiness I ever heard of. It

certainly may secure all the myrtle and turkey part of it.”

“You intend to be very rich?” said Edmund, with a look which, to

Fanny’s eye, had a great deal of serious meaning.

“To be sure. Do not you? Do not we all?”

“I cannot intend anything which it must be so completely beyond my

power to command. Miss Crawford may chuse her degree of wealth. She has

only to fix on her number of thousands a year, and there can be no

doubt of their coming. My intentions are only not to be poor.”

“By moderation and economy, and bringing down your wants to your

income, and all that. I understand you—and a very proper plan it is for

a person at your time of life, with such limited means and indifferent

connexions. What can _you_ want but a decent maintenance? You have not

much time before you; and your relations are in no situation to do

anything for you, or to mortify you by the contrast of their own wealth

and consequence. Be honest and poor, by all means—but I shall not envy

you; I do not much think I shall even respect you. I have a much

greater respect for those that are honest and rich.”

“Your degree of respect for honesty, rich or poor, is precisely what I

have no manner of concern with. I do not mean to be poor. Poverty is

exactly what I have determined against. Honesty, in the something

between, in the middle state of worldly circumstances, is all that I am

anxious for your not looking down on.”

“But I do look down upon it, if it might have been higher. I must look

down upon anything contented with obscurity when it might rise to

distinction.”

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

distinction?”

This was not so very easy a question to answer, and occasioned an “Oh!”

of some length from the fair lady before she could add, “You ought to

be in parliament, or you should have gone into the army ten years ago.”

“_That_ is not much to the purpose now; and as to my being in

parliament, I believe I must wait till there is an especial assembly

for the representation of younger sons who have little to live on. No,

Miss Crawford,” he added, in a more serious tone, “there _are_

distinctions which I should be miserable if I thought myself without

any chance—absolutely without chance or possibility of obtaining—but

they are of a different character.”

A look of consciousness as he spoke, and what seemed a consciousness of

manner on Miss Crawford’s side as she made some laughing answer, was

sorrowfull food for Fanny’s observation; and finding herself quite

unable to attend as she ought to Mrs. Grant, by whose side she was now

following the others, she had nearly resolved on going home

immediately, and only waited for courage to say so, when the sound of

the great clock at Mansfield Park, striking three, made her feel that

she had really been much longer absent than usual, and brought the

previous self-inquiry of whether she should take leave or not just

then, and how, to a very speedy issue. With undoubting decision she

directly began her adieus; and Edmund began at the same time to

recollect that his mother had been inquiring for her, and that he had

walked down to the Parsonage on purpose to bring her back.

Fanny’s hurry increased; and without in the least expecting Edmund’s

attendance, she would have hastened away alone; but the general pace

was quickened, and they all accompanied her into the house, through

which it was necessary to pass. Dr. Grant was in the vestibule, and as

they stopt to speak to him she found, from Edmund’s manner, that he

_did_ mean to go with her. He too was taking leave. She could not but

be thankful. In the moment of parting, Edmund was invited by Dr. Grant

to eat his mutton with him the next day; and Fanny had barely time for

an unpleasant feeling on the occasion, when Mrs. Grant, with sudden

recollection, turned to her and asked for the pleasure of her company

too. This was so new an attention, so perfectly new a circumstance in

the events of Fanny’s life, that she was all surprise and

embarrassment; and while stammering out her great obligation, and her

“but she did not suppose it would be in her power,” was looking at

Edmund for his opinion and help. But Edmund, delighted with her having

such an happiness offered, and ascertaining with half a look, and half

a sentence, that she had no objection but on her aunt’s account, could

not imagine that his mother would make any difficulty of sparing her,

and therefore gave his decided open advice that the invitation should

be accepted; and though Fanny would not venture, even on his

encouragement, to such a flight of audacious independence, it was soon

settled, that if nothing were heard to the contrary, Mrs. Grant might

expect her.

“And you know what your dinner will be,” said Mrs. Grant, smiling—“the

turkey, and I assure you a very fine one; for, my dear,” turning to her

husband, “cook insists upon the turkey’s being dressed to-morrow.”

“Very well, very well,” cried Dr. Grant, “all the better; I am glad to

hear you have anything so good in the house. But Miss Price and Mr.

Edmund Bertram, I dare say, would take their chance. We none of us want

to hear the bill of fare. A friendly meeting, and not a fine dinner, is

all we have in view. A turkey, or a goose, or a leg of mutton, or

whatever you and your cook chuse to give us.”

The two cousins walked home together; and, except in the immediate

discussion of this engagement, which Edmund spoke of with the warmest

satisfaction, as so particularly desirable for her in the intimacy

which he saw with so much pleasure established, it was a silent walk;

for having finished that subject, he grew thoughtful and indisposed for

any other.

CHAPTER XXIII

“But why should Mrs. Grant ask Fanny?” said Lady Bertram. “How came she

to think of asking Fanny? Fanny never dines there, you know, in this

sort of way. I cannot spare her, and I am sure she does not want to go.

Fanny, you do not want to go, do you?”

“If you put such a question to her,” cried Edmund, preventing his

cousin’s speaking, “Fanny will immediately say No; but I am sure, my

dear mother, she would like to go; and I can see no reason why she

should not.”

“I cannot imagine why Mrs. Grant should think of asking her? She never

did before. She used to ask your sisters now and then, but she never

asked Fanny.”

“If you cannot do without me, ma’am—” said Fanny, in a self-denying

tone.

“But my mother will have my father with her all the evening.”

“To be sure, so I shall.”

“Suppose you take my father’s opinion, ma’am.”

“That’s well thought of. So I will, Edmund. I will ask Sir Thomas, as

soon as he comes in, whether I can do without her.”

“As you please, ma’am, on that head; but I meant my father’s opinion as

to the _propriety_ of the invitation’s being accepted or not; and I

think he will consider it a right thing by Mrs. Grant, as well as by

Fanny, that being the _first_ invitation it should be accepted.”

“I do not know. We will ask him. But he will be very much surprised

that Mrs. Grant should ask Fanny at all.”

There was nothing more to be said, or that could be said to any

purpose, till Sir Thomas were present; but the subject involving, as it

did, her own evening’s comfort for the morrow, was so much uppermost in

Lady Bertram’s mind, that half an hour afterwards, on his looking in

for a minute in his way from his plantation to his dressing-room, she

called him back again, when he had almost closed the door, with “Sir

Thomas, stop a moment—I have something to say to you.”

Her tone of calm languor, for she never took the trouble of raising her

voice, was always heard and attended to; and Sir Thomas came back. Her

story began; and Fanny immediately slipped out of the room; for to hear

herself the subject of any discussion with her uncle was more than her

nerves could bear. She was anxious, she knew—more anxious perhaps than

she ought to be—for what was it after all whether she went or staid?

but if her uncle were to be a great while considering and deciding, and

with very grave looks, and those grave looks directed to her, and at

last decide against her, she might not be able to appear properly

submissive and indifferent. Her cause, meanwhile, went on well. It

began, on Lady Bertram’s part, with—“I have something to tell you that

will surprise you. Mrs. Grant has asked Fanny to dinner.”

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

“Edmund wants her to go. But how can I spare her?”

“She will be late,” said Sir Thomas, taking out his watch; “but what is

your difficulty?”

Edmund found himself obliged to speak and fill up the blanks in his

mother’s story. He told the whole; and she had only to add, “So

strange! for Mrs. Grant never used to ask her.”

“But is it not very natural,” observed Edmund, “that Mrs. Grant should

wish to procure so agreeable a visitor for her sister?”

“Nothing can be more natural,” said Sir Thomas, after a short

deliberation; “nor, were there no sister in the case, could anything,

in my opinion, be more natural. Mrs. Grant’s shewing civility to Miss

Price, to Lady Bertram’s niece, could never want explanation. The only

surprise I can feel is, that this should be the _first_ time of its

being paid. Fanny was perfectly right in giving only a conditional

answer. She appears to feel as she ought. But as I conclude that she

must wish to go, since all young people like to be together, I can see

no reason why she should be denied the indulgence.”

“But can I do without her, Sir Thomas?”

“Indeed I think you may.”

“She always makes tea, you know, when my sister is not here.”

“Your sister, perhaps, may be prevailed on to spend the day with us,

and I shall certainly be at home.”

“Very well, then, Fanny may go, Edmund.”

The good news soon followed her. Edmund knocked at her door in his way

to his own.

“Well, Fanny, it is all happily settled, and without the smallest

hesitation on your uncle’s side. He had but one opinion. You are to

go.”

“Thank you, I am _so_ glad,” was Fanny’s instinctive reply; though when

she had turned from him and shut the door, she could not help feeling,

“And yet why should I be glad? for am I not certain of seeing or

hearing something there to pain me?”

In spite of this conviction, however, she was glad. Simple as such an

engagement might appear in other eyes, it had novelty and importance in

hers, for excepting the day at Sotherton, she had scarcely ever dined

out before; and though now going only half a mile, and only to three

people, still it was dining out, and all the little interests of

preparation were enjoyments in themselves. She had neither sympathy nor

assistance from those who ought to have entered into her feelings and

directed her taste; for Lady Bertram never thought of being useful to

anybody, and Mrs. Norris, when she came on the morrow, in consequence

of an early call and invitation from Sir Thomas, was in a very ill

humour, and seemed intent only on lessening her niece’s pleasure, both

present and future, as much as possible.

“Upon my word, Fanny, you are in high luck to meet with such attention

and indulgence! You ought to be very much obliged to Mrs. Grant for

thinking of you, and to your aunt for letting you go, and you ought to

look upon it as something extraordinary; for I hope you are aware that

there is no real occasion for your going into company in this sort of

way, or ever dining out at all; and it is what you must not depend upon

ever being repeated. Nor must you be fancying that the invitation is

meant as any particular compliment to _you_; the compliment is intended

to your uncle and aunt and me. Mrs. Grant thinks it a civility due to

_us_ to take a little notice of you, or else it would never have come

into her head, and you may be very certain that, if your cousin Julia

had been at home, you would not have been asked at all.”

Mrs. Norris had now so ingeniously done away all Mrs. Grant’s part of

the favour, that Fanny, who found herself expected to speak, could only

say that she was very much obliged to her aunt Bertram for sparing her,

and that she was endeavouring to put her aunt’s evening work in such a

state as to prevent her being missed.

“Oh! depend upon it, your aunt can do very well without you, or you

would not be allowed to go. _I_ shall be here, so you may be quite easy

about your aunt. And I hope you will have a very _agreeable_ day, and

find it all mighty _delightful_. But I must observe that five is the

very awkwardest of all possible numbers to sit down to table; and I

cannot but be surprised that such an _elegant_ lady as Mrs. Grant

should not contrive better! And round their enormous great wide table,

too, which fills up the room so dreadfully! Had the doctor been

contented to take my dining-table when I came away, as anybody in their

senses would have done, instead of having that absurd new one of his

own, which is wider, literally wider than the dinner-table here, how

infinitely better it would have been! and how much more he would have

been respected! for people are never respected when they step out of

their proper sphere. Remember that, Fanny. Five—only five to be sitting

round that table. However, you will have dinner enough on it for ten, I

dare say.”

Mrs. Norris fetched breath, and went on again.

“The nonsense and folly of people’s stepping out of their rank and

trying to appear above themselves, makes me think it right to give

_you_ a hint, Fanny, now that you are going into company without any of

us; and I do beseech and entreat you not to be putting yourself

forward, and talking and giving your opinion as if you were one of your

cousins—as if you were dear Mrs. Rushworth or Julia. _That_ will never

do, believe me. Remember, wherever you are, you must be the lowest and

last; and though Miss Crawford is in a manner at home at the Parsonage,

you are not to be taking place of her. And as to coming away at night,

you are to stay just as long as Edmund chuses. Leave him to settle

_that_.”

“Yes, ma’am, I should not think of anything else.”

“And if it should rain, which I think exceedingly likely, for I never

saw it more threatening for a wet evening in my life, you must manage

as well as you can, and not be expecting the carriage to be sent for

you. I certainly do not go home to-night, and, therefore, the carriage

will not be out on my account; so you must make up your mind to what

may happen, and take your things accordingly.”

Her niece thought it perfectly reasonable. She rated her own claims to

comfort as low even as Mrs. Norris could; and when Sir Thomas soon

afterwards, just opening the door, said, “Fanny, at what time would you

have the carriage come round?” she felt a degree of astonishment which

made it impossible for her to speak.

“My dear Sir Thomas!” cried Mrs. Norris, red with anger, “Fanny can

walk.”

“Walk!” repeated Sir Thomas, in a tone of most unanswerable dignity,

and coming farther into the room. “My niece walk to a dinner engagement

at this time of the year! Will twenty minutes after four suit you?”

“Yes, sir,” was Fanny’s humble answer, given with the feelings almost

of a criminal towards Mrs. Norris; and not bearing to remain with her

in what might seem a state of triumph, she followed her uncle out of

the room, having staid behind him only long enough to hear these words

spoken in angry agitation—

“Quite unnecessary! a great deal too kind! But Edmund goes; true, it is

upon Edmund’s account. I observed he was hoarse on Thursday night.”

But this could not impose on Fanny. She felt that the carriage was for

herself, and herself alone: and her uncle’s consideration of her,

coming immediately after such representations from her aunt, cost her

some tears of gratitude when she was alone.

The coachman drove round to a minute; another minute brought down the

gentleman; and as the lady had, with a most scrupulous fear of being

late, been many minutes seated in the drawing-room, Sir Thomas saw them

off in as good time as his own correctly punctual habits required.

“Now I must look at you, Fanny,” said Edmund, with the kind smile of an

affectionate brother, “and tell you how I like you; and as well as I

can judge by this light, you look very nicely indeed. What have you got

on?”

“The new dress that my uncle was so good as to give me on my cousin’s

marriage. I hope it is not too fine; but I thought I ought to wear it

as soon as I could, and that I might not have such another opportunity

all the winter. I hope you do not think me too fine.”

“A woman can never be too fine while she is all in white. No, I see no

finery about you; nothing but what is perfectly proper. Your gown seems

very pretty. I like these glossy spots. Has not Miss Crawford a gown

something the same?”

In approaching the Parsonage they passed close by the stable-yard and

coach-house.

“Heyday!” said Edmund, “here’s company, here’s a carriage! who have

they got to meet us?” And letting down the side-glass to distinguish,

“’Tis Crawford’s, Crawford’s barouche, I protest! There are his own two

men pushing it back into its old quarters. He is here, of course. This

is quite a surprise, Fanny. I shall be very glad to see him.”

There was no occasion, there was no time for Fanny to say how very

differently she felt; but the idea of having such another to observe

her was a great increase of the trepidation with which she performed

the very awful ceremony of walking into the drawing-room.

In the drawing-room Mr. Crawford certainly was, having been just long

enough arrived to be ready for dinner; and the smiles and pleased looks

of the three others standing round him, shewed how welcome was his

sudden resolution of coming to them for a few days on leaving Bath. A

very cordial meeting passed between him and Edmund; and with the

exception of Fanny, the pleasure was general; and even to _her_ there

might be some advantage in his presence, since every addition to the

party must rather forward her favourite indulgence of being suffered to

sit silent and unattended to. She was soon aware of this herself; for

though she must submit, as her own propriety of mind directed, in spite

of her aunt Norris’s opinion, to being the principal lady in company,

and to all the little distinctions consequent thereon, she found, while

they were at table, such a happy flow of conversation prevailing, in

which she was not required to take any part—there was so much to be

said between the brother and sister about Bath, so much between the two

young men about hunting, so much of politics between Mr. Crawford and

Dr. Grant, and of everything and all together between Mr. Crawford and

Mrs. Grant, as to leave her the fairest prospect of having only to

listen in quiet, and of passing a very agreeable day. She could not

compliment the newly arrived gentleman, however, with any appearance of

interest, in a scheme for extending his stay at Mansfield, and sending

for his hunters from Norfolk, which, suggested by Dr. Grant, advised by

Edmund, and warmly urged by the two sisters, was soon in possession of

his mind, and which he seemed to want to be encouraged even by her to

resolve on. Her opinion was sought as to the probable continuance of

the open weather, but her answers were as short and indifferent as

civility allowed. She could not wish him to stay, and would much rather

not have him speak to her.

Her two absent cousins, especially Maria, were much in her thoughts on

seeing him; but no embarrassing remembrance affected _his_ spirits.

Here he was again on the same ground where all had passed before, and

apparently as willing to stay and be happy without the Miss Bertrams,

as if he had never known Mansfield in any other state. She heard them

spoken of by him only in a general way, till they were all re-assembled

in the drawing-room, when Edmund, being engaged apart in some matter of

business with Dr. Grant, which seemed entirely to engross them, and

Mrs. Grant occupied at the tea-table, he began talking of them with

more particularity to his other sister. With a significant smile, which

made Fanny quite hate him, he said, “So! Rushworth and his fair bride

are at Brighton, I understand; happy man!”

“Yes, they have been there about a fortnight, Miss Price, have they

not? And Julia is with them.”

“And Mr. Yates, I presume, is not far off.”

“Mr. Yates! Oh! we hear nothing of Mr. Yates. I do not imagine he

figures much in the letters to Mansfield Park; do you, Miss Price? I

think my friend Julia knows better than to entertain her father with

Mr. Yates.”

“Poor Rushworth and his two-and-forty speeches!” continued Crawford.

“Nobody can ever forget them. Poor fellow! I see him now—his toil and

his despair. Well, I am much mistaken if his lovely Maria will ever

want him to make two-and-forty speeches to her”; adding, with a

momentary seriousness, “She is too good for him—much too good.” And

then changing his tone again to one of gentle gallantry, and addressing

Fanny, he said, “You were Mr. Rushworth’s best friend. Your kindness

and patience can never be forgotten, your indefatigable patience in

trying to make it possible for him to learn his part—in trying to give

him a brain which nature had denied—to mix up an understanding for him

out of the superfluity of your own! _He_ might not have sense enough

himself to estimate your kindness, but I may venture to say that it had

honour from all the rest of the party.”

Fanny coloured, and said nothing.

“It is as a dream, a pleasant dream!” he exclaimed, breaking forth

again, after a few minutes’ musing. “I shall always look back on our

theatricals with exquisite pleasure. There was such an interest, such

an animation, such a spirit diffused. Everybody felt it. We were all

alive. There was employment, hope, solicitude, bustle, for every hour

of the day. Always some little objection, some little doubt, some

little anxiety to be got over. I never was happier.”

With silent indignation Fanny repeated to herself, “Never

happier!—never happier than when doing what you must know was not

justifiable!—never happier than when behaving so dishonourably and

unfeelingly! Oh! what a corrupted mind!”

“We were unlucky, Miss Price,” he continued, in a lower tone, to avoid

the possibility of being heard by Edmund, and not at all aware of her

feelings, “we certainly were very unlucky. Another week, only one other

week, would have been enough for us. I think if we had had the disposal

of events—if Mansfield Park had had the government of the winds just

for a week or two, about the equinox, there would have been a

difference. Not that we would have endangered his safety by any

tremendous weather—but only by a steady contrary wind, or a calm. I

think, Miss Price, we would have indulged ourselves with a week’s calm

in the Atlantic at that season.”

He seemed determined to be answered; and Fanny, averting her face,

said, with a firmer tone than usual, “As far as _I_ am concerned, sir,

I would not have delayed his return for a day. My uncle disapproved it

all so entirely when he did arrive, that in my opinion everything had

gone quite far enough.”

She had never spoken so much at once to him in her life before, and

never so angrily to any one; and when her speech was over, she trembled

and blushed at her own daring. He was surprised; but after a few

moments’ silent consideration of her, replied in a calmer, graver tone,

and as if the candid result of conviction, “I believe you are right. It

was more pleasant than prudent. We were getting too noisy.” And then

turning the conversation, he would have engaged her on some other

subject, but her answers were so shy and reluctant that he could not

advance in any.

Miss Crawford, who had been repeatedly eyeing Dr. Grant and Edmund, now

observed, “Those gentlemen must have some very interesting point to

discuss.”

“The most interesting in the world,” replied her brother—“how to make

money; how to turn a good income into a better. Dr. Grant is giving

Bertram instructions about the living he is to step into so soon. I

find he takes orders in a few weeks. They were at it in the

dining-parlour. I am glad to hear Bertram will be so well off. He will

have a very pretty income to make ducks and drakes with, and earned

without much trouble. I apprehend he will not have less than seven

hundred a year. Seven hundred a year is a fine thing for a younger

brother; and as of course he will still live at home, it will be all

for his _menus_ _plaisirs_; and a sermon at Christmas and Easter, I

suppose, will be the sum total of sacrifice.”

His sister tried to laugh off her feelings by saying, “Nothing amuses

me more than the easy manner with which everybody settles the abundance

of those who have a great deal less than themselves. You would look

rather blank, Henry, if your _menus_ _plaisirs_ were to be limited to

seven hundred a year.”

“Perhaps I might; but all _that_ you know is entirely comparative.

Birthright and habit must settle the business. Bertram is certainly

well off for a cadet of even a baronet’s family. By the time he is four

or five and twenty he will have seven hundred a year, and nothing to do

for it.”

Miss Crawford _could_ have said that there would be a something to do

and to suffer for it, which she could not think lightly of; but she

checked herself and let it pass; and tried to look calm and unconcerned

when the two gentlemen shortly afterwards joined them.

“Bertram,” said Henry Crawford, “I shall make a point of coming to

Mansfield to hear you preach your first sermon. I shall come on purpose

to encourage a young beginner. When is it to be? Miss Price, will not

you join me in encouraging your cousin? Will not you engage to attend

with your eyes steadily fixed on him the whole time—as I shall do—not

to lose a word; or only looking off just to note down any sentence

preeminently beautiful? We will provide ourselves with tablets and a

pencil. When will it be? You must preach at Mansfield, you know, that

Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram may hear you.”

“I shall keep clear of you, Crawford, as long as I can,” said Edmund;

“for you would be more likely to disconcert me, and I should be more

sorry to see you trying at it than almost any other man.”

“Will he not feel this?” thought Fanny. “No, he can feel nothing as he

ought.”

The party being now all united, and the chief talkers attracting each

other, she remained in tranquillity; and as a whist-table was formed

after tea—formed really for the amusement of Dr. Grant, by his

attentive wife, though it was not to be supposed so—and Miss Crawford

took her harp, she had nothing to do but to listen; and her

tranquillity remained undisturbed the rest of the evening, except when

Mr. Crawford now and then addressed to her a question or observation,

which she could not avoid answering. Miss Crawford was too much vexed

by what had passed to be in a humour for anything but music. With that

she soothed herself and amused her friend.

The assurance of Edmund’s being so soon to take orders, coming upon her

like a blow that had been suspended, and still hoped uncertain and at a

distance, was felt with resentment and mortification. She was very

angry with him. She had thought her influence more. She _had_ begun to

think of him; she felt that she had, with great regard, with almost

decided intentions; but she would now meet him with his own cool

feelings. It was plain that he could have no serious views, no true

attachment, by fixing himself in a situation which he must know she

would never stoop to. She would learn to match him in his indifference.

She would henceforth admit his attentions without any idea beyond

immediate amusement. If _he_ could so command his affections, _hers_

should do her no harm.

CHAPTER XXIV

Henry Crawford had quite made up his mind by the next morning to give

another fortnight to Mansfield, and having sent for his hunters, and

written a few lines of explanation to the Admiral, he looked round at

his sister as he sealed and threw the letter from him, and seeing the

coast clear of the rest of the family, said, with a smile, “And how do

you think I mean to amuse myself, Mary, on the days that I do not hunt?

I am grown too old to go out more than three times a week; but I have a

plan for the intermediate days, and what do you think it is?”

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

“Not exactly, though I shall be happy to do both, but _that_ would be

exercise only to my body, and I must take care of my mind. Besides,

_that_ would be all recreation and indulgence, without the wholesome

alloy of labour, and I do not like to eat the bread of idleness. No, my

plan is to make Fanny Price in love with me.”

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

cousins.”

“But I cannot be satisfied without Fanny Price, without making a small

hole in Fanny Price’s heart. You do not seem properly aware of her

claims to notice. When we talked of her last night, you none of you

seemed sensible of the wonderful improvement that has taken place in

her looks within the last six weeks. You see her every day, and

therefore do not notice it; but I assure you she is quite a different

creature from what she was in the autumn. She was then merely a quiet,

modest, not plain-looking girl, but she is now absolutely pretty. I

used to think she had neither complexion nor countenance; but in that

soft skin of hers, so frequently tinged with a blush as it was

yesterday, there is decided beauty; and from what I observed of her

eyes and mouth, I do not despair of their being capable of expression

enough when she has anything to express. And then, her air, her manner,

her _tout_ _ensemble_, is so indescribably improved! She must be grown

two inches, at least, since October.”

“Phoo! phoo! This is only because there were no tall women to compare

her with, and because she has got a new gown, and you never saw her so

well dressed before. She is just what she was in October, believe me.

The truth is, that she was the only girl in company for you to notice,

and you must have a somebody. I have always thought her pretty—not

strikingly pretty—but ‘pretty enough,’ as people say; a sort of beauty

that grows on one. Her eyes should be darker, but she has a sweet

smile; but as for this wonderful degree of improvement, I am sure it

may all be resolved into a better style of dress, and your having

nobody else to look at; and therefore, if you do set about a flirtation

with her, you never will persuade me that it is in compliment to her

beauty, or that it proceeds from anything but your own idleness and

folly.”

Her brother gave only a smile to this accusation, and soon afterwards

said, “I do not quite know what to make of Miss Fanny. I do not

understand her. I could not tell what she would be at yesterday. What

is her character? Is she solemn? Is she queer? Is she prudish? Why did

she draw back and look so grave at me? I could hardly get her to speak.

I never was so long in company with a girl in my life, trying to

entertain her, and succeed so ill! Never met with a girl who looked so

grave on me! I must try to get the better of this. Her looks say, ‘I

will not like you, I am determined not to like you’; and I say she

shall.”

“Foolish fellow! And so this is her attraction after all! This it is,

her not caring about you, which gives her such a soft skin, and makes

her so much taller, and produces all these charms and graces! I do

desire that you will not be making her really unhappy; a _little_ love,

perhaps, may animate and do her good, but I will not have you plunge

her deep, for she is as good a little creature as ever lived, and has a

great deal of feeling.”

“It can be but for a fortnight,” said Henry; “and if a fortnight can

kill her, she must have a constitution which nothing could save. No, I

will not do her any harm, dear little soul! I only want her to look

kindly on me, to give me smiles as well as blushes, to keep a chair for

me by herself wherever we are, and be all animation when I take it and

talk to her; to think as I think, be interested in all my possessions

and pleasures, try to keep me longer at Mansfield, and feel when I go

away that she shall be never happy again. I want nothing more.”

“Moderation itself!” said Mary. “I can have no scruples now. Well, you

will have opportunities enough of endeavouring to recommend yourself,

for we are a great deal together.”

And without attempting any farther remonstrance, she left Fanny to her

fate, a fate which, had not Fanny’s heart been guarded in a way

unsuspected by Miss Crawford, might have been a little harder than she

deserved; for although there doubtless are such unconquerable young

ladies of eighteen (or one should not read about them) as are never to

be persuaded into love against their judgment by all that talent,

manner, attention, and flattery can do, I have no inclination to

believe Fanny one of them, or to think that with so much tenderness of

disposition, and so much taste as belonged to her, she could have

escaped heart-whole from the courtship (though the courtship only of a

fortnight) of such a man as Crawford, in spite of there being some

previous ill opinion of him to be overcome, had not her affection been

engaged elsewhere. With all the security which love of another and

disesteem of him could give to the peace of mind he was attacking, his

continued attentions—continued, but not obtrusive, and adapting

themselves more and more to the gentleness and delicacy of her

character—obliged her very soon to dislike him less than formerly. She

had by no means forgotten the past, and she thought as ill of him as

ever; but she felt his powers: he was entertaining; and his manners

were so improved, so polite, so seriously and blamelessly polite, that

it was impossible not to be civil to him in return.

A very few days were enough to effect this; and at the end of those few

days, circumstances arose which had a tendency rather to forward his

views of pleasing her, inasmuch as they gave her a degree of happiness

which must dispose her to be pleased with everybody. William, her

brother, the so long absent and dearly loved brother, was in England

again. She had a letter from him herself, a few hurried happy lines,

written as the ship came up Channel, and sent into Portsmouth with the

first boat that left the Antwerp at anchor in Spithead; and when

Crawford walked up with the newspaper in his hand, which he had hoped

would bring the first tidings, he found her trembling with joy over

this letter, and listening with a glowing, grateful countenance to the

kind invitation which her uncle was most collectedly dictating in

reply.

It was but the day before that Crawford had made himself thoroughly

master of the subject, or had in fact become at all aware of her having

such a brother, or his being in such a ship, but the interest then

excited had been very properly lively, determining him on his return to

town to apply for information as to the probable period of the

Antwerp’s return from the Mediterranean, etc.; and the good luck which

attended his early examination of ship news the next morning seemed the

reward of his ingenuity in finding out such a method of pleasing her,

as well as of his dutiful attention to the Admiral, in having for many

years taken in the paper esteemed to have the earliest naval

intelligence. He proved, however, to be too late. All those fine first

feelings, of which he had hoped to be the exciter, were already given.

But his intention, the kindness of his intention, was thankfully

acknowledged: quite thankfully and warmly, for she was elevated beyond

the common timidity of her mind by the flow of her love for William.

This dear William would soon be amongst them. There could be no doubt

of his obtaining leave of absence immediately, for he was still only a

midshipman; and as his parents, from living on the spot, must already

have seen him, and be seeing him perhaps daily, his direct holidays

might with justice be instantly given to the sister, who had been his

best correspondent through a period of seven years, and the uncle who

had done most for his support and advancement; and accordingly the

reply to her reply, fixing a very early day for his arrival, came as

soon as possible; and scarcely ten days had passed since Fanny had been

in the agitation of her first dinner-visit, when she found herself in

an agitation of a higher nature, watching in the hall, in the lobby, on

the stairs, for the first sound of the carriage which was to bring her

a brother.

It came happily while she was thus waiting; and there being neither

ceremony nor fearfulness to delay the moment of meeting, she was with

him as he entered the house, and the first minutes of exquisite feeling

had no interruption and no witnesses, unless the servants chiefly

intent upon opening the proper doors could be called such. This was

exactly what Sir Thomas and Edmund had been separately conniving at, as

each proved to the other by the sympathetic alacrity with which they

both advised Mrs. Norris’s continuing where she was, instead of rushing

out into the hall as soon as the noises of the arrival reached them.

William and Fanny soon shewed themselves; and Sir Thomas had the

pleasure of receiving, in his protégé, certainly a very different

person from the one he had equipped seven years ago, but a young man of

an open, pleasant countenance, and frank, unstudied, but feeling and

respectful manners, and such as confirmed him his friend.

It was long before Fanny could recover from the agitating happiness of

such an hour as was formed by the last thirty minutes of expectation,

and the first of fruition; it was some time even before her happiness

could be said to make her happy, before the disappointment inseparable

from the alteration of person had vanished, and she could see in him

the same William as before, and talk to him, as her heart had been

yearning to do through many a past year. That time, however, did

gradually come, forwarded by an affection on his side as warm as her

own, and much less encumbered by refinement or self-distrust. She was

the first object of his love, but it was a love which his stronger

spirits, and bolder temper, made it as natural for him to express as to

feel. On the morrow they were walking about together with true

enjoyment, and every succeeding morrow renewed a _tête-à-tête_ which

Sir Thomas could not but observe with complacency, even before Edmund

had pointed it out to him.

Excepting the moments of peculiar delight, which any marked or

unlooked-for instance of Edmund’s consideration of her in the last few

months had excited, Fanny had never known so much felicity in her life,

as in this unchecked, equal, fearless intercourse with the brother and

friend who was opening all his heart to her, telling her all his hopes

and fears, plans, and solicitudes respecting that long thought of,

dearly earned, and justly valued blessing of promotion; who could give

her direct and minute information of the father and mother, brothers

and sisters, of whom she very seldom heard; who was interested in all

the comforts and all the little hardships of her home at Mansfield;

ready to think of every member of that home as she directed, or

differing only by a less scrupulous opinion, and more noisy abuse of

their aunt Norris, and with whom (perhaps the dearest indulgence of the

whole) all the evil and good of their earliest years could be gone over

again, and every former united pain and pleasure retraced with the

fondest recollection. An advantage this, a strengthener of love, in

which even the conjugal tie is beneath the fraternal. Children of the

same family, the same blood, with the same first associations and

habits, have some means of enjoyment in their power, which no

subsequent connexions can supply; and it must be by a long and

unnatural estrangement, by a divorce which no subsequent connexion can

justify, if such precious remains of the earliest attachments are ever

entirely outlived. Too often, alas! it is so. Fraternal love, sometimes

almost everything, is at others worse than nothing. But with William

and Fanny Price it was still a sentiment in all its prime and

freshness, wounded by no opposition of interest, cooled by no separate

attachment, and feeling the influence of time and absence only in its

increase.

An affection so amiable was advancing each in the opinion of all who

had hearts to value anything good. Henry Crawford was as much struck

with it as any. He honoured the warm-hearted, blunt fondness of the

young sailor, which led him to say, with his hands stretched towards

Fanny’s head, “Do you know, I begin to like that queer fashion already,

though when I first heard of such things being done in England, I could

not believe it; and when Mrs. Brown, and the other women at the

Commissioner’s at Gibraltar, appeared in the same trim, I thought they

were mad; but Fanny can reconcile me to anything”; and saw, with lively

admiration, the glow of Fanny’s cheek, the brightness of her eye, the

deep interest, the absorbed attention, while her brother was describing

any of the imminent hazards, or terrific scenes, which such a period at

sea must supply.

It was a picture which Henry Crawford had moral taste enough to value.

Fanny’s attractions increased—increased twofold; for the sensibility

which beautified her complexion and illumined her countenance was an

attraction in itself. He was no longer in doubt of the capabilities of

her heart. She had feeling, genuine feeling. It would be something to

be loved by such a girl, to excite the first ardours of her young

unsophisticated mind! She interested him more than he had foreseen. A

fortnight was not enough. His stay became indefinite.

William was often called on by his uncle to be the talker. His recitals

were amusing in themselves to Sir Thomas, but the chief object in

seeking them was to understand the reciter, to know the young man by

his histories; and he listened to his clear, simple, spirited details

with full satisfaction, seeing in them the proof of good principles,

professional knowledge, energy, courage, and cheerfulness, everything

that could deserve or promise well. Young as he was, William had

already seen a great deal. He had been in the Mediterranean; in the

West Indies; in the Mediterranean again; had been often taken on shore

by the favour of his captain, and in the course of seven years had

known every variety of danger which sea and war together could offer.

With such means in his power he had a right to be listened to; and

though Mrs. Norris could fidget about the room, and disturb everybody

in quest of two needlefuls of thread or a second-hand shirt button, in

the midst of her nephew’s account of a shipwreck or an engagement,

everybody else was attentive; and even Lady Bertram could not hear of

such horrors unmoved, or without sometimes lifting her eyes from her

work to say, “Dear me! how disagreeable! I wonder anybody can ever go

to sea.”

To Henry Crawford they gave a different feeling. He longed to have been

at sea, and seen and done and suffered as much. His heart was warmed,

his fancy fired, and he felt the highest respect for a lad who, before

he was twenty, had gone through such bodily hardships and given such

proofs of mind. The glory of heroism, of usefulness, of exertion, of

endurance, made his own habits of selfish indulgence appear in shameful

contrast; and he wished he had been a William Price, distinguishing

himself and working his way to fortune and consequence with so much

self-respect and happy ardour, instead of what he was!

The wish was rather eager than lasting. He was roused from the reverie

of retrospection and regret produced by it, by some inquiry from Edmund

as to his plans for the next day’s hunting; and he found it was as well

to be a man of fortune at once with horses and grooms at his command.

In one respect it was better, as it gave him the means of conferring a

kindness where he wished to oblige. With spirits, courage, and

curiosity up to anything, William expressed an inclination to hunt; and

Crawford could mount him without the slightest inconvenience to

himself, and with only some scruples to obviate in Sir Thomas, who knew

better than his nephew the value of such a loan, and some alarms to

reason away in Fanny. She feared for William; by no means convinced by

all that he could relate of his own horsemanship in various countries,

of the scrambling parties in which he had been engaged, the rough

horses and mules he had ridden, or his many narrow escapes from

dreadful falls, that he was at all equal to the management of a

high-fed hunter in an English fox-chase; nor till he returned safe and

well, without accident or discredit, could she be reconciled to the

risk, or feel any of that obligation to Mr. Crawford for lending the

horse which he had fully intended it should produce. When it was

proved, however, to have done William no harm, she could allow it to be

a kindness, and even reward the owner with a smile when the animal was

one minute tendered to his use again; and the next, with the greatest

cordiality, and in a manner not to be resisted, made over to his use

entirely so long as he remained in Northamptonshire.

CHAPTER XXV

The intercourse of the two families was at this period more nearly

restored to what it had been in the autumn, than any member of the old

intimacy had thought ever likely to be again. The return of Henry

Crawford, and the arrival of William Price, had much to do with it, but

much was still owing to Sir Thomas’s more than toleration of the

neighbourly attempts at the Parsonage. His mind, now disengaged from

the cares which had pressed on him at first, was at leisure to find the

Grants and their young inmates really worth visiting; and though

infinitely above scheming or contriving for any the most advantageous

matrimonial establishment that could be among the apparent

possibilities of any one most dear to him, and disdaining even as a

littleness the being quick-sighted on such points, he could not avoid

perceiving, in a grand and careless way, that Mr. Crawford was somewhat

distinguishing his niece—nor perhaps refrain (though unconsciously)

from giving a more willing assent to invitations on that account.

His readiness, however, in agreeing to dine at the Parsonage, when the

general invitation was at last hazarded, after many debates and many

doubts as to whether it were worth while, “because Sir Thomas seemed so

ill inclined, and Lady Bertram was so indolent!” proceeded from

good-breeding and goodwill alone, and had nothing to do with Mr.

Crawford, but as being one in an agreeable group: for it was in the

course of that very visit that he first began to think that any one in

the habit of such idle observations _would_ _have_ _thought_ that Mr.

Crawford was the admirer of Fanny Price.

The meeting was generally felt to be a pleasant one, being composed in

a good proportion of those who would talk and those who would listen;

and the dinner itself was elegant and plentiful, according to the usual

style of the Grants, and too much according to the usual habits of all

to raise any emotion except in Mrs. Norris, who could never behold

either the wide table or the number of dishes on it with patience, and

who did always contrive to experience some evil from the passing of the

servants behind her chair, and to bring away some fresh conviction of

its being impossible among so many dishes but that some must be cold.

In the evening it was found, according to the predetermination of Mrs.

Grant and her sister, that after making up the whist-table there would

remain sufficient for a round game, and everybody being as perfectly

complying and without a choice as on such occasions they always are,

speculation was decided on almost as soon as whist; and Lady Bertram

soon found herself in the critical situation of being applied to for

her own choice between the games, and being required either to draw a

card for whist or not. She hesitated. Luckily Sir Thomas was at hand.

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

me most?”

Sir Thomas, after a moment’s thought, recommended speculation. He was a

whist player himself, and perhaps might feel that it would not much

amuse him to have her for a partner.

“Very well,” was her ladyship’s contented answer; “then speculation, if