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 MANSFIELD PARK. 
 
Printed by J. Moyes, Greville Street, London. 
 
MANSFIELD PARK 
 
 A NOVEL. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES, 
 
 BY THE 
 
 AUTHOR OF " PRIDE AND PREJUDICE.' 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 Hontion: 
 
 PRINTED FOR Jt MURRAY, ALBEMARLE-STREET, 
 

 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 Mans- 
 field Park, in the county of Northamp- 
 ton, and to be thereby raised to the 
 rank of a baronet's lady, with all the 
 comforts and consequences of an hand- 
 some 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 sistere to be 
 benefited by her elevation; and such of 
 their acquaintance as thought Miss Ward 
 Toi, I. B and 
 
( 2 ) 
 
 and Miss Frances quite as handsome as 
 Miss Maria, did not scruple to predict 
 their marrying with almost equal ad- 
 vantage. But there certainly are not 
 so many men of large fortune in the 
 world, as there are pretty women to 
 deseiTe 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 t6 give his 
 friend an income in the living of Mans- 
 field, 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 coiri- 
 mon phrase, to disoblige her family, 
 and by fixing on a Lieutenant of Marines, 
 without education, fortune, pr connec- 
 tions, did it very thoroughly. She 
 could hardly have made a more unto- 
 ward 
 
( 3 ) 
 
 ward 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 beeii 
 glad to exert for the advantage of Lady 
 Bertram's sister ; but her husband's pro- 
 fession 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 remark- 
 ably easy and indolent, would have con- 
 tented herself with merely giving up her 
 sister, and thinking no more of the 
 matter : but Mrs. Norris had a spirit of 
 B 2 activity, 
 
( 4 ) 
 
 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 her- 
 self, 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 others 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 
 
( 5 ) 
 
 pride or resentment, or to lose one con^ 
 nection that might possibly assist her. 
 A large and still increasing family, an 
 husband disabled for active service, but 
 not the less equal to coujpany and good 
 liquor, and a very small income to supply 
 their wants, made her eager to regain 
 the friends she had so carelessly sacrifi- 
 ced ; 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 
 every thing 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 spirit- 
 ed fellow who longed to be out in the 
 world; but what: could she do? Was 
 there any chance of his being hereafter 
 
 usefujl 
 
( <i ) 
 
 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 pro- 
 fessions, Lady Bertram dispatched money 
 and baby-linen, and Mrs. Norris wrote 
 the letters. 
 
 Such were jts immediate effects, and 
 within a twelvemonth a more import- 
 ant advantage to Mrs. Price resulted 
 from it. Mrs. Norris was often observ- 
 ing 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 
 
( 7 ) 
 
 •* What if they were among them to 
 undertake the care of her eldest daugh- 
 ter, a girl now nine years oldj of an 
 age to require more attention than her 
 poor mother could possibly give ? Tho 
 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 instant- 
 aneous and unqualified a consent. He 
 debated and hesitated; — it was a se- 
 rious charge ; — a girl so brought up 
 must be adequately provided for, or 
 there would be cruelty instead of kind^ 
 ness in taking her from her family. 
 He thought of his own four children — 
 of his two sons — of cousins in love, 
 &c. ; — 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 
 
 compre- 
 
( 8 ) 
 
 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 every thing 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 vi^ith- 
 hold my mite upon such an occasion. 
 Having no children of iMiy own, who 
 should I look to in any little matter I 
 may ever have to bestow, but the chil- 
 dren 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 mearis 
 of settling well, without farther expense 
 to any body. A niece of our's, Sir Thomas, 
 I may say, or, at least of youfs^ would 
 not grow up in this neighbourhood with- 
 out 
 
( 9 ) 
 
 toiit 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 coun- 
 try under such very favourable circum- 
 stances as, in all human probability, 
 would get her a creditable establish- 
 ment You are thinking of your sons — - 
 but do not you know that of all things 
 upon earth that is the least likely to hap- 
 pen ; 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 con- 
 nection. 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 
 gi'ow up at a dijstance from us all in 
 poverty and neglect, would be enough 
 to make either of the dear sweet-tem- 
 pered boys in love with her. But breed 
 her up vjvith them from this time, and 
 B 5 suppose 
 
( 10 ) 
 
 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, 
 " arid 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 en- 
 gaged to secure to her hereafter,\ as cir- 
 cumstances 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 every thing 
 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 
 
( H ) 
 
 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 con- 
 sider her, in any respect, so much my 
 own, I should hate myself if I were ca- 
 pable 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 unge- 
 nerous thing. So, if you are not against 
 it, I will write to my poor sister to-mor- 
 row, and make the proposal ; and, as 
 soon as matters are settled, / 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 Sadler's, and the child be appointed 
 to meet her there. They may easily 
 get her from Portsmouth to town by 
 
 the 
 
< 13 ) 
 
 the coach, under the care of any credit- 
 able person that may chance to be go- 
 ing. I dare say there is always some 
 reputable tradesman's wife or other 
 going up." 
 
 Except to the attack on Nanny's cou- 
 sin, Sir Thomas no longer made any ob- 
 jection, and a more respectable, though 
 less economical rendezvous being accord- 
 ingly substituted, every thing was consi- 
 dered as settled, and the pleasures of so 
 benevolent a scheme were already enjoy- 
 ed. The division of gratifying sensa- 
 tions 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, talk- 
 ing, 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 
 
( '43 ) 
 
 knew quite as well how to save her 
 own as to spend that of her friends. 
 Having married on a narrower income 
 tlian 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 needliil so- 
 licitude, 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 com- 
 fort 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 Parson- 
 age after this conversation, in the happy 
 
 belief 
 
( 14 ) 
 
 belief of being the most liberal-minded 
 sister and aunt in the world. 
 
 When the subject was brought for- 
 ward again, her views were more fully 
 explained ; and, in reply to Lady Ber- 
 tram'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 litde 
 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 
 ^>i^; should 
 
( 15 ) 
 
 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 com- 
 posure. After a short pause. Sir Tho- 
 mas added with dignity, " Yes, let her 
 home be in this house. We will en- 
 <leavour to do our duty by her, and she 
 will at least have the advantage of com- 
 panions of her own age, and of a regular 
 instructress." 
 
 " Very tme," cried Mrs. Norris, 
 " which are both very important consi- 
 derations : 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 
 
( 1^ ) 
 
 me to inconvenience to have my chief 
 counsellor away for three days. I sup- 
 pose, sister, you will put the child in the 
 little white attic, near the old nur- 
 series. It will be much the best place 
 for her, so near Miss Lee, and not far 
 froim the girls, and close by the house- 
 maids, 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 any where* 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, 
 
( 17 ) 
 
 her, and must prepare ourselves for 
 gross ignorance, some meanniess of opi- 
 nions, and very distressing vulgarity of 
 manner ; but these are not incurable 
 faults — nor, I trust, can they be danger- 
 ous for her associates. Had my daugh- 
 ter 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, ind 
 ever^ thing 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 cousin*; if Miss Lee 
 taught her nothing, she would learn to 
 be good and clever from themT 
 
 " 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, 
 
( 18 ) 
 
 " 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, authorize 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 differ- 
 ent. It is a point of great delicacy, 
 and you must assist us in our endea- 
 vours 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 
 
( 19 ) 
 
 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 some- 
 what delicate and puny, but was san- 
 guine in the hope of her being mate- 
 rially better for change of air. Poor 
 woman 1 she probably thought change 
 of air might agree with many of her 
 children. 
 
 CHAP- 
 
( 20 ) 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The little girl performed her long jour'» 
 ney in safety, and at Northampton was 
 met by Mrs. Norris, who thus regaled 
 in the credit of being foremost to wel- 
 come her, and in the importance of 
 leading her in to the others, and recom** 
 mending 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 capti- 
 vate, there was, at least, nothing to disgust 
 her relations. She was small of her age, 
 with no glow of complexion, nor any 
 other striidng 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 scct 
 ing how much she needed encourage- 
 ment, tried to be all that was conciliat- 
 ing; 
 
( 21 ) 
 
 ing; 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 twa 
 
 The young people were all at home, 
 and sustained their share in the intro- 
 duction very well, with much good 
 humour, and no embarrassment, at least 
 on the part of the sons, who at seven- 
 teen and sixteen, and tall of their age, 
 had all the grandeur of men in the eyes 
 of their little cousin. Tlie 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 any thing like natu- 
 ral shyness, and their confidence increas- 
 ing from their cousin's total want of 
 it, they were soon aWe to take a full 
 
 survey 
 
( 22 ) 
 
 survey of her face and her frock in easy 
 indifference. 
 
 They were a remarkably fine family, 
 the sons very well-looking, the daugh- 
 ters decidedly handsome, and all of 
 them well-grown and forward of their 
 age, which produced as striking a differ- 
 ence 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 was in fact but two years 
 between the youngest and Fanny. Julia 
 Bertram was only twelve, and Maria but 
 a year older. The little visitor mean- 
 while was as unhappy as possible. 
 Afraid of every body, ashamed of her- 
 self, and longing for the home she had 
 left, she knew not how to look up, and 
 could scarcely speak to be heard, or with- 
 out crying. Mrs. Norris had been talking 
 to her the whole way from Northamp- 
 ton of her wonderful good fortune, and 
 the extraordinary degree of gratitude 
 and good behaviour which it ought to 
 
 produce, 
 
( 23 ) 
 
 produce, and her consciousness of mi- 
 sery 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 con- 
 descensions 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 mouthful s 
 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 begin- 
 ning," 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 
 
( 34 ) 
 
 there may not be a little sulkiness of 
 temper — her poor mother had a good 
 deal ; but we must make allowances forv 
 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 mode- 
 ration 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 
 every body 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 no- 
 body put themselves out of their way 
 to secure her comfort. 
 
 The holiday allowed to the Miss Bert- 
 rams the next day on purpose to afford 
 leisure for getting acquainted with, and 
 entertaining their young cousin, pro- 
 duced litde union. They could not 
 
 but 
 
( 25 ) 
 
 but hold her cheap on finding that she 
 had but two sashes, and had never 
 learnt French ; and when they perceiv- 
 ed her to be little struck with the duet 
 hey were so good as to play, they 
 could do no more than inake her a ge- 
 nerous 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 fi:om her 
 cousins, whether in the school-room, 
 the drawing-room, or the shrubbery, 
 was equally forlorn, finding something 
 to fear in every person and place. She 
 was disheartened by Lady Bertrams 
 silence, awed by Sir Thomas's grave 
 looks, and quite overcome by Mrs. 
 P orris's admonitions. Her elder cou- 
 sins mortified her by reflections on her 
 size, and abashed her by noticing her 
 shyness ; Miss Lee wondered at her ig- 
 norance, and th^ maid-servants sneered 
 
 VOL. I. c at 
 
( 26 ) 
 
 at her clothes; and when to these sor- 
 rows was added the idea of the brothers 
 and sisters among whom she had always 
 been important as play-fellow, instruct- 
 ress, 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 nq 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 
 
( 27 ) 
 
 all the gentleness of an excellent nature, 
 " what can be the matter?" And sit- 
 ting down by her, was at great pains to 
 overcome her shame in being so sur- 
 prised, and persuade her to speak 
 openly. " Was she ill? or was any 
 body angry with her ? or had she quar- 
 relled with Maria and Julia? or was 
 she puzzled about any thing in her lesson 
 that he could explain ? Did she, in 
 short, want any thing he could possibly 
 get her, or do for her ?" For a long 
 while no answer could be obtained be- 
 yond 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 ex- 
 plained to him where the grievance lay. 
 He tried to console her. 
 
 " You are sorry to leave Mamma, 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 bappy. 
 c 2 Let 
 
( 28 ) 
 
 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 gene- 
 rally 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 mqch indeed." *r 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 let- 
 ter 
 
( 29 ) 
 
 ter 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 every thing tliere, 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 farther resistance ; and they 
 went together into the breakfast-room, 
 where Edmund prepared her paper, and 
 ruled her lines with all the good will 
 that her brother could himself have 
 felt, and probably with somewhat more 
 
 exact- 
 
( 30 ) 
 
 eJiactiiess. He continued with her the 
 whole time of her writing, to assist her 
 with his penknife or his orthography, as 
 either wei'e wanted ; and added to these 
 attentions, which she felt very much, a 
 kindness to her brother, which delight- 
 ed 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 her- 
 self 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 in- 
 teresting 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 
 
( 31 ) 
 
 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 Juliei, and being as merry as pos* 
 sible. 
 
 From this day Fanny grew more com^ 
 fortable. She felt that she had a friend, 
 and the kindness of her cousin Edmund 
 gave her better spirits with every body 
 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 
 
( 32 ) 
 
 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 tem^ 
 per ; 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 sevens 
 teen will always think fair with a child of 
 ten. He was just entering into life, full 
 of spirits, and with all the liberal dis- 
 positions of an eldest son, who feels born 
 only for expense and enjoyment. His 
 kindness to his little cousin was con- 
 sistent with his situation and rights : 
 he made her some very pretty presents, 
 and laughed at her. 
 
 As her appearance and spirits im- 
 proved. 
 
( 33 ) 
 
 proved, 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 dis- 
 position, 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 pro- 
 digiously stupid, and for the first two 
 or three weeks were continually bring- 
 ing some fresh report of it into the 
 drawing-room. " Dear Mamma, only 
 think, my cousin cannot put the map 
 of Europe together — or my cousin can- 
 not tell the principal rivers in Russia — 
 or she never heard of Asia Minor — or 
 she does not know the difference be- 
 tween water-colours and crayons I — 
 How strange ! — ■ Did you ever hear any 
 thing so stupid ?" 
 
 c 5 "My 
 
< 34 ) 
 
 " My dear," their considerate aunt 
 would reply ; " it is very bad, but you 
 must not expect every body to be as 
 forward and quick at learning as your- 
 self." 
 
 '* But, aunt, she is really so very igno- 
 rant ! — 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 havTS been ashamed of myself, 
 if I had not known better long before I 
 was so old as she is. I cannot remem- 
 ber 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 chronolo- 
 gical 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 
 
( 35 ) 
 
 the Roman emperors as low as Severus ; 
 besides a great deal of the Heathen 
 Mythology, and all the Metals, Semi- 
 Metals, Planets, and distinguished phi- 
 losophers." 
 
 " Very true, indeed, my dears, but you 
 are blessed with wonderful memories, 
 mid your poor cousin has probably none 
 at all. There is a vast deal of difference 
 in memories, as well as in every thing 
 else, and therefore you must make al- 
 lowance for your cousin, and pity her 
 deficiency. And remember that, if you 
 are ever so forward and clever your- 
 selves, 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 se- 
 venteen. 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, 
 
'( 36 ) 
 
 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 mamma are so good as to 
 bring her up with you, it is not at all 
 necessary that she should be as accom- 
 plished 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 acquire- 
 ments of self-knowledge, generosity, 
 and humility. In every thing but dis- 
 position, they were admirably taught. 
 Sir Thomas did not know what was 
 wanting, because, though a truly anxious 
 father, he was not outwardly affection- 
 ate, and the reserve of his manner re- 
 pressed all the flow of their spirits be- 
 fore him. 
 
 To the education of her daughters, 
 
 I^ady 
 
( 37 ) 
 
 Lady Bertom 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 needle-work, 
 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 every thing important by Sir Tliomas, 
 and in smaller concerns by her sister. 
 Had she possessed greater leisure for 
 the service of her girls, she would pro- 
 bably 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 
 xvere 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 harift 
 in the poor little thing — and always 
 found her very handy and quick in. 
 
 carrying 
 
( 38 ) 
 
 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 un- 
 happily 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 conse- 
 quence 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 Parlia- 
 ment, with whatever increase or diminu- 
 tion of comfort might arise from her 
 absence. In the country, therefore, the 
 Miss Bertrams continued to exercise their 
 
( 39 ) 
 
 memories, practise their duets, and grow 
 tall and womanly ; and their father saw 
 them becoming in person, manner, and 
 accomplishments, every thing that could 
 satisfy his anxiety. His eldest son was 
 careless and extravagant, and had al- 
 ready 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 connections. 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 
 
( 40 ) 
 
 and Fanny, though almost totally separat- 
 ed from her family, was sensible of the 
 truest satisfaction in hearing of any 
 kindness towards them, or of any thing 
 at all promising in their situation or con- 
 duct. Once, and once only in the 
 course of many years, had she the happi- 
 ness 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 com- 
 fort 
 
(41 ) 
 
 fort to her cousin Edmund ; and he told 
 her such charming things of what 
 WiiHam 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 feel- 
 ings, trying to make her good qualities 
 understood, and to conquer the diffi- 
 dence which prevented their being more 
 apparent ; giving her advice, consolation, 
 and encouragement. 
 
 Kept back as she was by every body 
 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 
 
( 42 ) 
 
 her to be clever; to have a quick appre- 
 hension 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 judg- 
 ment ; he made reading useful by talk- 
 ing to her of what she read, and 
 heightened its attraction by judicious 
 praise. In return for such services she 
 loved him better than any body in the 
 world except William ; her heart yvm 
 divided between the two. 
 
 CHAP- 
 
f 43 ) 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The first event of any importance in the 
 family was the death of Mr. Norrisj 
 which happened when Fanny was about 
 fifteen, and necessarily introduced altera- 
 tions arxd 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 con- 
 soled 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 extra- 
 vagance had, previous to that event, 
 been so great, as to render a different 
 disposal of the next presentation neces^ 
 3ary, and the younger brother must help 
 
 to 
 
( 44 ) 
 
 to pay for the pleasures of the elder. 
 There was another family-living actually 
 held for Edmund; but though this cir- 
 cumstance had made the arrangement 
 somewhat easier to Sir Thomas's con* 
 science, 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 pro- 
 ducing a better effect than any thing 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 bro- 
 ther 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 your's 
 (I hope it will), to procure him better 
 preferment; but it must not be for- 
 gotten, that no benefit of that sort 
 would have been beyond his natural 
 claims on us, and that nothing can, in 
 
 fact, 
 
( 45 ) 
 
 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 sel- 
 fishness reflect, 1st, that he had not been 
 half so much in debt as some of his 
 friends ; 2dly, that his father had made 
 a most tiresome piece of work of it; 
 and 3dly, that the future incumbent, 
 whoever he might be, would, in all pro- 
 bability, die very soon. 
 
 On Mr. Norris's death, the presenta- 
 tion 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 dis- 
 appoint Mr. Bertram's calculations. 
 But " no, he was a short-neck'd, apo- 
 plectic 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 en- 
 tered 
 
( 46 ) 
 
 tered 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 improve- 
 ment 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 addi- 
 tion to his eldest son's extravagance, it 
 became not undesirable to himself to be 
 relieved from the expense of her sup- 
 port, and the obligation pf her future 
 provision. In the fulness of his belief 
 that such a thing must be, he men- 
 tioned its probability to his wife; and 
 the first time of the subject's occur- 
 ring to her again, happening to be 
 when Fanny was present, she calmly 
 observed to her, *' So, Fanny, you are 
 
 going 
 
< 47 ) 
 
 going to leave us, and live with my sis- 
 ter. How shall you like it ?" 
 
 Fanny was too much surprised to do 
 more than repeat her aunt's words, 
 " Going to leave you ?" 
 
 " YeSj 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 pat- 
 terns all the same." 
 
 The news was as disagreeable to Fan- 
 ny 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; thafs na- 
 tural 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, mpdestly, " No, my dear; 
 
 I hope 
 
( 48 ) 
 
 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 sor- 
 rowful heart * she could not feel the dif- 
 ference to be so small, she could not 
 think of living with her aunt with any 
 thing 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 persuad- 
 ed 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 1" 
 
 " Yes, my aunt Bertram has just told 
 
 me so. It is quite settled. I am to leave 
 
 Mansfield Park, and go to the White 
 
 4 house> 
 
( 49 ) 
 
 house, I suppose, as soon as she is re- 
 moved there." 
 
 " Well, Fanny, and if the plan were 
 not unpleasant to you, I should call it an 
 excellent one." 
 
 " Oh ! Cousin !" 
 
 " It has every thing 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, Fan- 
 
 '* Indeed it does. I cannot like it. I 
 love this house and every thing 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 
 
 VOL.1. D already; 
 
( 50 ) 
 
 alre?idy ; and when you are her only com- 
 panion, you must be important to her." 
 
 " I can never be important to any 
 one." 
 
 " What is to prevent you ?" 
 
 " Every thing — my situation — my 
 foolishness and awkvrardness." 
 
 " As to your foolishness and awkward- 
 ness, 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 tem- 
 per, and I am sure you have a grateful 
 heart, that could never receive kind- 
 ness without wishing to return it. I 
 do not know any better qualifications 
 for a friend and companion." 
 
 " You are too kind," said Fanny, co- 
 louring 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 good- 
 ness, to the last moment of my life." 
 
 " Why^ 
 
( 51 ) 
 
 " Why, indeed, Fanny, I should hope 
 to be remembered at such a distance as 
 the White bouse. You speak as if you 
 were going two hundred miles off, in- 
 stead 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, theee. 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 plea- 
 sure. 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 any body she really inte- 
 rests herself about, and she will force 
 you to do justice to your natural pow- 
 ers." , 
 
 Fanny sighed, and said, " I cannot 
 
 see things as you do ; but I ought to be- 
 
 D 2 lieve 
 
( 52 ) 
 
 lieve you to be right rather than niyseh', 
 and 1 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 any body ! — 
 Here, I know I am of none, and yet I 
 love the place so well." 
 
 " The place, Fanny, is wjiat 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 fridit 
 
 o 
 
 fit 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 
 poney. 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 
 bis lips if horses were talked of) and 
 
 then 
 
( -^3 ) 
 
 then think of the kind pains you took 
 to reason and persuade me out of my 
 fears, and convince nie 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 ex- 
 pected, 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 ser- 
 vants, 
 
( 54 ) 
 
 vants, and allow a spare room for a 
 friend, of which she made a very par- 
 ticular point; — the spare-rooms at the 
 parsonage had never been wanted, but 
 the absolute necessity of a tpare-room 
 for a friend was now never forgotten. 
 Not all her precautions, however, could 
 save her from being suspected of some- 
 thing better; or, perhaps, her very dis- 
 play of the importance of a spare-room, 
 might have misled Sir Thomas to sup- 
 pose 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 not she to live with you? — I 
 thought you had settled it with Sir Tho- 
 mas?" 
 
 " Me! never. I never spoke a syl- 
 lable 
 
( 55 ) 
 
 lable 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 any body to wish that really knows 
 us both. Good heaven ! what could I 
 do with Fanny ? — Me ! a poor helpless, 
 forlorn widow, unfit for any thing, 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 
 
i 56 ) 
 
 liiiely — 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 incumbrance 
 here." 
 
 " Dear sister ! If yoii consider my 
 unhappy state, how can she be any 
 comfort to me ? Here am I a poor de- 
 solate 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 barely 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 staking 
 such a charge upon me as Fanny ! If 1 
 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 w^U. I must struggle through 
 my sorrows and difficulties as I can." 
 
 *' Then you will not mind living by 
 yourself quite alone ?" 
 
 " Dear 
 
( ^7 ) 
 
 ** Dear Lady Bertram ! what am I fit 
 for but solitude ? Now and then I shall 
 hope to have a friend in my little cottage 
 
 j^I shall always have a bed for a friend) ; 
 birt 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." 
 ,^ " 1 hope, sister, things are not so 
 very bad with you neither — considering 
 Sir Thomas says you will have six hun- 
 dred a year." 
 
 " Lady Bertram, I do not complain. 
 I know I cannot live as I have done, but 
 
 J 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 
 
 .Bsftl" ■ D5 after. 
 
( 58 ) 
 
 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, 
 
( 59 ) 
 
 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 any thing 
 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 distinc- 
 tion, which at the same time that it 
 was advantageous and complimentary 
 
 to 
 
( 60 ) 
 
 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, conve3^ed some consola- 
 tion to Edmund for his disappoint- 
 ment in what he had expected to be so 
 essentially serviceable to her. Mrs. Nor- 
 ris took possession of the White house, the 
 Grants arrived at the parsonage, and these 
 events over, every thing at Mansfield 
 w^ent 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. Th^y had their 
 faults, and Mrs. Norris soon found 
 them out. The Dr. was very fond of 
 eating, and would have a good dinner 
 every day; and Mrs. Grant, in&tead of 
 contriving to gratify him at little ex- 
 pense, gave her cook as high wages as 
 they did at Mansfield Park, and was 
 scarcely ever seen in her offices. Mrs. 
 
 J^Jorris 
 
( 61 ) 
 
 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. Enquire 
 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 
 
( 62 ) 
 
 point almost as often, though not so 
 diffusely, as Mrs. Norris discussed the 
 other. 
 
 These opinions had been hardly can- 
 vassed 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 ar- 
 rangement of his affairs, and he took 
 his eldest son with him in the hope of 
 detaching him from some bad connec- 
 tions at home. They left England with 
 the probability of being nearly a twelvapf 
 month absent. 
 
 The necessity of the measure in a pe- 
 cuniary 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 
 
( 63 ) 
 
 to perform what should have been her 
 own ; but in Mrs. Norris's watchful at- 
 tention, 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 any body 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 unhap- 
 pily most welcome. They were re- 
 lieved by it from all restraint; and 
 without aiming at one gratification that 
 would probably have been forbidden by 
 Sir Thomas, they felt themselves imme- 
 diately at their own disposal, and to 
 have every indulgence within their 
 
 reach. 
 
( 64 ) 
 
 reach. Fanny's relief, and her consci- 
 ousness of it, were quite equal to her 
 cousins', but a more tender nature sug- 
 gested 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 re- 
 turn ! that she should see him go with- 
 out a tear ! — it was a shameful insensi- 
 bility." 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 bie known 
 to be in England. ** This was so thought- 
 ful 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 
 
( 65 ) 
 
 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 rnust 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. 
 
 CHAP 
 
( 66 ) 
 
 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 tra- 
 vellers' safe arrival in Antigua after a fa- 
 vourable voyage, was received; though 
 not before Mrs. Norris had been indul- 
 ging 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 per- 
 son made acquainted with any fatal ca- 
 tastrophe, she had already arranged the 
 
 manner 
 
( 67 ) 
 
 manner of breaking it to all the others, 
 when Sir Thomas's assurances of their 
 both being alive and well, made it ne- 
 cessary to lay by her agitation and af- 
 fectionate preparatory speeches for a 
 while. 
 
 The winter came and passed without 
 their being called for ; the accounts con- 
 tinued perfectly good ; — and Mrs. 
 Norris in promoting gaieties for her 
 nieces, assisting their toilettes, display- 
 ing 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 even 
 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 oblig- 
 ingness, 
 
( 68 ) 
 
 ingness, 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, se- 
 cured, 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 in* 
 dolent even to accept a mother's grati- 
 fication in witnessing their success and 
 enjoyment at the expense of any per- 
 sonal 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 compa- 
 nion, when they called away the rest of 
 
 the 
 
( 69 ) 
 
 the family; and as Miss Lee had left 
 Mansfield, she naturally became every 
 thing to Lady Bertram during the 
 night of a ball or a party. She talked 
 to her, listened to her, read to her; 
 and the tranquillity of such evenings, 
 her perfect security in such a tete-a-tete 
 from any sound of unkind ness, 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 poney, 
 
 and 
 
( 70 ) 
 
 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 ac- 
 knowledged importance of her riding 
 on horseback, 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 want- 
 ed their horses every fine day, and had 
 no idea of carrying their obliging man- 
 ners to the sacrifice of any real pleasure, 
 that time of course never came. They 
 took their cheerful rides in the fine morn- 
 ings 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 every body 
 as it was unpleasant to herself; and Mrs. 
 Norris, who was walking all day, think- 
 ing every body ought to walk as much. 
 Edmund was absent at this time, or the 
 3 evil 
 
( 71 ) 
 
 evil would have been earlier remedied. 
 When he returned to understand how 
 anny 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 de- 
 claration with which he opposed what- 
 ever 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 poney he sent to 
 the post. She could not but consider 
 it as absolutely unnecessary, and even 
 improper, that Fanny should have a re- 
 gular 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 
 
 th« 
 
( 72 ) 
 
 the great expenses of his stable at a time 
 when a large part of his income was 
 unsettled, seemed to her very unjus- 
 tifiable. " Fanny must have a horse," 
 was Edmund's only reply. Mrs. Nor- 
 ris 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 Sep- 
 tember, 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 pro- 
 1 cure 
 
( 73 ) 
 
 cure for Fanny the immediate meatis 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 any thing could ever suit her like 
 the old grey poney ; 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 con- 
 sideration of that kindness from which 
 her pleasure sprung, was beyond all her 
 words to express. She regarded her 
 cousin as an example of every thing 
 VOL. I. E good 
 
( 74 ) 
 
 good and great, as possessing worth, 
 which no one but herself could ever 
 appreciate, and as entitled to such gra- 
 titude 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 Tho- 
 mas'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 
 every thing was then involved, deter- 
 mined him on sending home his son, 
 
 and 
 
i 75 ) 
 
 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 pre- 
 sentiments ; and as the long evenings 
 of autumn came on, was so terribly 
 haunted by these ideas, in the sad soli- 
 tariness of her cottage, as to be obliged 
 to take daily refuge in the dining 
 room of the park. The return of win- 
 ter 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 to- 
 lerably 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 
 E 2 were 
 
( 76 ) 
 
 were in the company of men of for- 
 tune, and particularly on the introduc- 
 tion 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 
 sU'uck with the beauty of Miss Bert- 
 ram, 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 
 
( 77 ) 
 
 every suggestion and contrivance, likely 
 to enhance its desirableness to either 
 party ; and, among other means, by 
 seeking an intimacy with the gentle- 
 man'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 morn- 
 ing visit. It was not long before a 
 good understanding took place betw^een 
 this lady and herself. Mrs. Rush worth 
 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 ami- 
 able qualities and accomplishments, the 
 best adapted to make him happy. Mrs. 
 Norris accepted the compliment, and 
 admired the nice discernment of charac- 
 ter 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 
 
( 78 ) 
 
 could allow herself to decide on so short 
 ail acqwaintance, Mr. Rushworth ap- 
 peared precisely the young man to de- 
 serve and attach her. 
 
 After dancing with each other at a 
 proper number of balls, the young peo- 
 ple justified these opinions, and an en- 
 gagement, with a due reference to the 
 absent Sir Thomas, was entered into, 
 much to the satisfaction of their respec- 
 tive 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 Tho- 
 mas's consent could be received ; but in 
 the mean while, as no one felt a doubt 
 of his most cordial pleasure in the con- 
 nection, the intercourse of the two fa- 
 milies was carried on without restraint, 
 and no other attempt made at secrecy, 
 than Mrs. Norris's talking of it every 
 where as a matter not to be talked of at 
 present. 
 H Edmund 
 
( 79 ) 
 
 Edmund was the only one of the fa- 
 mily who could see a fault in the busi- 
 ness ; but no representation of his aunt's 
 Gould 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. Rush- 
 worth's company, " If this man had not 
 twelve thousand a year, he would be a 
 very stupid fellow." 
 
 Sir Thomas, however, was truly hap- 
 py in the prospect of an alliance so un- 
 questionably advantageous, and of which 
 he heard nothing but the perfectly good 
 and agreeable. It was a connection ex- 
 actly 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 condi- 
 tioned that the marriage should not 
 , take place before his return, which he 
 wa3 again looking eagerly, forward to. 
 
 He 
 
( 80 ) 
 
 He wrote in April, and had strong hopes 
 of settling every thing to his entire satis- 
 faction, 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 addi- 
 tion in the brother and sister of Mrs. 
 Grant, a Mr. and Miss Crawford, the 
 children of her mother by a second mar- 
 riage. They were young people of for- 
 tune. 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 fol- 
 lowed 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 
 
( 81 ) 
 
 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 doated 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 miatress under his own roof ; and to 
 this Mrs. Grant was indebted for her 
 sisters 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 re- 
 siding in the country without a family 
 of children ; having more than filled her 
 favourite sitting room with pretty fur- 
 niture, and made a choice collection of 
 plants and poultry, was very much in 
 want of some variety at home. The 
 E 5 arrival. 
 
( 82 ) 
 
 arrival, therefore, of a sister whom she 
 had always loved, and now hoped to 
 retain with her as long as she remain- 
 ed 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 any 
 thing 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, 
 wdth the utmost kindness, into North- 
 amptonshire, and as readily engaged 
 to fetch her away again at half an hour's 
 
 notice. 
 
( 83 ) 
 
 notice, whenever she were weary of the 
 place. 
 
 The meeting was very satisfactory on 
 each side. Miss Crawford found a sis- 
 ter without preciseness or rusticity — a 
 sister's husband who looked the gen- 
 tleman, 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 coun^- 
 tenance ; the manners of both were 
 lively and pleasant, and Mrs. Grant im- 
 mediately gave them credit for every 
 thing 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 en- 
 joyed 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 
 
( 84 •) 
 
 for a girl of twenty thousand pounds, 
 with all the elegance and accomplish- 
 ments which Mrs. Grant foresaw in 
 her; and being a warm-hearted, unre- 
 served 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 hav- 
 ing 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 re- 
 peated to Henry. 
 
 " And now," added Mrs. Grant,. 
 *^ I have thought of something to make 
 it quite complete. I should dearly love 
 to settle you both in this country, and 
 ^erefore^ Henry, you shall marry the 
 
 youngest 
 
< S5 ) 
 
 youngest Miss Bertram, a nice, hand- 
 some, 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 any thing of 
 the sort, it will be a fresh matter of de- 
 light to me, to find myself allied ta 
 any body so clever, and I shall only re- 
 gret 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 incon- 
 ceivable ! 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 
 
( «6 ) 
 
 " 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 tem- 
 per, 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 
 
(^.87 ) 
 
 Miss Crawford on feeling no disincli- 
 nation to the state herself. 
 
 " Oh ! yes, I am not at all ashamed 
 of it. I would have every body marry 
 if they can do it properly ; I do not 
 like to have people throw themselves 
 away ; but every body should marry as 
 soon as they can do it to advantage." 
 
 CHAP- 
 
( 88 ) 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 'Mil 
 
 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 war-, 
 rant. 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 form- 
 ed, and fair, it might have been more 
 of a trial; but as it was, there could be 
 no comparison, and she was most allow- 
 ably 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 abso-:^ 
 lutely plain, black and plain ; but still he 
 
 was 
 
( 89 ) 
 
 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 coun- 
 tenance, and his teeth were so good, and 
 he was so well made, that one soon for- 
 got he was plain ; and after a third in- 
 terview, after dining in company with 
 him at the parsonage, he was no longer 
 allowed to be called so by any body. 
 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 corifused and indistinct. She did 
 not want to see or understand. " There 
 could be no harm in her liking an agree- 
 able man — every body knew her situa- 
 tion — Mr. Crawford must take care of 
 himself." Mr. Crawford did not mean 
 
 ta 
 
( 90 ) 
 
 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 al- 
 lowed himself great latitude on such 
 points. 
 
 " I like your Miss Bertrams exceed- 
 ingly, 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 
 ia 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 hand- 
 somest, and I have found her the most 
 
 agreeable, 
 
( 91 ) 
 
 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 frst?" 
 
 " And besides. Miss Bertram is 
 engaged. Remember that, my dear 
 , brother. Her choice is made." 
 .lii " Yes, and 1 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 en- 
 gaged ; no harm can be done." 
 
 " Why as to that — Mr. Rush worth 
 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. / do 
 not subscribe to it. I am sure Miss 
 Bertram is very much attached to Mr. 
 ^ Rushworth. 
 
( 92 ) 
 
 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 bQ taken in at last." 
 
 " But I would not have him taken in, 
 1 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. Every body is taken in at 
 some period or other." 
 
 " Not always in marriage, dear Mary." 
 " In marriage especially. With ail 
 due respect to such of the present com- 
 pany 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 
 
( 93 ) 
 
 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 ex- 
 pectation and confidence of some one 
 particular advantage in the connection, 
 or accomplishment or good quality in 
 the person, who have found themselves 
 entirely deceived, and been obliged to 
 put up with exactly the reverse I 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 disappoint- 
 ments every where, and we are all apt 
 to expect too much ; but then, if one 
 scheme of happiness fails, human nature 
 1 turns 
 
( 94 ) 
 
 turns to another ; if the first calcula- 
 tion 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 
 heart-ache." 
 
 " 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, 
 
( 95 ) 
 
 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 
 w^oman 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 
 any thing which Miss Crawford's habits 
 made her likely to feel. She acknow- 
 ledged, however, that the Mr. Bertrams 
 were very fine young men, that two 
 such young men were net often seen 
 together even in London, and that 
 their manners, particularly those of the 
 eldest, were very ^ood. He had been 
 much in London, and had more liveli- 
 ness and gallantry than Edmund, and 
 must, therefore, be preferred ; and, 
 indeed, his being the eldest was another 
 strong claim. She had felt an early 
 
 pre- 
 
( 96 ) 
 
 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 every thing 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 
 
( 97 ) 
 
 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 litde 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 incli- 
 nation, 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 new-comers? Few 
 young ladies of eighteen could be less 
 called on to speak their opinion than 
 Fanny. In a quiet way, very little at- 
 
 TOL. I. F ~ tended 
 
( 98 ) 
 
 tended to, she paid her tribute of adaii- 
 ration 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 th-e parsonage, with the rest of 
 you, which seemed like being out ; and 
 yet she says so little, that I can hardly 
 i^uppose she is.'' 
 
 Edmund, to whom this was chiefly 
 addressed, replied, " I believe I know 
 what you mean — but I will not under* 
 take 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 distinc- 
 tion 
 
{ 99 ) 
 
 tion 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 eigh- 
 teen 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 
 F 2 you 
 
( 100 ) 
 
 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 xvill 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 An- 
 dersons of Baker Street. We were 
 speaking of them the other day, you 
 know. Edmund, you have heard me 
 mention Charles Anderson. The cir- 
 cumstance was precisely as this lady has 
 represented it. When Anderson first in- 
 troduced me to his family, about two 
 years ago, his sister was not out^ and I 
 
 could 
 
( 101 ) 
 
 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 — no- 
 thing 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 acquaint- 
 ance, 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 
 
( 102 ) 
 
 too common a fault. Mothers cer- 
 tainly 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 
 jsee that they are often wrong." 
 
 " Those who are showing the world 
 what female manners should 6e/' said 
 Mr. Bertram, gallandy, " 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 Craw- 
 fprd hesitatingly. " Yes, I cannot agree 
 with you there. It is certainly the mo- 
 des test part of the business. It is 
 much worse to have girls not cut, give 
 themselves the same airs and take the 
 
 same 
 
( i03 ) 
 
 same liberties as if they were, which I 
 ha'ce seen done. That is worse than any 
 thing — quite disgusting !" 
 
 " Yes, that is very inconvenient in- 
 deed," 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 ex- 
 pected ; 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 fiather 
 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 my- 
 self to one of her daughters, walked 
 
 by 
 
( 104 ) 
 
 by her side all the way home, and made 
 myself as agreeable as I could ; the 
 young lady perfectly easy in her man- 
 ners, and as ready to talk as to Hsten. I 
 had not a suspicion that I could be 
 doing any thing 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 be- 
 lieve, has never forgiven me," 
 
 " Tha!t 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 vexa- 
 tious. But it was entirely the mother's 
 fault. Miss Augusta should have been 
 with her opoverness. 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 
 
( 105 ) 
 
 out every where, as well as at my sis- 
 ter s r 
 
 " No/' replied Edmund, " I do not 
 think she has ever been to a ball. My 
 mother seldom goes into company her- 
 self, and dines no where but with Mrs. 
 Grant, and Fanny stays at home with 
 herr 
 
 " Oh ! then the point is clear. Mis 
 Price is not out." 
 
 f5 e CHAP. 
 
< 106 ) 
 
 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 be- 
 tween 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 ex- 
 pecting to feel a most melancholy differ- 
 ence in the change of masters. It 
 would be a very flat business, she was 
 sure. In comparison with his bro- 
 ther, Edmund would have nothing to 
 say. The soup would be sent round 
 in a most spiritless manner, wine drank 
 without any smiles, or agreeable tri- 
 fling, and the venison cut up without 
 supplying one pleasant anecdote of any 
 former haunch, or a single entertaining 
 3tory about " my friend such a one." 
 She must try to find amusement in 
 what was passing at the upper end of the 
 
 table 
 
( 107 ) 
 
 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 a neighbouring county, and 
 that friend having recently had his 
 grounds laid out by an improver, Mr. 
 Rushworth was returned with his he'&fl 
 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 
 shovi^ed 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 be, " it is the most complete thing ! 
 
 I 
 
( 108 ) 
 
 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 
 n^anner. 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, maam, be- 
 yond any thing. 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 
 
( 109 ) 
 
 know what. I hope I shall have some 
 good friend to help me." 
 
 *' Your best friend upon such an oc- 
 casion," said Miss Bertram, calmly, 
 *' would be Mr. Rep ton, 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 every thing done in the 
 best style, and made as nice as possible. 
 Such a place as Sotherton Court de- 
 serves every thing 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 any 
 thing within the fiftieth part of the size 
 of Sotherton, I should be always plant- 
 ing and improving, for naturally I am 
 excessively fond of it. It would be too 
 
 ridi- 
 
( no ) 
 
 ridiculous for me to attempt any thing 
 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 any 
 thing, 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. 
 
( 111 ) 
 
 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 gather- 
 ing-" 
 
 " 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, 
 
. . ( 112 ) 
 
 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 in- 
 dulged 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 improve- 
 ments of Sotherton. Dr. Grant and 
 Mrs. Norris .were seldom good friends; 
 their acquaintance had begun in dilapida- 
 tions, and their habits were totally dis- 
 similar. 
 
 After a short interruption, Mr. Rush- 
 worth 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 Ber- 
 tram, "if I were you, I w^ould have a 
 
 very 
 
( 113 ) 
 
 very pretty shrubbery. One likes to 
 get out into a shrubbery in fine 
 weather. 
 
 Mr. Rushwo'Tth was eager to assure 
 her ladyship ot his acquiescence, and 
 tried to make out something compliment- 
 ary ; but between his submission to her 
 taste, and his having always intended 
 the same himself, with the super-added 
 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 pro- 
 posal of wine. Mr. Rushworth, how- 
 ever, 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 litde 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 ; 
 
( 114 ) 
 
 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 any body 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 particu- 
 larly 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 Sother- 
 ton." 
 
 Fanny, ^ho was sitting on the other 
 side of Edmund, exactly opposite Miss 
 Crawford, and who had been attentive- 
 ly listening, now looked at him, and said 
 in a low voice, 
 
 " Cut down an avenue ! What a pity ! 
 Does not it make you think of Cowper ?" 
 * Ye fallen avenues, once more I mourn 
 your fate unmerited.' 
 
 He 
 
( 115 ) 
 
 He smiled as he answered, " I am 
 afraid the avenue stands a bad chance, 
 Panny." 
 
 " 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. When- 
 ever 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 build- 
 ing — 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, un- 
 favourable for improvement. But the 
 
 woods 
 
( 116 ) 
 
 woods are fine, and there is a stream, 
 which, I dare say, might be made a good 
 deal of. Mr. Rnshworth 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 sub- 
 mission, 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 under- 
 take 
 
( nr ) 
 
 take 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 every thing as complete as possible , 
 in the country, shrubberies and flower 
 gardens, and rustic seats innumerable; 
 but it must be all done without my 
 
 care. 
 
( 118 ) 
 
 care. Henry is different, he loves to be 
 doing." 
 
 Edmund was sorrv 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 fur- 
 ther 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 con- 
 trary." 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 
 
( 119 ) 
 
 " I am very glad that you have heard 
 of it, by whatever mear^s ; and hope 
 there will be no farther delay." 
 
 " I am to have it to-morrow ; but 
 how do you think it is to be conveyed ? 
 Not by a waggon or cart ; — Oh ! no, 
 nothing of that kind could be hired in 
 the village. I might as well have asked 
 for porters and a hand-barrow." 
 
 " 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 see- 
 ing one farm yard, 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 
 
( 120 ) 
 
 asking the most unreasonable, most 
 impossible thing in the world, had of- 
 fended 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 hai^est, 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 every thing is to 
 be got with money, I was a little em- 
 barrassed at first by the sturdy independ- 
 ence of your country customs. How- 
 ever, I am to have my harp fetched to- 
 1 morrow. 
 
( 1^1 ) 
 
 morrow. Henry, who is good-nature 
 itself, has offered to fetch it in his ba- 
 rouche. Will it not be honourably con- 
 veyed?" A 
 
 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; pro- 
 bably 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 1 write, I will say whatever you 
 
 VOL. I. G wish 
 
( 122 ) 
 
 wish me ; but I do not at present fore- 
 see 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 bro- 
 ther 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 every thing as usual. Yours 
 sincerely.' That is the true manly style ; 
 that is a complete brother's letter." 
 
 " When 
 
( 123 ) 
 
 " 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 Ed- 
 mund tell the story, but his determined 
 silence obliged her to relate her bro- 
 ther's situation; her voice was animated 
 in speaking of his profession, and the 
 foreign stations he had been on, but she 
 ^ould 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 any thing of my 
 cousin's captain ? " said Edmund ; " Cap- 
 tain Marshall ? You have a large ac- 
 quaintance in the navy, I x^onclude ? " 
 
 " Among Admirals, large enough; 
 o2 but," 
 
( 124 ) 
 
 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 bick- 
 erings and jealousies. But in general, 
 1 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 J 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 spend- 
 ing it. But, in short, it is not a favouf- 
 ite 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 
 
( 125 ) 
 
 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 beau- 
 ties, I am sure, are great. Everingham 
 as it used to be was perfect in my estima- 
 tion ; such a happy fall of ground, and 
 such timber ! What would not I give to 
 see it again !" 
 
 " Nothing could be so gratifying to 
 me as to hear your opinion of it," w as 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 sur- 
 prised 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 
 
( 126 ) 
 
 ^' You are fond of the sort of thing ?'* 
 said Julia. 
 
 " Excessively : but what with the na- 
 tural 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 Evering. 
 ham 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 hap- 
 piness 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. In- 
 stead of envying Mr. Rushworth, you 
 should assist him with your opinion." 
 
 Mrs. Grant hearing the latter part of 
 this speech, enforced it warmly, persuad- 
 ed that no judgment could be equal to 
 her brother's ; and as Miss Bertram 
 caught at the idea likewise, and gave it 
 
 her 
 
{ m ) 
 
 her full support, declaring that in her 
 opinion it was infinitely better to con- 
 sult with friends and disinterested advi- 
 sers, 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 pro- 
 perly 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 Lim 
 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 wil- 
 lingness ; 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 
 
( 128 ) 
 
 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. Rush worth 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. 
 
 CHAP- 
 
( 1^9 ) . 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 "Well Fanny, and how do you like 
 Miss Crawford nowT' 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 at- 
 tractive. 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 whongi 
 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 Hke a son. I could not 
 have believed it !" 
 
 g5 ^' I 
 
( 130 ) 
 
 " 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 cer- 
 tainly 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 feel- 
 ings 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 dis- 
 agreements, though the admiral's pre- 
 sent conduct might incline one to the 
 side of his wife: but it is natural and 
 amiable that Miss Crawford should ac* 
 quit her aunt entirely. I do not censure 
 her opinions; but there certainly is im- 
 propriety in making them public." 
 
 " Do not you think," said Fanny, after 
 a little consideration, " that this impro- 
 priety is a reflection itself upon Mi's. 
 
 Crawford^ 
 
( 131 ) 
 
 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 dis- 
 advantages she has been under. But I 
 think her present home must do her 
 good. Mrs. Grant's manners are just 
 what they ougtit to be. She speaks of 
 her brother with a very pleasing affec- 
 tion." 
 
 " Yes, except as to his writing her 
 such short letters. She made me ahiiost 
 laugh; but 1 cannot rate so very highly 
 the love or good nature ot a brother, who 
 will not give himself the trouble of 
 writing any thing 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 
 
( 132 ) 
 
 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 ; per- 
 fectly allowable, when untinctured by 
 ill humour or roughness; and there is 
 not a shadow of either in the counte- 
 nance or manner of Miss Crawford, 
 nothing sharp, or loud, or coarse. She 
 is perfectly feminine, except in the in- 
 stances 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 Craw- 
 ford's attractions did not lessen. The 
 harp arrived, and rather added to her 
 beauty, wit, and good humour, for she 
 
 played 
 
( 133 ) 
 
 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 fo- 
 liage 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 
 every thing will turn to account when 
 love is once set going, even the sandwich 
 tray, and Dr. Grant doing the honours 
 
 of 
 
( 134 ) 
 
 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 atten- 
 tions 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 thi«k very much about it, 
 however ; he pleased her for the present ; 
 she liked to have him near her; it was 
 enough. 
 
 Fanny 
 
( 135 ) 
 
 Fanny could not wonder that 
 Edmund was at the parsonage every 
 morning ; she would gladly have been 
 there too, might she have gone in un- 
 invited 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 com- 
 pany ; but so it was. Edmund was 
 fond of speaking to her of Miss Craw- 
 ford, but he seemed to think it enough 
 
 that 
 
( 136 ) 
 
 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 Mans- 
 field from the example of the young 
 ladies at the park, and which, when 
 Edmund's acquaintance with her in- 
 creased, led to his encouraging the 
 wish, and the offer of his own quiet 
 mare for the purpose of her first at- 
 tempts, as the best fitted for a begin- 
 ner 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 overpowered with 
 
 gratitude 
 
C 137 ) 
 
 gratitude that he should be asking her 
 leave for it. 
 
 JMiss 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 guilt- 
 less. 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 instruc- 
 tions, and something more in the con- 
 viction 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 
 
( 138 ) 
 
 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 horseback, riding 
 side by sidc; 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 be- 
 yond a doubt, for the sound of mer- 
 riment ascended even to her. It was 
 a sound which did not make her cheer- 
 ful; she wondered that Edmund should 
 forget her, and felt a pang. She could 
 
 not 
 
( 139 ) 
 
 not tuHi 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 mi- 
 nutes, they stopt entirely, Edmund was 
 close to her, he was speaking to her, 
 he was evidently directing her manage- 
 ment 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 Ed- 
 mund should be making himself useftil, 
 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 be- 
 coming in a brother to have done it 
 himself; but Mr, Crawford^ with all 
 
 bis 
 
( 140 ) 
 
 his boasted good-nature, and all his 
 coachmanship, probably knew nothing 
 of the matter, and had no active kind- 
 ness 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 tranquillized, 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 im- 
 patient ; and walked to meet them 
 with a great anxiety to avoid the sus- 
 picion. 
 
 " 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 wait- 
 ing — but I have nothing in the world 
 
 to 
 
( 141 ) 
 
 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 al- 
 ways 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 promot- 
 ing 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 exer- 
 cise. I wish you had saved yourself 
 this walk home." 
 
 " No part of it fatigues me but get- 
 ting off this horse, I assure you," said 
 she, as she sprang down with his help ; 
 " I am very strong. Nothing ever fa- 
 tigues me, but doing what I do not 
 
 like. 
 
( 14g ) 
 
 like. Miss Price, I give way to yoti 
 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 her's, 
 and they set off across another part of 
 the park; her feelings of discomfort not 
 lightened by seeing, as she looked back, 
 that the othjsrs 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 horsewoman, which he 
 had been watching with an interest 
 almost equal to her own. 
 
 " It is a pleasure to see a. lady with 
 isuch 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 
 
< 143 ) 
 
 come next Easter. Lord bless me! 
 how you did tremble when Sir Thomas 
 first had you put on ! " 
 
 In the drawing-room Miss Crawford 
 was also celebrated. Her merit in be- 
 ing gifted by nature with strength and 
 courage was fully appreciated by the 
 Miss Bertrams; her delight in riding 
 was like their own ; her early excel- 
 lence 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 
 5ame 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 
 
 1 he: 
 
( 144 ) 
 
 he; " but whenever you are next in- 
 clined to stay at home, I think Miss 
 Crawford would be glad to have her 
 for a longer tinae — for a whole morning 
 in short. She has a great desire to get 
 as far as Mansfield common, Mrs. Grant 
 has been teUing her of its fine views, 
 and I have no doubt of her being per- 
 fectly equal to it. But any morning 
 will do for this. She would be ex- 
 tremely sorry to interfere with you. 
 It Would be very wrong if she did. — 
 /S^e rides only for pleasure, you for 
 health." 
 
 " I shall not ride to-morrow, cer- 
 tainly," 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 
 
( 145 ) 
 
 again in the evening discussion. A success- 
 ful 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. Every thing 
 answered; it was all gaiety and good- 
 humour, the heat only supplying incon- 
 venience enough to be talked of with 
 pleasure — till the fourth day, when the 
 happiness of one of the party was ex- 
 ceedingly clouded. Miss Bertram was 
 the one. Edmund and Julia were in- 
 vited to dine at the parsonage, and she 
 was excluded. It was meant and done 
 by Mrs. Grant, with perfect good hu- 
 mour, on Mr. Rush worth's account, 
 VOL. I. B who 
 
( 146 ) 
 
 who was partly expected at the park 
 that day ; but it was felt as a very griev- 
 ous 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 in- 
 jury 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 vvhat 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, dis- 
 composed by her niece's ill-humour, 
 and having asked one or two questions 
 about the dinner, which were not im-r 
 mediately attended to, seemed almost 
 determined to say no more. For a few 
 
 minutes. 
 
(• 147 ) 
 
 minutes, the brother and sister were too 
 eager in their praise of the night and 
 their remarks on the stars, to think be- 
 yond 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 scold- 
 ing. 
 
 " 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 
 w^eek, not touched yet. I am sure I 
 almost broke my back by cutting it out. 
 You should learn to think of other peo- 
 H 2 pie; 
 
( 148 ) 
 
 pie ; 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 any body in the house." 
 
 " Fanny," said Edmund, after looking 
 at her attentively ; " I am sure you have 
 the headach?" 
 
 She could not deny it, but said it was 
 not very bad. 
 
 '^ I can hardly believe you," he re- 
 plied ; " 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 
 5tay within such a fine day as this ? Were 
 
 not 
 
( 149 ) 
 
 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 repri- 
 mand 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 soft- 
 ened voice; ^' but I question whether 
 her headach 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. 
 
( 130 ) 
 
 morrow. Suppose you let her hare 
 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 
 
( 1^1 ) 
 
 Edmund got up and walked about 
 the room, saying, " And could nobody 
 be eiTiplo3'ed 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; " un- 
 less 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 every thing at once. And as for 
 Fanny's just stepping down to my house 
 for me, it is not much above a quarter 
 of u mile, I cannot think I was unrea- 
 sonable to ask it. How often do I pace 
 it three times a-day, early and late, ay 
 
 and 
 
( 152 ) 
 
 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 
 ratiier do her good after being stooping 
 among the iroses ; 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. Be- 
 tween ourselves, Edmund, nodding sig- 
 nificantly at his mother, it was cut- 
 ting 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 
 
( 153 ) 
 
 she caught the headach there, for the 
 heat was enough to kill any body. It 
 was as much as I could bear myself. Sit- 
 ting 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 swal- 
 low than to speak. 
 
 Vexed as Edmund was with his mo- 
 ther and aunt, he was still more angry 
 with himself. His own forgetfulness of 
 her was worse than any thing 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 
 H 5 unrear 
 
( 154 ) 
 
 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, how- 
 ever 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 arri- 
 val at the Park. The state of her spi- 
 rits 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 sud- 
 den change which Edmund's kindness 
 had then occasioned, made her hardly 
 know how to support herself. 
 
 CHAP- 
 
( 1^^ ) 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Fanny's rides recommenced the very 
 next day, and as it was a pleasant fresh- 
 feeling morning, less hot than the wea- 
 ther had lately been, Edmund trusted 
 that her losses both of health and plea- 
 sure 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 ab- 
 sence 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 au- 
 thorize 
 
(156) 
 
 thorize 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 ©r 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 any thing else should 
 be talked of, for Mrs. Norris was in 
 high spirits about it, and Mrs. Rush- 
 "wiorth, 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 con- 
 stantly 
 
( 157 ) 
 
 Stan tly declined it ; but her placid man- 
 ner 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, 
 
( 158 ) 
 
 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 liot 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 i jw is quite out 
 of the question. Lady Bertram could 
 not possibly spare her." 
 
 " Oh ! no — - 1 cannot do without 
 Fanny." 
 
 Mrs. Rushworth proceeded next, un- 
 der the conviction that every body must 
 be wanting to see Sotherton, to include 
 Miss Crawford in the invitation ; and 
 though M*5S Grant, who had not been 
 at the trouble of visiting Mrs. Rush- 
 worth on her coming into the neigh- 
 bourhood, civilly declined it on her own 
 account, she was glad to secure any plea- 
 sure for her sister ; and Mary, properly 
 
 pressed 
 
( 159 ) 
 
 pressed and persuaded, was not long in 
 accepting her share of the civility. Mr. 
 Rush worth came back from the par* 
 sonage successful ; and Edmund made 
 his appearance just in time to learn what 
 had been settled for Wednesday, to at- 
 tend 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 Ed- 
 mund, " 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 
 
( 1^0 ) 
 
 why a visit from the family were not 
 to be made in the carriage of the 
 family." 
 
 " What!" cried Julia: " go box'd up 
 three in a post-chaise 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, coach* 
 man is not very fond of the roads be- 
 tween this and Sotherton ; he always 
 complains bitterly of the narrow lanea 
 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 hand- 
 some reason for using Mr. Crawford's," 
 
 said 
 
( 161 ) 
 
 said Maria ; "but the truth is, that 
 Wikox 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 
 
( 162 ) 
 
 but as it relates to yourself, to your 
 Qwn 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 grati- 
 fication of the kind, and I am sure ma'am 
 you would be glad to give her the plea- 
 sure now ?" 
 
 " Oh ! yes, A^ery glad, if your aunt 
 sees no objection." 
 
 Mrs. Norris was very ready with 
 the only objection which could remain, 
 their having positively assured Mrs. 
 llushworth, that Fanny could not go, 
 and the very strange appearance there 
 would consequently be^ in taking her, 
 
 which 
 
( 163 ) 
 
 which seemed to her a difficulty quite 
 impossible, to be got over. It must 
 have the strangest appearance ! It 
 vt^ould be something so very unceremo- 
 nious, 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 wdsh 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 any 
 thing else. She felt that she had arranged 
 every thing 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 
 
( 164 ) 
 
 directly received a very sufficient invita- 
 tion for hm 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 choose, 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 honie 
 instead of Fanny." * 
 
 *^ I am sure she ought to be very 
 much obhged 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 kind- 
 ness 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 enjoy- 
 
( 165 ) 
 
 ment on her account gave her pain, and 
 her own satisfaction in seeing Sotherton 
 would be nothing without him. 
 
 The next meeting of the two Mans- 
 field famiUes produced another altera- 
 tion in the plan, and one that was admit- 
 ted 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 Ed- 
 mund was very thankful for an arrange- 
 ment 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 
 every body was ready, there was nothing 
 to be done but for Mrs. Grant to alight 
 and the others to take their places. The 
 
 place 
 
( 166 ) 
 
 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 meditat- 
 ing how best, and with most appear- 
 ance 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 
 w 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 
 
 4 her 
 
( m ) 
 
 her knowledge, and was very happy in 
 observing all that was new, and admir- 
 ing all that was pretty. She was not 
 often invited to join in the conversation 
 of the others, nor did she desire it. Her 
 own thouo[hts and reflections were 
 habitually her best con^panions ; 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 every thing 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 
 
( 168 ) 
 
 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 Ber- 
 tram had very httle 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 charm- 
 ing, she wished they could all see it, 
 &c." but her only offer of exchange 
 was addressed to Miss Crawford, as 
 they gained the summit of a long hill, 
 
 and 
 
( 169 ) 
 
 and was not more inviting than this, 
 " Here is a fine burst of country. I 
 wish you had my seat, but 1 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 
 Rush worth-feelings, and Crawford-feel- 
 ings, 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 it was now all Mr. Rush- 
 worth'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 
 
 VOL. I. I family. 
 
( m ) 
 
 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. Th^ 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 alms-houses. Milt 
 by some of the family. To the right is 
 the steward's house; he is a very respect- 
 able 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 
 ^ dreadfuk 
 
(171 ) 
 
 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 bet- 
 ter approach." 
 
 Miss Crawford was not slow to ad- 
 mire ; she pretty well guessed Miss Ber- 
 tram'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 every thing 
 within her reach ; and after being at some 
 pains to get a view of the house, and 
 observing that ^* it was a sort of build- 
 ing 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. Rush- 
 worth 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 
 
 I 2 grounds. 
 
( 172 ) 
 
 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. Rush- 
 worth 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. mi 
 
 '-In 
 
 «0 fulfil}, 
 
 CHAP- 
 
( 173 ) 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Ma. RusHwoRTH was at the door to 
 receive his fair lady, and the whole party 
 were welcomed by him with due atten- 
 tion. 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 col- 
 lation was prepared with abur>dance and 
 elegance. Much was said, and much 
 was ate, and all went well. The parti- 
 cular object of the day was then con- 
 sidered. How would Mr. Crawford like, 
 in what manner would he choose,, to take 
 a survey of the grounds ? — Mr. Rush- 
 worth mentioned his curricle. Mr. 
 Crawford suggested the greater desir- 
 ableness of some carriage which might 
 
 convey 
 
( 174 ) 
 
 convey more than two. " To be de- 
 priving themselves of the advantage of 
 other eyes and other judgments, might 
 be an eyil even beyond the loss of present 
 pleasure." 
 
 Mrs. Rush worth 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 
 undet Mrs. Rushworth's guidance w^ere 
 shewn through a number of rooms, all 
 lofty, and many large, and amply fur- 
 nished in the taste of fifty years back, 
 with shining floors, solid mahogan5^, rich 
 damask, marble, gilding and carving, 
 each handsome in its way. Gf pictures 
 there were abundance, and some few 
 good, but the larger part were family 
 
 portraits, 
 
( 175 ) 
 
 portraits, no longer any thing to any 
 body 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 Craw- 
 ford and Fanny, but there was no com- 
 parison in the willingness of their atten* 
 tion, 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 
 every thing was almost as interesting as 
 it was new, attended with unaffected 
 earnestness to all that Mrs. Rush worth 
 could relate of the family in former 
 times, its rise and grandeur, regal visits 
 and loyal efforts, delighted to connect 
 any thing with history already known,. 
 ,Dr. warm her imagination with scenes of 
 the past. 
 
 The situation of the house excluded 
 , the possibility of much prospect from any 
 ©f ft]be roorns, a^d while Fanny and some 
 
 oi 
 
( 176) 
 
 of the Others were attending Mrs. Rush- 
 worth, Henry Crawford was looking 
 grave and shaking his head at the win- 
 dows. 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. Rush- 
 worth, "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, 
 aod the qri^spp velvet cushions appear- 
 ing 
 
( 177 ) 
 
 mg 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 melan- 
 choly, 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 con-^ 
 fined a purpose, compared with the old 
 chapels of castles and monasteries. It 
 was only for the priva?te use of the 
 family. They have been buried, I sup- 
 pose, in the parish church. There you 
 must look for the banners and the at- 
 chievements." 
 
 " It was foolish of me not to think 
 of all that, but I am disappointed," ^ 
 
 Mrs. Rushworth began her relation^ 
 
 " This chapel w^as fitted up as you see. 
 
 k^ in. James the Second's time.; Be:foT& 
 
 iS thai 
 
( 178 ) 
 
 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 
 qmt^ 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 chap- 
 lain, within the memory of many. But 
 the late Mr. Rushworth left it off." 
 
 " Every generation has its improve- 
 ments," said Miss Crawford, with a 
 smile, to Edmund. 
 
 Mrs. Rushworth was gone to repeat 
 her lesson to Mr. Crawford ; and Ed- 
 mund, Fanny, and Miss Crawford, re- 
 mained 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 
 
( 179 ) 
 
 family assembling regularly for the pur- 
 pose of prayer, is fine !" 
 
 " Very fine indeed 1" said Miss Craw- 
 ford, laughing. " It must do the heads 
 of the family a great deal of good to 
 force all the poor housemaids and foot- 
 men to leave business and pleasure, and 
 say their prayers here twice a day, 
 while they are inventing excuses them-- 
 selves 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. Every body likes to go their 
 own way — to choose their own time - 
 a«d manner of devotion. The obliga- 
 tion of attendance, the formality, the^ 
 restraint, the leagth of time — altogether 
 it is a formidable thing, and what no- 
 body likes: and if the good peoj^ 
 who used -to kneel and gape in that gal- 
 lery 
 
C 180 ) 
 
 lery 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 headach, with- 
 out danger of reprobation, because 
 chapel was missed, they would have 
 jumped with joy and envy. Cannot 
 you imagine with what unwilling feel- 
 ings 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 look- 
 ing at— ^ and, in those days, I fancy par- 
 sons were very inferior even to what they 
 are now." 
 
 r For a few moments she was unan^ 
 ^swered. 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 subr 
 jects. You have given us an amusing 
 
 sketch, 
 
( 181 ) 
 
 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 sup- 
 posing 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 per- 
 sons? Do you think the minds w^hich 
 are suffered, which are indulged in wan- 
 derings in a chapel, would be more col- 
 lected in a closet ? " 
 
 " Yes, very likely. They would have 
 two chances at least in their favour. 
 There would be less to distract the at- 
 tention 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 exan^le may often 
 rouse better feelings than are begun 
 with. The greater length of the ser- 
 vice, however, I admit to be sometimes 
 
 too 
 
( 182 ) 
 
 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 
 
( 183 ) 
 
 *^n«Julia joining them at the moment, car- 
 ried on the joke. 
 
 " Upon my word, it is really a pity 
 that it should not take place directly, 
 if we had but a proper license., for here 
 we are altogether, and nothing in the 
 world could be more snug and plea- 
 sant." 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 pro- 
 per smiles and dignity of its being a most 
 happy event to her whenever it . took 
 placa 
 
 " 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. 
 S spoke; 
 
( 184 ) 
 
 spoke, might have amused a disinterestecl 
 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 T said Miss Crawford ; 
 " what, are you to be a clergyman?" 
 
 " Yes, I shall take orders soon after 
 my fathers return — probably at Christ- 
 mas." 
 
 Miss Crawford rallying her spirits^ 
 and recovering her complexion, replied 
 only, " If I had known thi« before,, I 
 would have spoken of the cloth with mor6 
 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 hiad been 
 now entirely shown, and Mrs. Rush- 
 worthy 
 
( 185 ) 
 
 worth, never weary in the cause, would 
 have proceeded towards the principal 
 stair-case, and taken then^ through all 
 the rooms above, if her son had not 
 interposed with a doubt of there bdng 
 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 junc- 
 tion of carriages and horses most could 
 be done, when the young people, meet- 
 ing 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 iin pulse, one jvri;|h for air and liberty, 
 all walked out« ^ ■ 
 
 " Suppose 
 
( 186 ) 
 
 " Suppose we torn down here for the 
 present/' said Mrs. Rushworth, civilly 
 taking the hint and following tbem. 
 ^* 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 wilder- 
 ness 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 
 
( 187 ) 
 
 the house. The lawn, bounded on each 
 side by a high wall, contained beyond 
 the first planted aerea, a bowling-green, 
 and beyond the bowling-green a long 
 terrace walk, backed by iron palissades, 
 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. Rushwoirth^ 
 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 
 
( 188 i 
 
 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 tole- 
 rably 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. Tlie 
 politeness which she had been brought 
 up to practise as a duty, made it impos- 
 sible for her to escape ; while the want of 
 that higher species of self-command, that 
 just consideration of others, that know- 
 ledge of her own heart, that principle of 
 right which had not formed any essential 
 part of her education, made ber miser- 
 able under it. 
 
 " This is insuiFerably 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 
 
t 189 ) 
 
 should Wot be locked 1 — but of course 
 it is, for in these great places, the gar- 
 deners are the only people who can go 
 wh^re they like." 
 
 The door, however, proved not to 
 be locked, and they were all agreed in 
 turning joyfully through it, and leav- 
 ing the unmitigated glare of day behind. 
 A considerable flight of steps landed theih 
 in the wilderness, which was a plant- 
 ed 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 ad- 
 mire. At length, after a short pause, 
 Miss Crawford began with, " So you 
 are to be a clergyman, Mr. Bertra,m. 
 This is rather a surprise to me.". 
 
 "Why should it surprise you? You 
 must suppose me designed for sometpro- 
 fession, and might perceive that 1 am 
 
 neither 
 
( 190 ) 
 
 neither a lawyer, liOQr 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 clergy- 
 man? I thought that was always the 
 lot of the- youngest, where there were 
 many to choose before him." 
 
 " Do you think the church itself 
 never chosen then ?" 
 
 "Never is a black word. But yes, 
 in the m'ver of conversation which 
 means not very often^ I do think it. 
 for what is to be dene in the church? 
 ^Merilove 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 
 
(my 
 
 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 conse- 
 quently 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 com- 
 prehend. 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 suppos- 
 ing 
 
( 19Q ) 
 
 ing 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, / am 
 speaking of the nation at large." 
 
 *' The metropolis, I imagine, is a pret- 
 ty fair sample of the rest." 
 
 " Not, I should hope, of the pro- 
 portion 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 influ- 
 ence of the clergy fcan be most felt 
 A fine preacher is followed and ad- 
 mired; but it is not in fine preaching 
 only that a good clergyman will be use- 
 ful in his parish and his neighbourhood, 
 where the parish and neighbourhood 
 are of a size capable of knowing his 
 1 private 
 
( 193 ) 
 
 private character, and observing his ge- 
 neral 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 ar- 
 biters 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 con- 
 duct ^ perhaps, the result of good prin- 
 ciples ; the effect, in short, of those doc- 
 trines which it is their duty to teach and 
 recommend ; and it will, I believe, be 
 every where 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." 
 
 VOL. I, K "I 
 
( 194 ) 
 
 " I wish I could convince Miss Craw- 
 ford 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 wil- 
 derness." 
 
 " Now you are going to say some- 
 thing about law being the worst wil- 
 derness 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 blun- 
 der on the borders of a repartee for 
 half an hour together without striking 
 it out." 
 
 A general silence succeeded. Each 
 
 was 
 
( 195 ) 
 
 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. Per- 
 haps," 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 connection 
 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 differ- 
 ence 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 
 k2 man 
 
( 196 ) 
 
 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 fur- 
 long in length." 
 
 '* Oh 1 I know nothing of your fur- 
 longs, 
 
( 197 ) 
 
 longs, 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 com- 
 fortable-sized bench, on which they all sat 
 down. 
 
 " I am afraid you are very tijred, 
 Fanny," said Edmund, observing her; 
 " why would not you speak sooner? 
 This will be a bad day's amusement for 
 yoR if you are to be knocked up. 
 
 Every 
 
( 198 ) 
 
 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 
 make 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, how- 
 ever, 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, 
 dawdlinoj 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, md 
 
 look 
 
( 199 ) 
 
 look upon verdure, is the most perfect 
 refreshment." 
 
 After sitting a little while, Miss Craw- 
 ford 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 w^ould 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 w'ood 
 
 by 
 
( 200 ) 
 
 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 re- 
 sist, 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. 
 
 CHAP- 
 
( 201 ) 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A QUARTER of an hour, twenty mi- 
 nutes, , passed away, and Fanny was still 
 thinking of Edmund, Miss Crawford, 
 and herself, without interruption from 
 anyone. She began to be surprised at 
 being left so long, and to listen with ari' 
 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 satis- 
 fied herself that it was not those she 
 vv^anted, when Miss Bertram, Mr. Rush- 
 worth, and Mr. Crawford, issued from 
 the same path which she had trod her- 
 self, 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 gentle- 
 K 5 man 
 
( 202 ) 
 
 man on each side, she resumed the con- 
 versation which had engaged them be- 
 fore, and discussed the possibility of 
 improvements with much animation. 
 Nothing was fixed on — but Henry 
 Crawford was full of ideas and pro- 
 jects, and, generally speaking, whatever 
 he proposed was immediately approved, 
 first by her, and then by Mr. Rush- 
 worth, whose principal business seem- 
 ed 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 comprehen- 
 sive. 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 
 
< 203 ) 
 
 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 with- 
 out 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 ex- 
 i pected?" 
 
 diig/h'MOf indeed, far otherwise. I find it 
 ; :/ better, 
 
( 204 ) 
 
 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 / shall ever see S other ton 
 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 
 
( Q05;y) 
 
 you so well entertained. You._^ar 
 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 pro- 
 spects, 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 
 
( 206 ) 
 
 the sun shines and the park looks very 
 cheerful. But unluckily that iron gate, 
 that ha-ha, give me a feeling of re- 
 straint 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. Rush worth is so long fetching this 
 key!" 
 
 " And for the world you would not 
 get out without the key and without Mr. 
 Rush worth'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 
 
( 207 ) 
 
 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 vith 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 
 e f longer 
 
( 208. ) 
 
 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 disagree- 
 able musings by sudden footsteps, 
 somebody was coming at a quick pace 
 down the principal walk. She expected 
 Mr. Rushworth, but il 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 any where," 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." np, 
 
 " But, Julia, Mr. Rushworth will be 
 
 here 
 
( 209 ) 
 
 here in a moment with the key. Do 
 wait for Mr. Rushworth." 
 
 ** Not Ij 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. Rush- 
 worth. 
 
 " 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 that he should have so 
 much trouble for nothing." 
 
 " That is Miss Maria's concern. I am 
 
 not 
 
( 210 ) 
 
 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 tbe sou. 
 I can get away from." 
 
 And she immediately scrambled across 
 the fence, and walked away, not attend- 
 ing to Fanny's last question of whether 
 she had seen any thing of Miss Craw- 
 ford and Edmund. The sort of dread 
 in which Fanny now sat of seeing Mr. 
 Rushworth prevented her thinking so 
 much of their continued absence, how^- 
 ever, as she might have done. She felt 
 that he had been very ill-used, and was 
 quite unhappy in having to communi- 
 cate what had passed. He joined her 
 within fiwe 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 any thing; his 
 looks only expressed his extreme sur- 
 prise and vexation, and he walked to 
 
 the 
 
( 211 ) 
 
 the gate and stood there, without seem- 
 ing to know what to do. 
 
 " They desired me to >tay> — my cousin Sm, ^ 
 Maria charged me to say that you would 
 find them at that knoll, or thereabouts." 
 
 " I do. not believe I shall go any fur- 
 ther," said he sullenly; " I see nothing 
 of them. By the time I get to the 
 knoll, they may be gone some where 
 ^se. 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 pur- 
 pose. 
 
 After an interval of silence, " I 
 uiink 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 
 wes silenced. After another pause, he 
 
 went 
 
( 21^ ) 
 
 went on : " Pray, Miss Price, are you 
 such a great admirer of this Mr. Craw- 
 ford as some people are? For my part, 
 I can see nothing in him." 
 
 " I do not think him at all hand- 
 some." ;,T>t 
 
 " Handsome ! Nobody can call such 
 an under-sized man handsome. He ijs 
 not five foot nine. I should not won- 
 der if he was not more than five foot 
 eight. I think he is an ill-looking fel- 
 low. 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 1 went the very mo- 
 ment 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 
 sjrill it is some distance, you know, from 
 
 this 
 
( 213 ) 
 
 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 encou- 
 raged 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 com- 
 panion. Mr. Rushworth was worked 
 on. " Well," said he, " if you really 
 think I had better go ; it would be fool- 
 ish to bring the key for nothing." And 
 letting himself out, he walked off with- 
 out further ceremony. 
 
 Fanny's 
 
( 214 ) 
 
 Fanny's thoughts were now all en- 
 grossed by the two who had left her so 
 long ago, and getting quite impatient, 
 she resolved to go in search of them. 
 Siie followed their steps along the bot- 
 tom 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 
 side gate, 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 morn- 
 ing 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 pleasant- 
 ly, 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 
 1 should 
 
( 215 ) 
 
 should certainly have come back for 
 her, had she not been tired already; 
 but this was not quite sufficient to do 
 away 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 re- 
 turn 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 half from 
 their leaving the house. Mrs. Norris 
 had been too weH 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 house- 
 keeper, after a great many courtesies 
 on the subject of pheasants, had taken 
 N her 
 
( 216 ) 
 
 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 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 spe- 
 cimen 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 ar- 
 rival of dinner. It was late before the 
 Miss Bertrams and the two gentlemen 
 came in, and their ramble did not ap- 
 pear to have been more than partially 
 agreeable, or at all productive of any 
 thing useful with regard to the object 
 of the day. By their own accounts 
 3 they 
 
( 217 ) 
 
 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 her's 
 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 par- 
 ticular 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 fidgetted about, and ob- 
 tained a few pheasant's eggs and a 
 cream cheese from the housekeeper, 
 
 VOL. I. L and 
 
( 218 ) 
 
 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 graci- 
 ously 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 dis- 
 appointed—but her conviction of being 
 really the one preferred, comforted her 
 under it, and enabled her to receive 
 Mr. Rush worth'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 con- 
 firmed by the arrangement. 
 
 " Well, Fanny, this has been a nne 
 day for you, upon my word!" said 
 Mrs. Norris, as they drove through the 
 park. *' Nothing but pleasure from be- 
 ginning 
 
( 2.19 ) 
 
 ginning to end! I am sure you ought 
 to be very much obliged to your amU 
 Bertram and me, for contriving to let 
 you go. A pretty good day's amuse- 
 ment you have had ! " 
 
 Maria was just discontented enough to 
 say directly, " 1 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 par- 
 cel 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 
 L 2 sort 
 
( ^20 ) 
 
 Sort that my sister would be delighted 
 with. That Mrs. Whitaker is a trea- 
 sure ! 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 spun- 
 ging?" said Maria, half pleased that 
 Sotherton should be so complimented. 
 
 " Spunging, my dear ! It is nothing 
 but four of those beautiful pheasant's 
 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 tliat sort; and so to be 
 sure it will. I shall get the dairy maid 
 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 
 
( 221 ) 
 
 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. 
 
 CHAP 
 
( 222 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 The day at Sotherton, with all its 
 imperfections, afforded the Miss Ber- 
 trams much more agreeable feelings 
 than were derived from the letters frona 
 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 authorize. His busi- 
 ness 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, 
 
(* 223 ) 
 
 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 that 
 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 pas- 
 sage or something ; that favouring some- 
 thing which every body who shuts 
 their eyes while they look, or their un- 
 derstandings while they reason, feels the 
 comfort of. It would probably be the 
 middle of November at least; the mid- 
 dle 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 re- 
 turn, and would hardly have found 
 consolation in a knowledge of the in- 
 terest 
 
( 224 ) 
 
 terest it excited in the breast of another 
 young lady. Miss Crawford, on walk- 
 ing 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 
 feehngs in a quiet congratulation, heard 
 it with ^n attention not so easily satis- 
 fied. Mrs. Norris gave the particulars 
 of the letters, and the subject was dropt; 
 but after tea, as Miss Crawford w^as 
 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 piano-forte, 
 she suddenly revived it by turning round 
 tpwards the group, and saying, " How 
 happy Mr. Rushworth looks ! He is 
 thinking of November." 
 
 Edmund looked round at Mr. Rush- 
 worth too, but had nothing to say. 
 " Your father's return will be a very 
 interesting event." 
 
 " It 
 
( 225 ) 
 
 " It will, indeed, after such an ab- 
 sence; an absence not only long, but 
 including so many dangers." 
 
 " It will be the fore-runner also of 
 other interesting events ; your sister's 
 marriage, and your taking orders." 
 . " Yes." 
 
 " Don't be affronted," said she laugh- 
 ing; " but it does put me in mind of 
 some of the old heathen heroes, who 
 after performing great exploits in a fo- 
 reign 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 piano-forte 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 
 L 5 quite 
 
( £^ ) 
 
 quite as voluntary as Maria's mar- 
 rying." 
 
 " 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, here^ 
 abouts." 
 
 " 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 niyself. On the contrary, the 
 knowing that there was such a provi- 
 sion 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 compe- 
 tence 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 fiather was too conscientious to have 
 
 allowed 
 
C ^27 ) 
 
 allowed it. I have no doubt that I was 
 biassed, 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 any thing 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, eithei* 
 navy or army, is its own justification. It 
 has every thing in its favour ; heroism^ 
 danger,, bustle, fashion. Soldiers and 
 sailors are always acceptable in society* 
 Nobody can wonder that men are soU 
 diers 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 ia your eyes, he mmt do it in 
 
 th« 
 
( Q28 ) 
 
 the most complete uncertainty of any 
 provision." 
 
 " What ! take orders without a living 1 
 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 argu- 
 ment. 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 sin- 
 cerity 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 
 l^est intentions of doing nothing all the 
 rest of his days but eat, drinkj and grow 
 : fati 
 
( 229 ) 
 
 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 no- 
 thing to do but to be slovenly and sel- 
 fish — 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) 
 common-place censure, you are not judg- 
 ing 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 
 
( 230 > 
 
 are speaking what you have been told 
 at your uncle's table." 
 
 '^ I speak what appears to me the ge- 
 neral opinion ; and where an opinion is 
 general, it^is usually correct. Though 
 / have not seen much of the domestic 
 lives of clergymen, it is seen by too 
 many to leave any deficiency of infor- 
 mation." 
 
 " Where any one body of educated 
 men, of whatever denomination^ are 
 condemned indiscriminately, there must 
 be a deficiency of infonnation, or (smil?- 
 ing) of something else. Your uncle, 
 and his brother admiral s,^ perhaps, knew 
 little of clergymen beyond the chaplains 
 whom, good or bad, they were always 
 wishing away." 
 
 " Poor William J He has met with 
 ^eat kindness from the chaplain of the 
 Antwerp," was a tender apostrophe of 
 Eanny's, very much to the purpose of 
 her own feelings, if not of the conversa^ 
 tion. 
 
 " I have beeasa little addicted to take 
 
 my 
 
( 2^51 ) 
 
 my opinions from my uncle," said Miss 
 Crawford, " that I can hardly suppose; — 
 and since you push me so bard, I must 
 observe, that I am not entirety without 
 the means of seeing what clergymen are, 
 being at this present time the guest of my 
 own brother, Dr. Grant. And thougli 
 E^. Grant is most kind and obliging to 
 me, and though he is really a gentle- 
 man, and I dave say a good scholar and 
 dever, andi often preaches good sermons, 
 and is very respectablfe, / see him to be 
 an indolent selfish bon vivant, who must 
 have his palate consulted in every thing, 
 who will- not sdi» a finger for the con- 
 venience of any one, and who> more- 
 over, 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 evenir^, by 
 a disappointment about a green goose^^ 
 which he could not get the better ofi 
 My poor sister was forced to stay attd 
 bear it." 
 
 *^' I ^not w€«der at your disapjMroba* 
 ^oi tion^ 
 
( S3£ ) 
 
 tion, 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 exceed- 
 ingly painful to such feelings as your's. 
 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 clergy- 
 man. 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, 
 
 tlie^ 
 
( 233 ) 
 
 the frequency, at least, of that know- 
 ledge which it is inipossible 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 en- 
 deavours to restrain himself than he 
 would if he had been any thing but a 
 clergyman." 
 
 " We cannot prove 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 ser- 
 mons; for though he may preach him- 
 self into a good humour every Sunday, 
 it will be bad enough to have him quar- 
 relling about green geese from Monday 
 morning till Saturday night." 
 
 " I think the man who could often 
 quarrel with Fanny," said Edmund, 
 
 . affection- 
 
( 234 ) 
 
 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 inaii 
 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 tem- 
 per which would never give pain ! How 
 well she walks! and how readily she 
 falls in with the inclination of others 1 
 joining them the moment she is asked. 
 " What a pity," he added, after an in- 
 stant'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 
 
( 234P ) 
 
 and of having his eyes soon turned like 
 her's 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 tranquillize 
 every care, and lift the heart to rap^ 
 ture ! When I look out on such a night 
 as this, I feel as if there could be neither 
 wickedness nor sorrow in the world y 
 and there certainly would be less of bath 
 if the sublimity of Nature were more 
 attended t^, and people were carried 
 more out of themselves by contemplat- 
 ing 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 
 
( 236 ) 
 
 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 Arctur us 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 hap- 
 pened." 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 mortifica- 
 tion of seeing him advance too, moving 
 forward by gentle degrees towards the in- 
 strument, 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, 
 
 CHAP- 
 
( "^^1 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Sir Thomas was to return in Novem- 
 ber, and his eldest son had duties to call 
 him earlier home. The approach of 
 September brought tidings of Mr. Ber- 
 tram first in a letter to the gamekeeper, 
 and then in a letter to Edmund ; and 
 by the end of August, he arrived him- 
 self, to be gay, agreeable, and gallant 
 again as occasion served, or Miss Craw- 
 ford demanded, to tell of races and 
 Weymouth, and parties and friends, to 
 which she might have listened six weeks 
 before with some interest, and alto- 
 gether 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 length- 
 ened 
 
( 238 ) 
 
 ened absence from Mansfield, without 
 any thing 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 Mans- 
 field 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. Evering* 
 ham could not do without him in the 
 beginning of September. He w^nt for 
 a fortnight ; a fortnight of such dul- 
 ness 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 shoot- 
 ing and sleeping, to have convinced the 
 gentleman that he ought to keep longer 
 1 away, 
 
( ^39 ) 
 
 away, had he been more in the habit of 
 examining his own motives, and of re- 
 flecting to what the indulgence of his 
 idle vanity was tending; but, thought- 
 less and selfish from prosperity and bad 
 example, he would not look beyond the 
 present moment. The sisters, hand- 
 some, clever, and encouraging, were an 
 amusement to his sated mind ; and find- 
 ing 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 
 farther. 
 
 Maria, with only Mr. Rush worth to 
 attend to hef, and doomed to the re- 
 peated details of his day's sport, good 
 or bad, his boast of his dogs, his jealousy 
 of his neighbours, his doubts of their 
 qualification, 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 griev- 
 ously; 
 
( 240 ) 
 
 ously; and Julia, unengaged and unem- 
 ployed, felt all the right of missing him 
 much more. Each sister believed her- 
 self the favourite. Julia might be jus- 
 tified in so doing by the hints of Mrs* 
 Grant, inclined to credit what she 
 wished, and Maria by the hints of Mr. 
 Crawford himself. Every thing re- 
 turned 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 any thing 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 can- 
 didly, 
 
( 241 ) 
 
 didly, she would probably have made 
 some important communications to hef 
 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 oc- 
 cur when he was once gone, to take hina 
 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 
 
 VOL. I. M faults 
 
( S4^ ) 
 
 faults but what a serious attachment 
 would remove." 
 
 " If Miss Bertram were not engaged," 
 said Fanny, cautiously, " I could some- 
 times 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 wo- 
 man 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 feel- 
 ings are not strong." 
 
 Fanny supposed she must have been 
 mistaken, and meant to think different- 
 ly in future ; but with all that sub- 
 mission to Edmund could do, and all 
 the help of the* coinciding looks and 
 hints which she occasionally noticed in 
 3 some 
 
( 243 ) 
 
 some of the others, and which seemed to 
 say that JuHa 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 this subject, as 
 well as to her feelings, and the feelings 
 of Mrs. Rushworth, on a point of some 
 similarity, and could not help wonder- 
 ing as she listened ; and glad would she 
 have been not to be obliged to listeri, 
 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. 
 M 2 It 
 
( 244 ) 
 
 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 arid 
 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. Rush- 
 worth 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 ncm^ 
 and I think it was rather a pity thej^ 
 should have been obliged to part. Young 
 folks in their situation should be ex- 
 cused complying with the common 
 forms. — I wonder my son did not pro- 
 pose it." 
 
 " I dare say he did^ ma'am. — ^Mr. 
 Rushworth is never remiss. But dear 
 Mi ia has such a strict sense of pro- 
 priety, 
 
< 245 ) 
 
 priety, so much of that true delicacy 
 which one seldom meets with now-a- 
 days, 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 anima- 
 tion, 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 recol- 
 lect, 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 
 
( 246 ) 
 
 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 xvill be. 
 — He is growing extremely particular 
 in his attentions." 
 
 Fanny could listen no farther. Lis- 
 tening and wondering were all suspend- 
 ed for a time, for Mr. Bertram was in 
 the room again, and though feeHng it 
 
 would 
 
( 247 ) 
 
 ivould be a great honour to be asked by 
 him, she thought it must happen. He 
 came towards their little circle; but in- 
 stead 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 ci- 
 vility 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 won- 
 der 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 
 
( S48 ) 
 
 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 despe- 
 rate dull life her's must be with the doc* 
 tor," making a sly face as he spoke to- 
 wards the chair of the latter, who prov- 
 ing, however, to be close at his eibow^ 
 made so instantaneous a change of ex- 
 pression and subject necessary, as Fanny, 
 in spite of every thing, could hardly help 
 laughing at. — " A strange business this 
 in America, Dr. Grant 1 — What is your 
 opinion ? — I always come to you to 
 know what I am to think of public mat- 
 ters." 
 
 " 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 
 
( 249 ) 
 
 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, pr 
 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 quarreUing, and that poking 
 M 5 old 
 
( 250 ) 
 
 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 any thing, 
 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." 
 
 CHAP- 
 
( 251 ) 
 
 CHAPTER Xlir. 
 
 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 Mans- 
 field in his way, whenever he could, and 
 by his promising to come ; and he did 
 come rather earlier than had been ex- 
 pected, 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 disappoint- 
 ment^ 
 
( g5£ ) 
 
 ment, 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 connections 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 immortalized 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 
 Bnd its theatre, with its arrangements 
 and dresses, rehearsals and jokes, was 
 his never~f ailing 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 
 eould hardly out-talk the interest of his 
 
 hearers. 
 
( S.5S ) 
 
 hearers. From the first casting of the 
 parts, to the epilogue, it was all bewitch- 
 ing, and there were few who did not 
 wish to have been a party concerned, or 
 would have hesitated to try their &kill. 
 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 Eccles- 
 ford ; 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 /was 
 resolved to make no difficulties. Sir 
 Henry thought the duke not equal Xo 
 
 Frederick, 
 
( 254 ) 
 
 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 wonder- 
 fully." 
 
 " It was a hard ease, 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 suppress- 
 ed 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, 
 
{ ^55 ) 
 
 suggested, I know ; but Lord Raven- 
 shaw, who I suppose is one of the most 
 correct men in England, would not hear 
 of it." 
 
 " An after-piece instead of a comedy," 
 said Mr. Bertram. *' Lovers' Vows were 
 at an end, and Lord and Lady Raven- 
 shaw 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 
 
( 256 ) 
 
 tidapted 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 under- 
 take 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 any thing or every thing, as if 1 
 could rant and storm, or sigh, or cut 
 capers in any tragedy or comedy in the 
 English language. :Let us be doing some- 
 thing. Be it only half a play — an act — 
 a scene ; what should prevent us? Not 
 these countenances 1 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 
 
( 257 ) 
 
 ** "We must have a curtain," said Tom 
 Bertram, " a few yards of green baize 
 for a curtain, and perhaps that may he 
 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, a^nd other difliculties would 
 arise. We must rather adopt Mr. 
 "Crawford's views, and make the per- 
 formance^ not the theatre, our object. 
 Many parts of our best plays are inde- 
 pendent 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, 
 box, and gallery, and let us have a play 
 
 entire 
 
( ^58 ) 
 
 entire from beginning to end ; so as it 
 be a German play, no matter what, 
 with a good tricking, shifting after- 
 piece, and a figure-dance, and a horn- 
 pipe, and a song between the acts. If 
 w^e do not out do Ecclesford, we do 
 nothing." 
 
 " Now, Edmund, do not be disagree- 
 able," 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 deco- 
 rum to struggle through." 
 
 After a short pause, however, the 
 subject still continued, and was discus- 
 sed 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 
 
( 269 -) 
 
 but that Tom Bertram would prefer a 
 comedy, and his sisters and Henry Craw- 
 ford 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 deter- 
 mined to prevent it, if possible, though 
 his mother, who equally heard the con- 
 versation 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 dis- 
 tance, and Fanny close beside her ar- 
 ranging her work, thus began as he 
 entered. " Such a horribly vile billiard- 
 table as ours, is not to be met with, 1 
 believe, above ground ! I can stand it 
 
 no 
 
( 260 ) 
 
 no longer, and I think, I may say, that 
 nothing shall ever tempt me to it again. 
 But one good thing I have just ascer- 
 tained. It is the very room for ja 
 theatre, precisely the shape and lengtji 
 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 book-case in my 
 feJiier's room, is the very thing we 
 could have desired, if we had set down 
 to wish for it. And my father's 
 room will be an excellent green-room. 
 It seems to join the billiard-room on 
 purpose." 
 
 " You are not serious, Tom, in mean- 
 ing to act?" said Edmund in a low voice, 
 as his brother approached the fire. 
 
 " Not serious ! never more so, I as- 
 sure you. What is there to surprise y^u 
 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 
 
( m ) 
 
 highly injudicious, and more than inju- 
 dicious, to attempt any thing of the kind. 
 It would show great want of feeling on 
 my father's account, ahsent as he is, and 
 in some degree of constant danger; and 
 it would be imprudent, I think, with re- 
 gard to Maria, whose situation is a very 
 delicate one, considering every thing, ex- 
 tremely 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, 1 think, in choosing 
 some play most perfectly unexception- 
 able^ and I can conceive no greater 
 harm or danger to any of us in conv^s- 
 ing in the elegant written language of 
 some respectable author than in chatter- 
 ing in words of our own. I have no 
 
 fears, 
 
( 262 ) 
 
 fears, and no scruples. And as to my 
 fathers 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 njtry anxious 
 period for her." 
 
 As he said this, each looked towards 
 their mother. Lady Bertram j 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 r — I was un- 
 lucky there." 
 
 " What is the matter?" asked her 
 
 ladyship 
 
( 263 ) 
 
 ladyship in the heavy tone of one half 
 roused, — " I was not asleep." 
 
 " Oh ! dear, no ma'am — nobody 
 suspected you — Well, Edmund," he con- 
 tinued, returning to the former subject, 
 posture, and voice, as soon as Lady 
 Bertram began to nod again — " But this 
 I zvill maintain — that we shall be doing 
 no harm." 
 
 " I cannot agree with you — I am con- 
 vinced that my father would totally dis- 
 approve it." 
 
 " And I am convinced to the con- 
 trary. — Nobody is fonder of the exer- 
 cise of talent in young people, or pro- 
 motes it more, than my father ; and for 
 any thing of the acting, spouting, re- 
 citing kind, I think he has always a de- 
 cided 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 amuse- 
 ment ! And I am sure, my name was 
 
 Nowalf 
 
( £64 ) 
 
 ^or*val, every evening of my life through 
 one Christmas holidays." 
 
 " It was a very different thing*— You 
 must see the difference yourself. Mj 
 father wished us, as school-boys, to speak 
 well, but he would never wish his grown 
 up daughters to be acting plays. His 
 a^nse 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," re- 
 plied the persevering Edmund, " I must 
 h^pe it will be in a very small and quiet 
 way ; and 1 think a theatre ought not to 
 be attempted.— -It would be taking liber-^ 
 ties with my father's house in his absence 
 which could not be justified." 
 
 " For every thing of that nature, r*will 
 
 be answerable," — said Tom, in a decided 
 
 tone.-—" His house shall not be hurt. I 
 
 have quite as great an interesf in being 
 
 4 careful^ 
 
( 265 ) 
 
 careful of his house as you can nave; 
 and as to such alterations as I was sug- 
 gesting just now, such as moving a book- 
 case, or unlocking a door, or even as 
 using the billiard-room for the space oi 
 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 
 piano forte 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 ex- 
 pense."' 
 
 " Yes, the expense of such an under- 
 taking 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 carpenters work may be all 
 done at home by Christopher Jackson 
 
 VOL, I. N himself, 
 
( 266 ) 
 
 himself, it will be too absurd to talk of 
 expense ; — and as long as Jackson is em- 
 ployed, every thing will be right with 
 Sir Thomas, -r— Don't imagine that no- 
 body 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 
 every body else." 
 
 " No, as to acting myself," said Ed- 
 mund, " 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 vex- 
 ation. 
 
 Fanny, who had heard it all, and borne 
 Edmund company in every feeHng 
 throughout the whole, now ventured to 
 say, in her anxiety to suggest same com- 
 fort, " Perhaps they may not be able to 
 find any play to suit them. Yow bro- 
 ther's taste, and your sisters', seem v^ry 
 different.'* 
 
 ** I have no hope there, Faipj^y. If 
 they persist in the scheme they wili fi^ 
 something— I shall speak to my sistor^, 
 
 5ind 
 
( 26r ) 
 
 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 sis- 
 ters that could be of any use ; and if I 
 cannot convince them myself, I shall let 
 things take their course, without at- 
 tempting it through her. Family squab- 
 bling is the greatest evil of all, and we 
 had better do any thing than be altoge- 
 ther by the ears." 
 
 His sisters, to whom he had an op- 
 portunity of speaking the next morn- 
 ing, were quite as impatient of his ad- 
 vice, quite as unyielding to his repre- 
 sentation, quite as determined in the 
 cause of pleasure, as Tom, — Their mo- 
 ther 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 ; 
 N 2 and 
 
( 268 ) 
 
 and it must be scrupulousness run mad, 
 that could see any thing to censure in a 
 plan like their's, 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 situa- 
 tion might require particular caution 
 and delicacy — but that could not ex- 
 tend to her — ^he was at liberty; and 
 Maria evidently considered her engage- 
 ment 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 sub- 
 ject, when Henry Crawford entered 
 the room, fresh from the Parsonage, 
 calling out, " No want of hands in our 
 Theatre, Miss Bertram. No want of un- 
 der strappers — My sister desires her love, 
 and hopes to be admitted into the com- 
 pany, and will be happy to take the part of 
 any old Duenna or tame Confidante, that 
 you may not like to do yourselves." 
 
 Maria 
 
( ^69 ) 
 
 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 fas- 
 cination to the mind of genius ; and 
 with the ingenuity of love, to dwell 
 more on the obliging, accommodating 
 purport of the message than on any 
 thing 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 any 
 body, 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 her- 
 self obliged to leave her own house, 
 ,k.!/ where 
 
( 270 ) 
 
 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 th^ 
 project. 
 
 CHAP- 
 
( 271 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Fanny seemed nearer being right than 
 Edmund had supposed. The business 
 of finding a play that would suit every 
 body, 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 diffi- 
 culties, and having made the necessity 
 of an enlargement of plan and ex- 
 pense 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 house- 
 maids, 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 
 
( S7Q ) 
 
 There were, in fact, so many things 
 to be attended to, so many people to 
 be pleased, so many best characters re- 
 quired, 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 any thing 
 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 unneces- 
 sary; and independent of this great, ir- 
 reconcileable difference, they wanted a 
 piece containing very few characters in 
 the whole, but every character first- 
 rate, and three principal women. AH 
 the best plays were run over in vain. 
 Neither Hamlet, nor Macbeth, nor 
 Othello, nor Douglas, nor the Game- 
 ster, 
 
( 97S ) 
 
 ster, presented any thing that could 
 satisfy even the tragedians ; and the 
 Rivals, the School for Scandal, Wheel 
 of Fortune, Heir at Law, and a long 
 etcetera, 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 re- 
 petition of, " Oh I no, that will never 
 do. Let us have no ranting tragedies. 
 Too many characters — Not a tolerable 
 woman's part in the play — Any thing 
 but thaty my dear Tom. It would be 
 impossible to fill it up — One could not 
 expect any body 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 — / do not 
 wish to make objections, I shall be happy 
 to be of any use, but I think we could 
 not choose worse." 
 
 Fanny looked on and listened, not 
 N 5 unamused 
 
V ( 274 ) 
 
 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 iT€ver seen even half a 
 play, but every ^ thing of higher conse- 
 quence was against it. 
 
 "This will never do," said Tom Ber^ 
 tram at last. " We are wasting time 
 most abominably. Something must be 
 fixed on. No matter what, so that some- 
 thing 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 insig- 
 nificant, the greater our credit in making 
 any thing of it. From this moment / 
 make no difficulties. I take any part 
 jou choose 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 pro- 
 posed the Heir at Law, doubting only 
 whether to prefer Lord Duberley or 
 
 Dr. 
 
( 275 > 
 
 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 Personas. 
 
 The pause which followed this fruit- 
 less 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 ex- 
 claimed, " 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 dis- 
 like, and as I said before, I am deter- 
 mined to take any-thing and do my best. 
 And as for the rest, they may be filled 
 up by any-body. It is only Count Cassel 
 aftd Anhalt." 
 
 The 
 
( Q76 ) 
 
 The suggestion was generally wel- 
 come. Every body was growing weary 
 of indecision, and the first idea with 
 every body 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 Wil- 
 denhaim was the height of his thea- 
 trical 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 remem- 
 bering that there was some very good 
 ranting ground in Frederick, he pro- 
 fessed an equal willingness for that. 
 Henry Crawford was ready to take 
 either. Whichever Mr. Yates did not 
 choose, would perfectly satisfy him, and 
 a short parley of compliment ensued. 
 
 Miss 
 
( 277 ) 
 
 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 
 a,nd 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 accord- 
 ingly, she was certain of the proper 
 Frederick. Three of the characters 
 were now cast, besides Mr. Rushworth, 
 who was always answered for by Maria f 
 as willing to do any thing; when Julia, 
 meaning like her sister to be Agatha, 
 began to be scrupulous on Miss Craw- 
 ford'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 
 
( 278 ) 
 
 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 re- 
 spect the property of Miss Crawford if 
 she would accept it. "It falls as natu- 
 rally, as necessarily to her," said he, " as 
 Agatha does to one or other of my sis- 
 ters. 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 bfest 
 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 solem- 
 nity. You must not, indeed you must 
 not — (turning to her.) I could not 
 stand your countenance dressed up in 
 
 woe 
 
( 279 ) 
 
 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 under- 
 stood, and before Julia could command 
 herself enough to speak, her brother 
 gave his weight against her too, by 
 saying, " Oh ! yes, Maria must be Aga- 
 tha. Maria will be the best Agatha* 
 Though Julia fancies she prefers tra- 
 gedy, 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 
 
( 280 ) 
 
 had better do the old countrywoman ; 
 the Cottager's wife; you had, indeed, 
 Julja. Cottager's wife is a very pretty 
 part I assure you. The old lady re- 
 lieves 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 common-place — 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 any body 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 thaty my good friend, till 
 I and my company have really acted 
 there must be some guess-work ; but I 
 mean no disparagement to Julia. We 
 cannot have two Agathas, and we must 
 
 have 
 
( 2«1 )) 
 
 have one Cottager's wife; and I am 
 sure I set her the example of modera- 
 tion myself in being satisfied with the 
 old Butler. If the part is trifling she 
 will have more credit in making some- 
 thing of it; _ and if she is so desperately 
 bent against every thing humorous, let 
 her take Cottager's speeches instead of 
 Cottager's wife's, and so change the 
 parts all through; he is solemn and pa- 
 thetic 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, / would undertake 
 him with all my heart. 
 
 " With all your partiality for Cotta- 
 ger's wife," said Henry Crawford, " it 
 will be impossible to make any thing 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 cha- 
 racter more difficult to be well repre- 
 sented 
 
( 282! ) 
 
 sen ted than even Agatha. I consider 
 Amelia as the most difficult character 
 in the whole piece. It requires great 
 powers, great nicety, to give her play- 
 fulness and simplicity without extrava- 
 gance, 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 re- 
 quires a gentlewoman — a Julia Ber- 
 tram. 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 Craw- 
 ford and Miss Crawford only. She looks 
 
 the 
 
( 2«S ) 
 
 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, " in- 
 deed you must. When you have stu- 
 died the character, I am sure you will 
 feel it suit you. Tragedy may be your 
 choice, but it will certainly appear that 
 comedy chooses you. You will be to 
 visit me in prison with a basket of pro- 
 visions ; 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 
 
( 284 ) 
 
 Julia well knew that om this ground 
 Maria could not be happy but at her 
 expense. With hasty indignation there- 
 fore, 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 overpower- 
 ing!" — 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 
 tne. I quite detest her. An odious, 
 ^ittle, pert, unnatural, impudent girl. 
 I have always . protested against come- 
 dy, and this is comedy in its worst form." 
 
 And 
 
( 285 ) 
 
 And so saying, she walked hastily out of 
 the room, leaving awkward feelings to 
 more than one, but exciting small com- 
 passion 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 proba- 
 bly do it very ill, I fed persuaded she 
 would do it worse," was doubtless re- 
 ceiving all the compliments it called 
 
 When this had lasted some time, the 
 
 divisiofi 
 
( me ) 
 
 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 tke 
 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 soli- 
 tude was to take up the volume which 
 bad 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 as- 
 tonishment, 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 
 ©f the other, so unfk to be expressed 
 :-M« ^^i> .. by 
 
 1 
 
( 287 ) 
 
 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. 
 
 CHAP- 
 
( 288 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Miss Crawford accepted the part very 
 readily, and soon after Miss Bertram's 
 return from the Parsonage, Mr. Rush- 
 worth arrived, and another character 
 was consequently cast. He had the 
 offer of Count Cassel and Anhalt, and 
 at first did not know which to choose, 
 and wanted Miss Bertram to direct him, 
 but upon beings 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 sympathize 
 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 
 3 scene, 
 
scene, she very Mndly 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 choosing his co- 
 lours. Mr. Rushworth hiced the idea, 
 of his finery very well, though affect- 
 ing to despise it, and was too much en- 
 gaged 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 Ed- 
 mund, who had been out all the morn- 
 ing, knew any thing of the matter; 
 but when he entered the drawing-room, 
 before dinner, the buz 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 
 
 Vol. I, o in 
 
( 290 ) 
 
 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^j^ 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 to- 
 wards his brother and sisters as if hard- 
 ly doubting a contradiction. 
 
 '' Yes," cried Mr. Yates.—*' After all 
 our debatings and difficulties, we find 
 there is nothing that will suit us alto- 
 gether so well, nothing so unexcep- 
 tionable, as Lovers' Vows. The wonder 
 is that it should not have been thought 
 of before. My stupidity was abomina- 
 ble, for here we have all the advantage 
 of what I saw at Ecclesford ; and it is 
 so useful to have any thing of a model ! 
 — We have cast almost every part." 
 
 " But 
 
( 291 ) 
 
 " But what do you do for women?" 
 said Edmund gravely, and looking at 
 IMaria. 
 
 " 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, 
 " r 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 accompa- 
 
 o 2 nied 
 
( 292 ) 
 
 nied by Mr. Yates, and followed soon 
 afterwards by Mr. Rush worth, 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 sup- 
 pose 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 fathers judgment, I am con- 
 vinced." 
 
 " We see things very differently," 
 cried Maria — *' I am perfectly acquainted 
 with the play, I assure you — and with a 
 very few ©missions, and so forth, which 
 will be ipade, of course, I can see no- 
 thing objectionable in it ; and / am not 
 the only young woman you find, who 
 
 thinks 
 
( 293 ) 
 
 thinks it very fit for private representa- 
 tion.'' 
 
 " 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 indeco- 
 rum 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 
 
( 294 ) 
 
 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 any thing improper, my 
 dear," said Lady Bertram, " Sir Tho- 
 mas would not like it. — Fann^^, ring the 
 bell ; I must have my dinner.- — To be 
 sure Julia is dressed by this time." 
 
 '* I am convinced, madam," said Ed- 
 mund, 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 situa- 
 tions 
 
( ^95 ) 
 
 tioiis — that she need not be so scrupu- 
 lous as / 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 ; every 
 body would be so disappointed. Tom 
 would be quite angry : and if we are so 
 very nice, we shall never act any thing." 
 " 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 thi'own 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 any thing 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. Rush- 
 worth 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 cur- 
 tain will be a good job, however. The 
 
 maids 
 
( S96 ) 
 
 maids do their work very well, and I 
 think we shall be able to send back some 
 dozens of the rings. — ^There is no oc- 
 casion to put them so very close toge- 
 ther. I am of some use I hope in pre- 
 venting 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 peo- 
 ple, (the Jacksons are very encroaching, 
 
 I have 
 
( 9.97 ) 
 
 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 be- 
 lieve I might speak pretty sharp ; and I 
 dare say it will cure him of coming ma- 
 rauding 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 an- 
 swer; the others soon returned, and 
 Edmund found that to have endea- 
 voured 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 prepara- 
 tion were otherwise much talked of, for 
 Edmund's disapprobation was felt even 
 o 5 by 
 
( 298 ) 
 
 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 agree- 
 able to Julia, found her gloom less impe- 
 netrable on any topic than that of his 
 regret at her secession from their com- 
 pany, 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 re-assembled 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^ 
 Kho, late and dark and dirty as it was, 
 
 could 
 
( 299 ) 
 
 could not help coming, and were re- 
 ceived with the most grateful joy. 
 
 " Well, how do you go on ? " and 
 " What have you settled?" and " Oh i 
 we can do nothing without you," fol- 
 lowed 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 compliment'- 
 ing 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 by-standers must be infinitely 
 more thankful for a decision ; and I do 
 sincerely give you joy, madam, as well 
 as Mrs. Norris, and every body else who 
 is in the same predicament," glancing 
 half fearfully, half slily, beyond Fanny 
 to Edmund. 
 
 She was very civilly answered by 
 Lady Bertram, but Ejdiflund said no- 
 ■ ■::, thing. 
 
( 300 ) 
 
 thing. His being only a by-stander 
 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 ale-houses, 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. Rush* 
 worth 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 
 
( 301 ) 
 
 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 ? " 
 
 " / shall not ask him," replied Tom, 
 in a cold, determined manner. 
 
 Miss 
 
( 302 ) 
 
 Miss Crawford talked of somethincp 
 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 Ber- 
 tram, 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." 
 
 " / should have no objection," she 
 replied ; " for though I should not par- 
 ticularly dislike the part of Anielia if 
 well supported — that is, if every thing 
 went well — I shall be sorry to be an in- 
 convenience — but as they do not choose 
 to hear your advice at that table — 
 (looking round) — it certainly will not 
 be taken." 
 
 Edmund said no more. 
 
 " If afiy part could tempt you to act, 
 
 I sup- 
 
( 303 ) 
 
 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 ap- 
 pearing a formal, solemn lecturer; and 
 the man who chooses 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 consider- 
 ably 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 con- 
 versation incessant, " we want your 
 services." 
 
 Fanny was up in a moment, expect- 
 ing 
 
( 304 ) 
 
 ing some errand, for the habit of em- 
 ploying 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 Cot- 
 tager's wife." 
 
 " Me!" cried Fanny, sitting down 
 again with a most frightened look. 
 *' Indeed you must excuse me. I could 
 not act any thing if you were to give 
 me the world. No, indeed, I cannot 
 act." 
 
 " Indeed but you must, for we can- 
 not 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 creepmouse 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 
 
( 305 ) 
 
 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, 
 111 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 shame- 
 faced. You'll do it very well. Every 
 allowance will be made for you. We 
 do not expect perfection. You must 
 get a brown gowa, and a white apron, 
 
 and 
 
- ( 306 ) 
 
 and a mob cap, and we must make y.f)u 
 a few wrinkles, and a little of the crows- 
 foot 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 agi- 
 tation, and looking distressfully at Ed- 
 mund, who was kindly observing her, 
 but unwilling to exasperate his brother 
 by interference, gave her only an encou- 
 raging smile. Her entreaty had no 
 effect on TorS ; 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. Craw- 
 ford, and Mr. Yates, with an urgency 
 which differed from his, but in being 
 more gentle or more ceremonious, and 
 which altogether was quite overpower- 
 i ng 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 
 
( 307 ) ^ 
 
 " What a piece of work here is about 
 nothing, — I am quite ashamed of you, 
 Fanny, to make such a difficulty of oblig- 
 ing 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, 1 en- 
 treat." 
 
 " Do not urge her, madam," said Ed- 
 mund. " It is not fair to urge her in 
 this manner. — You see she does not like 
 to act. — Let her choose 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," — re- 
 plied Mrs. Norris sharply, " but I shall 
 think her a very obstinate, qpgrateful 
 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 
 
( 308 ) 
 
 and then at Fanny, whose tears were 
 beginning to show thenaselves, imme- 
 diately 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, — every body is cross and teas- 
 ing — 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 
 feeling#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 
 
 a 
 
( 309 ) 
 
 wishing she could work as well, and 
 begging for the pattern, and supposing 
 Fanny was now preparing for her ap- 
 pearance 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 ani- 
 mation than she had intended. 
 
 The consultation upon the play still 
 went on, and Miss Crawford's attention 
 was first called from Fanny by Tom Ber- 
 tram'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 
 
( 310 ) 
 
 be the smallest difficulty in filling it/' 
 he added. — " We have but to speak 
 the word ; we may pick and choose. 
 — 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 any where, 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 con- 
 cerned, I can have no objection to any 
 1 thing 
 
( 311 ) ' 
 
 thing 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 Hen- 
 ry? — A quiet-looking young man. I 
 remember him. Let him be applied to, 
 if you please, for it will be less unplea- 
 sant to me than to have a perfect 
 stranger." 
 
 Charles Maddox was to be the man. 
 
 — Tom repeated his resolution of go- 
 ing 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 en- 
 liven the whole neighbourhood exceed- 
 ingly" — Edmund still held his peace, 
 and shewed his feelings only by a deter- 
 mined gravity. 
 
 " I am not very sanguine as to our 
 play" — said Miss Crawford in an under 
 voice, to Fanny, after some considera- 
 tion ; 
 
- ( 512 ) 
 
 tion ; " 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 dis- 
 agreeable, and by no means what I ex- 
 pected." 
 
 CHAP^ 
 
( 313 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 It was not in Miss Crawford's power to 
 talk Fanny into any real forgetfulness 
 of what had passed. — When the even- 
 ing 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 some- 
 thing so infinitely worse, to be told 
 that she must do what was so impos- 
 sible 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 su- 
 peradded dread of what the morrow 
 might produce in continuation of 
 VOL., I. p the 
 
( 314 ) 
 
 the subject. Miss Crawford had pro- 
 tected her only for the time ; ^ and if 
 she were applied to again among them- 
 selves 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 in- 
 competent 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 mis- 
 tress. 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, 
 
( 315 ) 
 
 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 ac- 
 commodation 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 her's. The East room as it had 
 been called, ever since Maria Bertram 
 was sixteen, was now considered Fanny's, 
 almqst as decidedly as the white attic ; 
 — the smallness of the one making the 
 use of the other so evidently reason- 
 able, that the Miss Bertrams, with every 
 superiority in their own apartments, 
 which their own sense of superiority 
 eould demand, were entirely approving 
 p S it; 
 
( 316 ) 
 
 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 Fan- 
 ny's, and while there was a gleam of sun- 
 shine, 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 
 any thing 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 coinmanding a shilling — her wri- 
 ting desk; and her works of charity and 
 ingenuity, were all within her reach; 
 
 — or 
 
(317) 
 
 — 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. — 
 Every thing 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 been 
 often misunderstood, her feelings dis- 
 regarded, and her comprehension under, 
 valued ; though she had known the 
 pains of tyranny, of ridicule, and ne- 
 glect, yet almost every recurrence of 
 either had led to something consola- 
 tory; her aunt Bertram had spoken 
 for her, or Miss Lee had been encou- 
 raging, 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 affec- 
 tion which made her tears delightful — 
 and the whole was now so blended 
 
 together > 
 
( 318 ) 
 
 together, so harmonized 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 moon- 
 light lake in Cumberland; a collection 
 of family profiles thought unworthy of 
 being anywhere else, over the mantle- 
 piece, and by their side and pinned 
 against the wall, a small sketch of a 
 ship sent four years ago from the Medi- 
 terranean 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 
 
( 319 ) 
 
 M'alked 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 per- 
 severance 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 — selfish- 
 ness — and a fear of exposing herself? 
 And would Edmund's judgment, would 
 his persuasion of Sir Thomas's disappro- 
 bation 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 sus- 
 pect the truth and purity of her own 
 
 scru^-«>cSy 
 
( 320 ) 
 
 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 be« 
 tween the windows was covered with 
 work-boxes and netting-boxes, which 
 had been given her at different times, 
 principally by Tom ; and she grew be- 
 wildered as to the amount of the debt 
 which all these kind remembrances pro- 
 duced. 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 
 
( S£l ) 
 
 from such a compliment, highly as it 
 gratified her. 
 
 " Yes, your advice and opinion. 1 
 do not know what to do. This acting 
 scheme gets worse and worse you seq. 
 They have chosen ahuost as bad a play 
 as they could ; and now, to complete 
 the business, are going to ask the lielp 
 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 inti- 
 macy w^hich must spring from his being 
 admitted among us in this manner, is 
 highly objectionable, the more than inti- 
 macy — 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 
 si^Pfit in the :§arne light ?" 
 
 " Y€3, ,but \^hat can be done ? Your 
 brother is so determined ? " 
 
 " There is but one thing to be done, 
 
 Ea^^y. I must take Anhalt myself. J 
 
 p 5 am 
 
( 322 ) 
 
 am well aware that nothing else will 
 quiet Tom." 
 
 Fanuy could not answer him. 
 
 " It is not at ail what I like," he con- 
 tinued. *' No man can like being driven 
 into the appearance of such inconsis- 
 tency. After being known to oppose 
 the scheme from the beginning, there 
 is absurdity in the face of my joining 
 them 7ioWy 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 im- 
 mediately — 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 — au^ 
 thorized to come at all hours — and* 
 placed suddenly on a footing which 
 must do away all restraints. To think 
 
 only 
 
( 3^3 ) 
 
 only of the license 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 un- 
 derstand her unwillingness to be acting 
 with a stranger ; and as she probably en- 
 gaged in the part with different expecta- 
 tions — 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 not it 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 ! " 
 
 « The^ 
 
( 324 ) 
 
 " 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 approba- 
 tion. Can you mention any other mear 
 sure by which I have a chance of doing 
 equal good ? " 
 
 '' No, 
 
( ^'25 ) 
 
 " Noy I cannot think of any thing 
 else." 
 
 " Give me your approbation, then, 
 Fanny. I am not comfortable with- 
 out it." 
 
 " Oh! cousin." 
 
 " If you are against me, I ought to dis- 
 trust myself — and yet But it is ab- 
 solutely impossible to let Tom go on in 
 this way, riding about the country in 
 quest of any body who can be persuaded 
 to act — no matter whom ; the look of a 
 gentleman is to be enough. I thought 
 1/ou 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 iiight* 
 It gave her a very strong claim on my 
 jgood will." 
 
 " She zvas very kind indeed, and I 
 ^m glad to have her spared."- • • • 
 
 She 
 
( 39.6 ) 
 
 She could not finish the generous effu- 
 sion. Her conscience stopt her in the 
 middle, but Edmund was satisfied. 
 
 " I shall walk down immediately after 
 breakfast," said he, " and am sure of giv- 
 ing 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 1 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 di- 
 rectly 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 
 
( '5%! ') 
 
 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 
 hacj told her the most extraordinary, 
 the most inconceivable, the most unwel- 
 come news ; and she could think of no- 
 thing 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 pos- 
 sible? Edmund so inconsistent. Was 
 he not deceiving himself ? Was he not 
 wrong? Alas! it was all Miss Craw- 
 ford's doing. She had seen her influ- 
 ence 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 
 
( 328 } 
 
 swallowed them up. Things should take 
 their course ; she cared not how it ended. 
 Her cousins mightmttack, but could hardly 
 tease her. She was beyond their reach ; 
 and if at last obliged to yield — no mat- 
 ter — it was all misery now. 
 
 CHAP- 
 
( 329 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XVir. 
 
 It was, indeed, a triumphant day to 
 Mr. Bertram and Maria. Such a vic- 
 tory over Edmund's discretion had been 
 beyond their hopes, and vvas most de- 
 lightful. There was no longer any thing 
 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 de- 
 scent. 
 
 They 
 
( 330 ) 
 
 They behaved very well, however, to 
 Mm on the occasion, betraying no exul- 
 tation beyond the lines about the cor- 
 ners 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 limita- 
 tion of the audience, they were ready, 
 in the complaisance of the moment, to 
 promise any thing. It was all good 
 humour and encouragement. Mrs. 
 Norris offered to contrive his dress, 
 Mr. Yates assured him, that Anhalfs 
 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 
 
( 331 ) 
 
 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 her s, 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 <5^f 
 Miss Crawford, Mrs. Grant had with 
 her usual good humour agreed to un- 
 dertake the part for which Fanny had 
 
 been 
 
( 332 ) 
 
 been wanted — and this was all that 
 occurred to gladden her heart during 
 the day ; and even this, when impart-ed 
 by Edmund, brought a pang with it, 
 for it was Miss Crawford to whom she 
 was obliged, it was Miss Crawford 
 whose kind exertions w^re to excite l^ev 
 gratitude, and whose merit in making 
 them was spoken of with a glow of ad^ 
 miration. She was safe ; but peace and 
 safety were unconnected here. Her mii^d, 
 bad been never farther from peace. 
 She could not feel that she had doij^f 
 wrong herself, but she was disquieted iri 
 every other way. Her heart, and her 
 judgment wer€ equally against Ed^ 
 mund's decision ; she could not acquit 
 his unsteadiness ; and his happiness 
 under it made her wretched. She wa^ 
 full of jealousy and agitation. Mis^- 
 Crawford came with looks of gaiety 
 which seemed an insult, with friendly 
 expressions towards herself which she 
 could hardly answer calmly. Every 
 body m'pund her was gay and busy, 
 
 prosperous 
 
( S33 ) 
 
 prosperous and important, each had 
 their object of interest, their part, their 
 dress, their favourite scene, their friends 
 and confederates, all were finding em- 
 ployment in consultations and compari- 
 sons, or diversion in the playful con- 
 ceits they suggested. She alone was 
 «ad and insignificant ; she had no share 
 in any thing ; 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 any 
 thing would have been preferable to 
 this. Mrs. Grant was of consequence ; 
 her good nature had honourable men- 
 tion — her taste and her time were con- 
 sidered — 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^ 
 
( 334 ) 
 
 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 alto- 
 gether. 
 
 Fanny's heart was not absolutely the 
 only saddened one amongst them, as she 
 soon began to acknowledge 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, 
 
( 335 ) 
 
 alone, and ridiculing the acting of the 
 others. 
 
 For a day or two after the affront 
 was given, Heniy Crawford had endea- 
 voured to do it away by the usual at- 
 tack of gallantry and compliment, but he 
 had not cared enough about it to perse- 
 vere against a few repulses ; and becom- 
 ing 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 hap- 
 piness, as, Henry must be the best judge 
 of his own, and as he did assure her, 
 with a most persuasive smile, that nei- 
 ther 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 tran- 
 
 quilHty 
 
( SS6 ) 
 
 quillity by too much admiration there, 
 and then gladly take her share in any 
 thing 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 independ- 
 ence, 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 he in parliament 
 
 soon. When Sir Thomas comes, I dare 
 
 1 say 
 
( '^rt ) 
 
 say he will be in for some borough, but 
 there has been nobody to put him in the 
 way of doing any thing yet." 
 
 " Sir Thomas is to achieve 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? Every 
 thing 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 suit3 
 the head of such a house, and keeps 
 every body in their place. Lady Ber- 
 tram seems more of a cipher now than 
 
 VOL. I. Q when 
 
( SS8 ) 
 
 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. 
 Rtishworth's chance, if Henry stept in 
 before the articles were signed." 
 
 " If you have such a suspicion, some- 
 thing must be done, and as soon as the 
 play is all over, we will talk to him se- 
 riously, 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 
 
( 339 ) 
 
 were likely to endure under the disap- 
 pointment 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 su. 
 perior to the hope of some distressing 
 epd to the attentions which were still 
 carrying on there, some punishment to 
 Maria for conduct so shameful towards 
 herself, as well as towards Mr. Rush- 
 worth. With no material fault of tem- 
 per, 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 affec- 
 tion or principle enough to make them 
 merciful or just, to give them honour 
 or compassion. Maria felt her tri- 
 umph, and pursued her purpose care- 
 less of Julia ; and Julia could never see 
 Maria distinguished by Henry Craw^ 
 Q: f ford, 
 
( 340 ) 
 
 ford, without trusting that it would 
 create jealousy, and bring a public dis- 
 turbance at last. 
 
 Fanny saw and pitied much of this in 
 Julia ; but there was no outward fellow- 
 ship between them. Julia made no com- 
 munication, and Fanny took no liberties. 
 They were two solitary sufferers, or con- 
 nected 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 fulness of their 
 own minds. They were totally pre- 
 occupied. 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 unob- 
 servant ; and Mrs. Norris was too busy 
 in contriving and directing the gene- 
 ral little matters of the company, super- 
 intending their various dresses with 
 
 econo* 
 
( S41 ) 
 
 economical expedient, for which nobody 
 thanked her, and saving, with dehghted 
 integrity, half-a-crown here and there to 
 the absent Sir Thomas, to have leisure 
 for watching the behaviour, or guarding 
 tiie happiness of his daughters. 
 
 CHAP- 
 
( 54g ) 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Et'EEY thing 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 enjoy- 
 ment 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. 
 Every body began to have their vexa- 
 tion. 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 wav. Tom himself 
 began to fret over the scene painter's 
 
 slow 
 
( 343 ) 
 
 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, wa$ 
 tending to increase his sense of the insig- 
 nificance of all his parts together, and 
 make him more ready to regret that soiiie 
 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 
 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 spoilt 
 every thing by laughing, that Edmund 
 was behind-hand with his part, and that 
 it was misery to have any thing to do 
 with Mr. Rushworth, who was want- 
 ing a prompter through every speech. 
 She knew, also, that poor Mr. Rush- 
 
 wortli. 
 
( 544 ) 
 
 tl'orth could seldom get any body t@ 
 rehearse with him; his complaint came 
 before her as well as the rest; and so 
 decided to her eye was her cousin Ma- 
 ria'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 every bodj requiring something 
 they had ' not, and giving occasion 
 of discontent to the others. — Every 
 body 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 direc- 
 tions. 
 
 Fanny believed herself to derive as 
 much innocent enjoyment from the 
 play as any of them; — Henry Craw^ 
 ford acted well, and it was a pleasure 
 to her to creep into the theatre, and 
 attend the rehearsal of the first act — 
 
 in 
 
( 345 ) 
 
 ia 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, some- 
 times as spectator — was often very use- 
 ful. — As far as she could judge, Mr. 
 Crawford was considerably the best 
 actor of all; be 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 any 
 thing 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-look- 
 Q 5 ing 
 
( 346 ) 
 
 ing man, set up for a fine actor, is 
 very ridiculous in my opinion." 
 
 From this moment there was a re- 
 turn of his former jealousy, which 
 Maria, from increasing hopes of Craw- 
 ford, 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 any thing 
 tolerable of them, nobody had the 
 smallest idea of that except his mother 
 —She, indeed, regretted that his part 
 was not more considerable, and de- 
 ferred coming over to Mansfield till 
 they w«re forward enough in their re- 
 hearsal to comprehend all his scenes, 
 but the others aspired at nothing be- 
 yond 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 kind-heartedness, was at great 
 pains to teach him how to learn, giving 
 him all the helps and directions in her 
 
 power, 
 
( 347 ) 
 
 power, trying to make an artificial me- 
 mory for him, and learning every word of 
 his part herself, but without his being 
 much the forwarder. 
 
 Many uncomfortable, anxious, ap- 
 prehensive 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 needle-work 
 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' 
 
 rooir^ 
 
( 348 > 
 
 room to the other and doing the loot- 
 ings on, at your ease, in this way, — I 
 want you here. — I have been slaving 
 myself till I can hardly stand, to con- 
 trive 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 j/ow, 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, / mean to look in 
 at their rehearsals too, What is the 
 
 play 
 
( 349 ) 
 
 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 
 punt'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 
 
( 550 ) 
 
 bring a scene between them which inte- 
 rested 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 con- 
 sideration of it did not become less 
 agitated. She worked very diligently 
 tinder her aunt's directions, but her dili- 
 gence 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 mo 
 Qoncera in another, and, as she deemed 
 
 K 
 
( 351 ) 
 
 it, most unnecessary rehearsal of the 
 first act, which Henry Crawford was 
 just proposing, desirous at once of hav- 
 ing her time to herself, and of avoiding 
 the sight of Mr. Rush worth. A glimpse, 
 as she passed through the hall, of the 
 two ladies walking up from the parson- 
 age, made no change in her wish of re- 
 treat, 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 
 show 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 heat 
 jne my third act, J have brought my 
 
 koofo 
 
( 353 ) . 
 
 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 qould not give them in a very 
 steady voice. 
 
 " Have you ever happened to look at 
 the part I mean ? " continued Miss Craw- 
 ford, 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 dif- 
 ference. You must rehearse it with 
 me, that I may fancy you him, and get 
 
 on 
 
( 353 ) 
 
 en 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 up stairs, and the 
 theatre is engaged of course by those 
 indefatigable rehearsers, Agatha and 
 Frederick. If i'^ej/ are not perfect, \ shall 
 be surprised. By the bye, I looked in 
 
 upon 
 
( 354 ) 
 
 upon them five minutes ago, and it hap- 
 pened to be exactly at one of the times 
 when they were trying not to embrace, 
 and Mr. Rush worth 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 bright- 
 ened 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 An- 
 halt, 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 
 
 unex- 
 
^ < S55 ) 
 
 unexpected meeting; and as Edmund 
 was come on the very same business 
 that had brought Miss Crawford, con- 
 sciousness 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 even- 
 ing, 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 sympa- 
 thizing 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 be- 
 coming 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 un- 
 wiUing 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 
 
( 356 ) 
 
 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 cri- 
 ticism, her conscience must have restrain- 
 ed 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 al- 
 ways pay attention to the book. In 
 watching them she forgot herself; and 
 agitated by the increasing spirit of Ed- 
 mund's manner, had once closed the 
 page and turned away exacdy as he 
 wanted help. It was imputed to very 
 reasonable weariness, and she was thank- 
 ed 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 
 
( 357 ) 
 
 and able to recall the whole, she was in- 
 clined to believe their perfonnance 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 Craw- 
 fords were engaged to return for that 
 purpose as soon as they could after din- 
 ner ; and every one concerned was look- 
 ing forward with eagerness. There seem- 
 ed 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 every where 
 smoothed away. All were alert and im- 
 patient ; the ladies moved soon, the gen- 
 tlemen soon followed them, and with the 
 exception of Lady Bertram, Mrs. Norris, 
 and Julia, every body was in the theatre 
 
 at 
 
( 3^8 )^ 
 
 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 Grawfords to begin. 
 
 They did not wait long for the Craw- 
 fords, but there was no Mrs. Grant. 
 She could not come. Dr. Grant, pro- 
 fessing 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 
 ipnock solemnity. " He has been ill ever 
 since; he did not eat any of the pheasant 
 to day. 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 con- 
 formity made her always valuable 
 amongst them — but now she was abso- 
 lutely necessary. They could not act, 
 they could not rehearse with any satis- 
 faction without her. The comfort of 
 the whole evening was destroyed. What 
 
 was 
 
( S59 ) 
 
 was to be done ? Tom, as Cottager, wa& 
 in despair. After a pause of perplexity, 
 some eyes began to be turned toward^ 
 Fanny, and a voice or two, to say, " If 
 Miss Price would be so good as to read 
 the part." She was immediately sur- 
 rounded by supplications, every body 
 asked it, even Edmund said, " Do Fanny, 
 if it is not veri/ disagreeable to you." 
 
 But Fanny still hung back. She could 
 not endiire the idea of it Why was not 
 Miss Crawford to be applied to as well? Or 
 trfiy 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." 
 
 Fancy 
 
.#^ ( 360 ) 
 
 J'araiy could not say she did mt^^ 
 jipd as they all persevered — as Edmund 
 repeated his wish, and with .^ look of 
 even fond dependence on her good na- 
 ture, sjhe must yield. She would do her 
 best. Every body was satisfied — and she 
 wasleft 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 usual nqi^e in the other part of 
 the house, had proceeded i^me way^ 
 when the door of the room w^as 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." 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 PRINTED BY J. MOYES, 
 
 Greville Street, Hatton Garden jLoadw* 
 
B 
 

' frt^^:^^^^^^^^/^'^ -^/^^^^^ yl- 
 
MANSFIELD PARK. 
 
 ';f\i' vlj H^tf:*-:iji^ 
 
 .7;j<I"3li]m3T ^bisy^.lLeS: ,dtioyroK .D y^d bsian'i : aobachl 
 
LoDiion : Printed by C. Roworth, Bell-yard, Temple-Bar. 
 
MANSFIELD PARK 
 
 A NOVEL. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 BY THE 
 
 AUTHOR OF " PRIDE AND PREJUDICE." 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 ilontiDn: 
 
 PRINTED FOR J. MURRAY, ALBEMAELE-STREEy. 
 1816. 
 
MANSFIELD PARK^ 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 How is the consternation of the party 
 to be described ? To the greater num- 
 ber 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 
 any where. Julia's looks were an evi- 
 dence of the fact that made it indis- 
 putable ; and after the first starts and 
 exclamations, not a w^ord 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 inter- 
 yqL. II. B ruption 
 
 
( 2 ) 
 
 ruption for the evening, and Mr. Rush- 
 worth might imagine it a blessing, but 
 every other heart was sinking under 
 soiTife degree of self-condemnation or 
 undefined alarm, every other heart was 
 suggesting *' Wiiat 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 lier 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 " / 
 
 need 
 
( 3 ) 
 
 need not be afraid of appearing before 
 bim." 
 
 Her going roused the rest ; and at 
 the same moment, the two brothers 
 stepped forward, feehng 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 cir- 
 cumstance which had driven Juh'a 
 away, was to her the sweetest support 
 Henry Crawford's retaining her hand 
 at such a moment, a moment of such 
 pecuhar proof and importance, was 
 worth ages of doubt and anxiety. She 
 hailed it as an earnest of the most se- 
 rious 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 
 B 2 to 
 
( 4 ) 
 
 tiy-gd too?" but they were no sooner 
 through the door than Henry Craw- 
 ford 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 Craw- 
 fords and Mr. Yates. She had been 
 quite overlooked by her cousins ; and 
 as her own opinion of her claims on Sir 
 Thomas's atfection 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 disposi- 
 tion 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 compassibn for him and for almost 
 every one of the party on the develop- 
 ment before him — with solicitude on 
 
 Edmund's 
 
( 5 ) 
 
 EcIiiTuncrs account indescribable. She 
 had found a seat, where in excessive 
 trembling she Avas enduring all these 
 fearful thoughts, while the other three, 
 no longer under any restraint, Avere 
 giving vent to their feelings of vexa- 
 tion, lamenting over such an unlooked- 
 for premature arrival as a most un- 
 toward event, and without mercy wish- 
 ing 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 in- 
 evitably at hand; while Mr. Yates 
 considered it only as a temporary in- 
 terruption, a disaster for the evening, 
 and could even suggest the possibility 
 of the rehearsal being renewed after 
 tea, when the bustle of rec<^iving Sir 
 B 3 Th<?mas 
 
( s ) 
 
 Thomas were over and he might be at 
 leisure to be amused by it. The Craw* 
 fords 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 spend- 
 ing 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 any thing 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 hand- 
 somely since he was come; and be- 
 sides, he did not think it would be 
 fair by the others to have every body 
 run away." 
 
 Fanny was just beginning to collect 
 herself, and to feel that if she staid 
 longer behind it might seem disre- 
 spectful, when this point was settled, 
 and being commissioned with the bro- 
 ther 
 
( 7 ) 
 
 ther and sister's apology, saw them pre- 
 paring 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 be- 
 fore 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 httle 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 
 B 4 never 
 
( 8 ) 
 
 never been so kind, so "oery kind i<f 
 frer 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-— in- 
 quired particularly after her health, 
 and then correcting himself, observed, 
 that he need not inquiry, for her ap- 
 pearance 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, es- 
 pecially William; and his kindnes* 
 altogether was such as made her re- 
 proach 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 in-- 
 Dt ;/ created, 
 
( 9 ) 
 
 creased, and she was miserable in con- 
 sidering how much unsuspected vex- 
 ation 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 l^is sensations in 
 being again in his own house, in the 
 centre of his family, after such a sepa- 
 ration, made him communicative and 
 chatty in a very unusual degree ; and 
 he was ready to give every informa- 
 tion 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 proceed- 
 ings and events, his arrivals and ae- 
 partures, were most promptly delivered, 
 
 155 
 
( 10 ) 
 
 as he &at 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 al- 
 ready 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 ap- 
 pearance, and Sir Thomas was liking 
 him already. 
 
 By not one of the circle was he 
 listened to with such unbroken unal- 
 lowed enjoyment as by his wife, who was 
 really extremely happy to see him, and 
 whose feeling's were so warmed by his 
 sudden arrival, as to place her neai'er 
 agitation than she had been for the 
 
 last 
 
( H ) 
 
 last twenty years. She had been almost 
 fluttered for a few minutes, and still re- 
 mained 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 any body to cloud her 
 pleasure ; her own time had been irre- 
 proachably 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 pur- 
 suits 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 com- 
 prehension filled by his narratives, that 
 she began particularly to feel how 
 dreadfully she must have missed him, 
 and how impossible it would have beea 
 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 
 
 B 6 many 
 
( IS ) 
 
 many fears of Sir Thomas's disappro- 
 bation when the present state of his 
 house should be known, for her judg- 
 ment had been so Minded, that except 
 hy 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 reason- 
 able dependance perhaps on the nerves 
 of his wife and children, had sought 
 no confidant but the butler, and had 
 been following him almost instantane- 
 ously 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 
 
( 13 ) 
 
 having any thing to bustle about, and 
 labouring to be important where no- 
 thing was wanted but tranquillity and 
 silence. Would Sir Thomas have con- 
 sented to eat, she might have gone to 
 the house-keeper with troublesome di- 
 rections, and insulted the footmen with 
 injunctions of dispatch; 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 some- 
 thing different, and in the most inte- 
 resting moment of his passage to Eng- 
 land, when the alarm of a French pri- 
 vateer 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 bet- 
 ter thing for you than tea. Do have 
 a basin of soup." 
 
 Sir Thomas could not be provoked. 
 " Still the same anxiety for every 
 body's comfort, my dear Mrs. Norris," 
 
 was 
 
( 14 ) 
 
 was his answer. " But indeed I would 
 rather have nothing but tea." 
 
 " Well then, Lady Bertram, sup- 
 pose you speak for tea directly, sup- 
 pose you hurry Baddeley a little, he 
 seems behind hand to-night." She 
 carried this point, and Sir Thomas's 
 narrative proceeded. 
 
 At length there was a pause. His im- 
 mediate communications were exhaust- 
 ed, 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 talk- 
 ative, 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 
 
( 15 ) 
 
 " The «// will be soon 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 w^e have 
 been nearly confined to the house for 
 days together. I have hardly taken 
 out a gun since the 3d. Tolerable 
 sport the first three days, but there has 
 been no attempting any thing 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. 
 
( 16 ) . 
 
 were. I never saw Mansfield Wood 
 so full of pheasants in my life as this 
 year. I hope you will take a day'ifr 
 sport there yourself, sir, soon." 
 
 For the present the danger was over, 
 and Fanny's sick feelings subsided; but 
 Avhen tea was soon afterwards brought 
 in, and Sir Thomas, getting up, said 
 that he found he could not be any 
 longer in the house without just look- 
 ing into his own dear room, every agi- 
 tation was returning. He was gone 
 before any thing had been said to pre- 
 pare 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 any thing else. — 
 " Where did you leave Miss Craw- 
 ford, Fanny?" 
 
 Fanny 
 
( 17 ) 
 
 JPanny 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 sur- 
 prized to find candles burning in his 
 room ; and on casting his eye round 
 it, to see other symptoms of recent 
 habitation, and a genei'al air of con- 
 fusion in the furniture. The removal 
 of the book-case from before the bil- 
 liard 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 further. Some one 
 was talking there in a very loud ac- 
 cents—he did not know the voice — 
 more than talking— almost hallooing. 
 He stept to the door, rejoicing at that 
 
 moment 
 
( 18 ) 
 
 moment in having the means of imme- 
 diate communication, anel 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 verv 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 im 
 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 Avell-bred and easy Mr. Yates^ 
 making his bow and apology to Sir 
 Thomas Bertram, was such an exhibi- 
 tion, 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 
 
( 19 ) 
 
 The house would close with the greatest 
 eclat. 
 
 There was little time, however, for 
 the indulgence of any images of mer- 
 riment. It was necessary for him to 
 step forward too and assist the intro- 
 duction, and with many awkward sen- 
 sations he did his best. Sir Thomas 
 received Mr. Yates with all the appear- 
 ance of cordiality which was due to 
 his own character, but was really as far 
 from pleased with the necessity of the 
 acquaintance as w^ith the manner of 
 its commencement. Mr. Yates's fa* 
 mily and connections were sufficiently 
 known to him, to render his introduce 
 tion 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 
 
( 20 ) 
 
 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 volu- 
 liility 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 he always 
 as well disposed to give them but par- 
 tial 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 bil- 
 liard table, he was not proceeding be- 
 yond 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 
 
( 21 ) 
 
 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 toge- 
 ther, Sir Thomas with an increase of 
 gravity which Avas 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 surprize, 
 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 
 candle-light, and does my friend 
 Christopher Jackson credit." And 
 then he would have changed the sub- 
 ject, 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 diffi- 
 dence, or delicacy, or discretion enough 
 to allow him to lead the discourse 
 while he ^ningled among the others 
 
 with 
 
( 2^ ) 
 
 with the least obtrusiveness himself; 
 would keep him on the topic of the 
 theatre, would torment him with ques- 
 tions and remarks relative to it, and 
 finally would make him hear the whole 
 history of his disappointment at Ec- 
 clesford. 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 think- 
 ing from the beginning to the end of 
 the story ; and when it was over, could 
 give him no other assurance of sym- 
 pathy than what a slight bow con- 
 veyed. 
 
 " 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." 
 
 Mi\ Yates took the subject from his 
 
 friend 
 
( 23 ) 
 
 fi'iend as soon as possible, and immedi* 
 a:tely gave Sir Thomas an account of 
 whnt they had done and were doing, 
 told him of the gradual increase of 
 tbieir views, the happy conclusion of 
 their first diifjculties, and present pro- 
 mising state of affairs ; relating every 
 thing 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 
 fiKMM seeing the expression of the face 
 on which his own eyes were fixed — 
 from seeing Sir Thomas's dark brow 
 contract as he looked witli inquiring 
 j^amestness at his daughters and Ed 
 mund, dwelling particularly on the 
 latter, and speaking a language, a re- 
 monstrance, a reproof which he felt 
 at his heart. Not less acutely was it 
 felt by Fanny, who had edged back 
 h^r chair behind her aunt's end of the 
 sofa, and, screened from notice herself, 
 
 saw 
 
( 24 ) 
 
 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, Ed- 
 mund, 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 
 ail the others, but not to himT 
 
 Mr. Yates was still talking. "To 
 awn 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 no- 
 thing more can*be done to-night ; but 
 if you will give us the honour of your 
 company to-morrow evening, I should 
 notice afraid of the result. We be- 
 speak your indulgence, you understand, 
 
 a« 
 
( 25 ) 
 
 as young performers; we bespeak your 
 indulgence." 
 
 " My indulgence shall be given, sir," 
 replied Sir Thomas gravely, " but with- 
 out 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 acquaint- 
 ance ?" 
 
 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 v^ry handsomely 
 of both. " Mr. Crawford was a most 
 pleasant gcntkman-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 
 
 VOL. II. c should 
 
( 26 ) 
 
 should tell your father he is not abovCj ,^ 
 iive feet eight, or he will be expecting 
 a well-looking man." 
 
 Sir Thomas did not quite understand, 
 this, and looked with some surprize aj^^ 
 the speaker. .^^ 
 
 " If I must say what I think," con-r^^ 
 tinned 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 oni 
 this- subject so much the same. It^j 
 gives me sincere satisfaction. That \^^ 
 should be cautious and quick-sigh ted,. j,j 
 and feel many scruples which my., 
 children do not feel, is perfectly natural ; 
 and equally so that my value for do- 
 mestic tranquillity, for a home which 
 
 shuts 
 
( 27' ) 
 
 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 every 
 body 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 look- 
 ing, as he really felt, most exceedingly 
 pleased with Sir Thomas's good opi- 
 nion, and saying scarcely any thing, 
 he did his best towards preserving that 
 good opinion a little longer. 
 
 c 2 CHAP* 
 
( 28 ) 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 Edmund's first object the next, 
 mbrn'mg 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 acknow- 
 ledging with perfect ingenuousness 
 that his concession had been attended . 
 with such partial good as to make his 
 judgment in it very doubtful. He 
 w^as anxious, while vindicating himself, 
 to say nothing unkind of the others; 
 but there was only one amongst them , 
 whose conduct he could mention witfr 
 out some necessity of defence or pal- 
 liation. "We have all been more or 
 less to blame," said he, " every on^\of, 
 us, excepting Fatmy. Fanny is the only 
 one who has judged rightly througn- 
 out, who has been consistent, iter 
 
 feelings have been steadily again$| it 
 
 ^•^t3W0a.i .vitfcif>^:^ .^aa saw Msii^ 
 
 from 
 
( 29 ) 
 
 from first to last. She never ceased to 
 think of what was due to you. You 
 will find Fanny every thing 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 dis- 
 agreeable 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 chil- 
 dren : he was more willing to believe 
 they felt their error, than to run the 
 risk of investigation. The reproof of 
 an immediate conclusion of every 
 thing, the sweep of every preparation 
 would be sufficient. 
 
 There was one person, however, in 
 c 3 the 
 
t 30 ) 
 
 the house whom he could not leave to 
 learn his sentiments merely through 
 his conduct. He could not help giv- 
 mg Mrs. Norris a hint of his having 
 hoped, that her advice might have 
 been interposed to prevent what her 
 judgment must certainly have disap- 
 proved. 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 beheved of unsteady characters; 
 and with greater surprize 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 
 
( 31 ) 
 
 admitted that her influence was insuf- 
 ficient, 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 
 
 Jif 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 
 fire-side, 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 
 
 >^Ji detected. But her chief strength lay 
 in Sotherton. Her greatest support 
 
 tz and glory was in having formed the 
 
 bp.jtonnection with the Rush worths. 
 
 b'^.There she was impregnable. She took 
 to herself all the credit of bringing 
 
 ^CiMT. Rushworth's admiration of Maria 
 
 to any effect. " If I had not been 
 
 c 4 active," 
 
( 32 ) 
 
 active," said she, " and made a point of 
 being introduced to his mother, and 
 then prevailed on my sister to pay the 
 &st visit, I am as certain as I sit here, 
 that nothino' would have come of it-r- 
 for Mr. Rushworth is the sort of amia- 
 ble 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 Ber- 
 tram tod her children, and am the 
 more concerned that it should not 
 liave been" 
 
 " My dear Sir Thomas, if you had 
 seen the state of the roads that day! 
 I thought we should never have got 
 
 through 
 
( S3 ) 
 
 tlirougli them, though we had the four 
 &rses of course ; and poor old coach- 
 ^man 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 
 tloctoring him for, ever since Michael- 
 mas. 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, * Coach- 
 man, 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,- 1 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 
 heait quite aclied for him at every 
 jolt, and when we got into the rough 
 lanes about Stoke, where what with 
 c 5 frost 
 
( 34 ) 
 
 ft'ost and snow upon beds of stones, it 
 was worse than any thing 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 
 tip at the expense of those noble ani- 
 mals. 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. Rush- 
 ^^orth'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 
 
( S5 ) 
 
 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 I 
 and is so disposed to look up to you? 
 that I am quite laughed at about it, for 
 every body considers it as my doing. 
 ' Upon my word, Mrs. Norris,' said 
 Mrs. Grant, the other day, 'if Mr. Rush- 
 worth were a son of your own he could 
 nothold Sir Thomas in greater respect.' " 
 
 Sir Thomas gave up the point, foiled 
 by her evasions, disarmed by her flat- 
 tery ; and was obliged to rest satisfied 
 with the conviction that where the 
 present pleasure of those she loved" 
 was at stake, her kindness did some- 
 times overpower her judgment. 
 
 It was a busy morning with him. 
 Conversation with any of them occu- 
 pied 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 
 c 6 and: 
 
( 36 ) 
 
 and compute — an<J, 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 iseat as master of the house at din- 
 ner, 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 ev€ry 
 unbound copy of " Lovers' Vows" in 
 the house, for he was, burning all that 
 met his eye. 
 
 Mr. Yates was beginning now to 
 
 understand 
 
( 37 ) 
 
 understand Sir Thomas's intentionSy 
 though as far as ever from understand- 
 ing thek 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 parti- 
 cularity, 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 rationalitv. He believed 
 this very stoutly while he was in Mans- 
 field Wood, and all the way home; but 
 there was a something in Sir Thomas, 
 Mdien they sat round the same table, 
 which made Mr. Yates think it wiser 
 to let him pursue his own Avay, and 
 
 feel 
 
( 38 ) 
 
 feel the folly of it without opposition. 
 He had known many disagreeable 
 fathers before, and often been struck 
 with the inconveniences they occa- 
 sioned, 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 child- 
 ren's sake, and he might be thankful 
 to his fair daughter Julia that Mr. 
 Yates did yet mean to stay a few days 
 longer und^r his roof. 
 
 The evening passed with external 
 smoothness, though almost every mind 
 ^as ruffled ; and the music which Sir 
 Thomas called for from his daughters 
 helped to conceal the want of real har- 
 mony. Maria was in a good deal of 
 agitation. It was of the utmost con- 
 sequence 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 ex- 
 pecting 
 
( 39 ) 
 
 pecting to see him the whole morning 
 - — ^and all the evening too was still ex^ 
 pecting him. Mr. Rush worth had set 
 off early with the great news for Sother- 
 ton; 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 Ber- 
 tram. It was the first day for many, 
 many weeks, in which the families had 
 been wholly divided. Foiir-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 mo- 
 jnents of feverish enjoyment were fol- 
 lowed by hours of acute suffering. 
 Henry Crawford was again in the 
 house; he walked up with Dr. Grant, 
 
 who 
 
( ^ ) 
 
 , .'f .-■,■■- 
 
 who was anxious to pay his respects to 
 Sir Thomas, and at rather an early- 
 hour they were ushered into the break- 
 fast-room, where were most of the fa- 
 mily. Sir Thomas soon appeared, and 
 Maria saw with dehght and agitation 
 the introduction of the man she loved 
 to her father. Her sensations were in- 
 definable, and so were they a few mi- 
 nutes afterwards upon hearing Henry 
 Crawford, who had a chair between 
 herself and Tom, ask the latter in an 
 under voice, whether there were any 
 plan for resuming the play after the 
 present happy interruption, (with a 
 courteous glance at Sir Thomas,) be- 
 cause 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 pTospect of a 
 renewal of " Lovers' Vow^/' he should 
 hold himself positively engaged, he 
 should bi*eak -throtigli efery other 
 lijaii claim/ 
 
:( 41 ) 
 
 claim, h^ should absolutely condition 
 with his uncle for attending them 
 whenever he might be wanted. The 
 play should not be lost by his absence. 
 " Prom 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 signifi- 
 cantly at his father). The painter was 
 sent off yesterday, and very httle 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 i^sual time." 
 '" When do you think of going?" 
 " I may perhaps get as far as Ban- 
 bury to-day." 
 
 " Whose stables do you use at 
 
 Bath?" 
 
( 42 ) 
 
 Bath?" was the next question; and 
 while this branch of the subject was 
 under discussion, Maria, who wanted 
 neither pride nor resolution, was pre- 
 paring 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 go- 
 ing, voluntarily intending to stay away ; 
 for, excepting what might be due to 
 his uncle, his engagements were all 
 self-imposed. — He might talk of ne- 
 cessity, but she knew his independence. 
 ■ — The hand which had so pressed her's 
 to his heart ! — The hand and the heart 
 were ahke 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, Avhich his 
 actions contradicted^ or to bury the 
 
 tumult 
 
( 43 ) 
 
 tumult of her feelings under the re- 
 straint 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 
 
( 44 ) 
 
 the Mife^^ it was mentioned with re- 
 gj^t, and his merits honoured with 
 due gradation of feeling, from the 
 sincerity of Edmund's too partial re- 
 gard, to the unconcern of his mother 
 speaking entirely by rote. Mrs. Nor- 
 ris 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 vexa- 
 tious. In himself he was wearisome, 
 but as the friend of Tom and the ad- 
 mirer of Julia he became offensive. 
 
 Sir 
 
( 45 ) 
 
 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 Mans- 
 field, the removal of every thing ap- 
 pertaining 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 in_ 
 evitably 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 ta- 
 lent and such success, went oif with 
 her to her cottage, where she happened 
 to be particularly; in want of green, 
 baize. \ . 
 
( 46 ) 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Sir Thomas's return made a striking 
 change in the ways of the family, in- 
 dependent of Lovers' Vows. Under 
 his government, Mansfield was an al- 
 tered place. Some members of their 
 society sent away and the spirits of 
 many others saddened, it was all same- 
 ness and gloom, compared with the 
 past; a sombre family-party rarely 
 enlivened. There was little intercourse 
 with the Parsonage. Sir Thomas draw- 
 ing 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 cir- 
 cle which he could solicit. 
 
 Edmund did not wonder that such 
 should be his father's feelings, nor 
 could he regret any thing but the ex- 
 clusion of the Grants. " But they,'* 
 he observed to Fanny, " have a claim. 
 They seem to belong to us — they 
 
 seem 
 
( 47 ) 
 
 seem to be part of ourselves. I 
 could wish my father were more sensi- 
 ble 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 de- 
 serves, 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 ^;2y 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 ap- 
 pear 
 
( 48 ) 
 
 pear to m& 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 ab- 
 sence has a tendency to produce at 
 first. There must be a sort of shyness. 
 But I cannot recollect that our even- 
 ings formerly were ever merry, except 
 when my uncle was in town. No 
 young people's are, 1 suppose, when 
 those they look up to are at home." 
 
 " I believe you are right, Fanny," 
 was his reply, after a short considera- 
 tion. " I believe our evenings are ra- 
 ther returned to what they were, than 
 assuming a new character. The no- 
 velty was in their being lively. — Yet, 
 how strong the impression that only a 
 few wee^^.s will give ! I have been feel- 
 ing as if we had never lived so before." 
 
 " I suppose I am graver than other 
 people," said Fanny. " The evenings 
 
 do 
 
( 49 ) 
 
 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 toge- 
 ther. 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 f 
 (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 any body ever get a 
 compliment from me, Fanny ? Go to 
 my father if you want to be compli- 
 mented. 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. Any body but 
 
 VOL. II. p myself 
 
( 50 ) 
 
 myself would have made something 
 more of it, and any body but you 
 would resent that you had not been 
 thought very pretty before ; but the 
 truth is, that your uncle never did ad- 
 mire you till now— and now he does. 
 Your complexion is so improved !— 
 and you have gained so much coun- 
 tenance ! — and your figure — Nay, Fan- 
 ny, 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 wo- 
 man." 
 
 « Oh! don't talk so, don't talk so," 
 cried Fanny, distressed by more feel- 
 ings 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. — 
 
( 51 ) 
 
 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 ques- 
 tion 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 in- 
 terested 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 
 
 D £ of 
 
( 52 ) 
 
 of neglect. We were talking of yott 
 at the Parsonage, and those were her 
 words. She has great discernment. 
 I know nobody who distinguishes cha- 
 racters better. — For so young a woman 
 it is remarkable ! She certainly un- 
 derstands you better than you are un- 
 derstood by the greater part of those 
 who have known you so long; and 
 with regard to some others, I can per- 
 ceive, from occasional lively hints, the 
 unguarded expressions of the moment, 
 that she could define many as accu- 
 rately, did not delicacy forbid it. I 
 wonder what she thinks of my father ! 
 She must admire him as a fine looking 
 man, with most gentleman-like, digni- 
 fied, consistent manners ; but perhaps 
 having seen him so seldom, his re- 
 serve 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 ta- 
 lents to value his powers. I wish they 
 
 met 
 
( -53 ) 
 
 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 na- 
 tural, 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 No- 
 vember 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 
 
 D 3 
 
. ( 54 ) 
 
 resources, her accomplishments, her 
 spirits, her importance, her friends, lest 
 it should betray her into any obser- 
 vations seemingly unhandsome. Miss 
 Crawford's kind opinion of herself de- 
 served 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. Rush- 
 worth.*' ' 
 
 " 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 Avere 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 
 
i 55 ) 
 
 In this qiiaiter, indeed, disappoint- 
 ment was impending over Sir Thomas. 
 Not all his good-will for Mr. Rush* 
 worth, not all Mr. Rush worth's defer- 
 ence 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 un- 
 derstand her feelings. Little observa- 
 tion there was necessary to tell him 
 that indifference was the most favour- 
 able state they could be in. Her be- 
 haviour 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 stand- 
 ing and public as was the engagement, 
 her happiness must not be sacrificed to 
 D 4 it. 
 
( S6 ) 
 
 it. Mr. Rush worth 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, in- 
 quired into her wishes, entreated her 
 to be open and sincere, and assured her 
 that every inconvenience should be 
 braved, and the connection 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 opi- 
 nion or inclination since her forming 
 it. She had the highest esteem for Mr. 
 
 Rushworth's 
 
( 57 ) 
 
 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. Rush worth was young 
 enough to improve ; — Mr. Rushworth 
 must and would improve in good so- 
 ciety ; and if Maria could now speak 
 so securely of her happiness with him, 
 speaking certainly without the preju- 
 dice, 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 hus- 
 band a leading, shining character, there 
 would certainly be every thing else in 
 her favour. A well-disposed young 
 woman, who did not marry for love, 
 D 5 wa3 
 
( ^8 ) 
 
 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 
 wouldj in all probability, be a continual 
 supply of the most amiable and inno- 
 cent enjoyments. Such and such-like 
 were the reasonings of Sir Thomas — 
 happy to escape the embarrassing evils 
 of a rupture, the wonder, the reflec- 
 tions, the reproach that must attend it, 
 happy to secure a marriage which 
 would briiig him such an addition of 
 respectability and influence, and very 
 happy to think any thing of his daugh- 
 ter's disposition that was most favour- 
 able 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 So- 
 therton — that she w^as safe from the 
 possibility of giving Crawford the 
 triumph of governing her actions, and 
 
 destroying 
 
( 59 ) 
 
 destroying her prospects ; and retired in 
 proud resolve, determined only to 
 behave more cautiously to Mr. Rush- 
 worth 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 tranquillized, before she had 
 given up every hope of him, or 
 absolutely resolved on enduring his 
 rival, her answer might have been dif- 
 ferent ; but after another three or foul- 
 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 
 
 D 6 prosperity 
 
( 60 ) 
 
 prosperity too. He should not have to 
 think of her as pining in the retire- 
 ment of Mansfield for hlnij rejecting 
 Sotherton and London, independence 
 and splendour for his sake. Indepen- 
 dence 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 fathe> 
 imposed. The liberty which his ab- 
 sence had given was now become abso- 
 lutely necessary. She must escape 
 from him and Mansfield as soon as 
 possible, and find consolation in for- 
 tune and consequence, bustle and the 
 world, for a wounded spirit. ^ Her 
 mind was quite determined and varied 
 iiot. 
 
 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 
 anarriage than herself. In all the im- 
 portant preparations of the mind she 
 was complete; being prepared for ma- 
 trimony 
 
( 61 ) 
 
 trimony by an hatred of home, re* 
 straint, and tranquillity; by the misery 
 of disappointed aiFection, and contempt 
 of the man she was to marry. The 
 rest might wait. The preparations of 
 nevN^ 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. Rush worth was quite ready to 
 retire, and make way for the fortunate 
 young woman whom her dear son 
 had selected ; — and very early in No- 
 vember 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 
 
( 62 ) 
 
 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 
 bridemaids 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 ob- 
 jected to when it came under the dis- 
 cussion 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. Rush worth had 
 used for a twelvemonth before. In 
 every thing else the etiquette of the 
 day might stand the strictest investi- 
 gation. 
 
 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 
 
( 63 ) 
 
 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 every thing — 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 dis- 
 position 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 Brigh- 
 ton, 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 were 
 over, is would be time for the wider 
 range of London. 
 
 Julia 
 
( 64 ) 
 
 Julia was to go with them to Brigh- 
 ton. Since rivahy between the sisters 
 had ceased, they had been gradually 
 recovering much of their former good 
 understanding ; and were at least suf- 
 ficiently friends to make each of them 
 exceedingly glad to be with the other 
 at such a time. Some other com- 
 panion 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 no.t have struggled through so 
 much to obtain them, and could better 
 bear a subordinate situation. 
 
 Their departure made another ma- 
 terial change at Mansfield, a chasm 
 which required some time to fill up. 
 The family circle became greatly con- 
 tracted, and though the Miss Ber- 
 trams had latterly added little to its 
 gaiety, they could not but be missed. 
 Even their mother missed them — and 
 how much more their tender-hearted 
 cousin, who wandered about the house, 
 
 and 
 
( 65 ) 
 
 and thought of them, and felt for them, 
 with a degree of affectionate regret 
 which they had never done much to 
 deserve ! 
 
 CHAP- 
 
( ^6 ) 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Fanny's consequence increased on 
 the departure of her cousins. Becom- 
 ing, 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 ques- 
 tion, even without her being wanted 
 for any one's convenience. 
 
 Not only at home did her value in- 
 crease, but at the Parsonage too. In 
 that house which she had hardly en- 
 tered twice a year since Mr. Norris's 
 death, she became a welcome, an in- 
 vited 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 
 
( 67 ) 
 
 by solicitation. Mrs. Grant, really ea- 
 ger 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 im- 
 provement in pressing her frequent 
 calls. 
 
 Fanny, having been sent into the vil- 
 lage on some errand by her aunt Nor- 
 ris, was overtaken by a heavy shower 
 close to the Parsonage, and being des- 
 cried from one of the windows en- 
 deavouring to find shelter under the 
 branches and lingering leaves of an 
 oak just beyond their premises, was 
 forced, though not without some mo- 
 dest 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 
 
 disi^al 
 
( • 63 ) 
 
 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 lit- 
 tle 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 be- 
 fore her. She was all alive again di- 
 rectly, 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 mis- 
 tresses and maids, being also obliged 
 on returning down stairs, 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 
 
( 69 ) 
 
 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 be- 
 lieved 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 no- 
 thing 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 what- 
 ever cottage aunt Norris might chuse 
 to establish her during the rain, her 
 being in such cottage would be indu- 
 bitable to aunt Bertram. 
 
 It was beginning to look brighter, 
 when Fanny, observing a harp in the 
 room, asked some questions about it, 
 
 which 
 
( 70 ) 
 
 which soon led to an acknowledgment 
 of her wishhig 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 con- 
 cerned at her own neglect; — and " shall 
 I play to you now?" — and "what will 
 you have?" were questions immediately 
 following with the readiest . good hu- 
 mour. 
 
 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 
 
( 71 ) 
 
 " Another quarter of an hour," said 
 Miss Crawford, "and we shall see how it 
 will be. Do not run away the first mo- 
 ment 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 fo^^vard 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 expres- 
 sion ; 
 
( 72 ) 
 
 sion ; and though pleased with it her- 
 self, and glad to like whatever was liked 
 by him, she was more sincerely impa- 
 tient 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 ob- 
 jection arose at home. 
 
 Such was the origin of the sort of in- 
 timacy which took place between them 
 within the first fortnight after the 
 Miss Bertrams' going away, an inti- 
 macy resulting principally from Miss 
 Crawford's desire of something new, 
 and which had little Teality in Fanny's 
 feelings. Fanny went to her every two 
 or three days; it seemed a kind of fas- 
 cination ; she could not be easy with- 
 out going, and yet it was without lov- 
 ing her, without ever thinking like her, 
 without any sense of obligation for be- 
 ing sought after now when nobody else 
 was to be had; and deriving no higher 
 
 pleasure 
 
( 73 ) 
 
 pleasure froiii her conversation than oc- 
 casional 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 respect* 
 ed. She went however, and they saun* 
 tered 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 beau- 
 ty. Three years ago, this was nothing 
 
 VOL. li. E but 
 
( 74 ) 
 
 Init It rough hedgerow along the upper 
 ride of the field, never thought of as 
 any thing, or capable of becoming any. 
 thing; and now it is converted into a 
 walk, and it would be difficult to saj 
 whether most valuable as a convenience? 
 or an ornament; and perhaps in anor 
 ther 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 won- 
 derful 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 in?: 
 telligences. The memory is sometimes 
 so retentive, so serviceable, so obedient 
 — at others, so bewildered and sow:eak 
 — ^and at others again, so tyrapnic, so 
 beyond controul ! — W%,M^M be sure 
 
 a miracle 
 
( w ) 
 
 » miracle every way — but our powert 
 of recollecting and of forgetting, dO' 
 seem peculiarly past finding out." ? 
 
 Miss Crawford, untouched and inafc*' 
 tentive, had nothing to say; and Fanny, 
 perceiving it, brought back her own 
 mind to what she thought must in- 
 terest. 
 
 " It may seem impertinent vame W 
 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 care- 
 lessly, " it does very well for a place of 
 this sort. One does not think of ex- 
 tent here — and between ourselves, till I 
 came to Mansfield, I had not imagined 
 a country parson ever aspired to a 
 shrubbery or any thing 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 
 
( 76 ) 
 
 and evergreens in general. — The ever- 
 green !— How beautiful, how welcome, 
 how wonderful the evergreen 1 — ^When 
 ©lie thinks of it, how astonishing a va- 
 j^ety 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 differ- 
 ing in the first rule and law of their 
 existence. You will think me rhapso- 
 dizing ; 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 natu- 
 ral 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 see- 
 ing myself in it. If any body had 
 t9l^||)g a year ago that this place would 
 .r^ -A .. ■.. be 
 
be my home, that I should be spending 
 month after month here, as I have 
 done, I certainly should not have be- 
 lieved 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 theoreti' 
 cally myself, but" — and her eyes bright- 
 ened 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 surmizing or soli- 
 citing any thing 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 'cir- 
 cumstances — very pleasant. An ele- 
 E 3 gant, 
 
'^■ 
 
 ( 78 ) 
 
 gant, moderate-sized house in the cen- 
 tre of family connections — continual 
 engagements among them — command- 
 ing the first society in the neighbourhood 
 — looked-up to perhaps as leading it 
 even more than those of larger for- 
 tune, and turning from the cheerful 
 round of such amusements to nothing 
 worse than a tete-a-t^te with the per- 
 son 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 unhandsome 
 in us to be severe on Mrs. Rushwoith, 
 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 Mi*. 
 
 g£rSl^>ish worth's wife must be to fill her 
 
 house, 
 
(79) 
 
 house, and give the best balls in the 
 ■^country." ''^^^''^ ^^^% 
 
 , Fanny was silent— -and Miss Craw- 
 ford relapsed into thoughtfuliiess, till 
 suddenly looking up at the end of a 
 few minutes, she exclaimed, " !Ah ! 
 here he is." It was not Mr. Rushwofth^ 
 bowever, but Edmund, who then ap- 
 peared walking towards them with 
 Mrs. Grant. " My sister and Mr. 
 Bertram — I am so glad your eldest 
 cousin is gone that he mai/ 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 diiferently we feelT cried 
 fenny. " To me, the sound of Mr. 
 ^ftertram is so Oold and nothing-mean- 
 " itt^— ^so entirely without warmth or 
 character! — It just stands for a gen- 
 tleman, and that's all. But there is 
 flobleness in the name of Edmund. 
 ^|t is a name of heroism and renown — 
 of kings, princes, and knights; and 
 ^^ ' Z'*^" E 4 se^ms 
 
( 80 ) 
 
 seems to breathe the spirit pf chi- 
 valry and warm aiFections." 
 r 'f I grant you the name is good in 
 it^lf, and Loi^d Edmund or Sir Ed- 
 mund sound dehghtfully; but sink it 
 linder 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 begin- 
 ning of that better acquaintance which 
 lije 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 friend- 
 ship. 
 
 '^Well,'' 
 
( 81 ) 
 
 ;' Well/' said Miss Crawford, " and 
 do not you scold us for our impm- 
 dence? What do you think we have 
 been sitting down for but to be talked 
 to about it, and entreated and suppli- 
 cated never to do so again ?" 
 
 " Perhaps I might have scolded," 
 
 said Edmund, " if either of you had 
 
 vbeen fitting 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 
 .4ay 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 liber- 
 ,ties in November than in May.'itU ■=> 
 
 " Upon my word," cried Miss Craw- 
 
 ford, " you are two of the most disap- 
 
 E 5 pointing 
 
( 8« ) 
 
 |)6intlng and unfeeling kind f riendsHt 
 ever met with! There is no giving 
 you a moment's uneasiness. You do 
 not know how much we have been suf- 
 fering, 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 
 fl-om the first; but you, Mrs. Grant, 
 iny 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 liave a sudden change of 
 
 " i *^ ' weathei-. 
 
( 83' ) 
 
 weather, a hard frost setting in all at ^ 
 once, taking every body (at least ' 
 Robert) by surprize, 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. Gran;t , 
 would enjoy it on Sunday after thfe ^ 
 fatigues of the day, will not keep be- 
 yond 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 nur- 
 seryman 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 
 p 6 you 
 
. ( 84 ) 
 
 you do already ; be plagued very often 
 e^nd never lose your temper." 
 
 " Thank you — but there is no escap- 
 ing these little vexations, Mary, live 
 where we may; and when you are set- 
 tled in town and I come to see you, I 
 dare say I shall find you with yours, in 
 spite of the nurseryman and the poul- 
 terer — or perhaps on their very ac- 
 count. Their remoteness and unpunc- 
 tuality, or their exorbitant charges 
 and frauds will be drawing forth bitter 
 lamentations." 
 
 " I mean to be too rich to lament or 
 to feel any thing of the sort. A large 
 income is the best recip6 for happiness 
 I ever heard of. It certainly may se- 
 cure 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 mean- 
 ing. 
 
 " To be sure. Do not you ? — Do 
 not we all ?" 
 
 " I c^n^ 
 
( 85 ) 
 
 " I cannot intend any thing 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 thou- 
 sands a year, and there can be no 
 doubt of their coming. My inten- 
 tions are only not to be poor." 
 
 " By moderation and economy, and 
 bringing down your wants to your in- 
 come, 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 connec 
 tions. — What can you want but a' de- 
 cent maintenance? You have not 
 much time before you ; and your rela- 
 tions are in no situation to do any thing 
 for you, or to mortify you by the con- 
 trast of their own wealth and conse- 
 quence. Be honest and poor, by all 
 means — but I shall not envy you; I do 
 not much think I shall even respectyou, 
 1 have a much greater respect for those 
 that are hones^and rich." 
 
 ^^Yoiir 
 
*** Yotir degree of respect for ho- 
 nesty> 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 any thing contented with 
 obscurity when it might rise to dis- 
 tinction." 
 
 " But how may it rise ? — How may 
 my honesty at least rise to any dis- 
 tinction?" 
 
 This was not so very easy a question 
 to answer, and occasioned an " Oh '/^ 
 of some length from the fair lady be- 
 fore 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 parlia- 
 ment, 
 
< 87 ) 
 
 ment, 1 believe I must wait till tlierc 
 is an especial assembly for the repre- 
 sentation of younger sons who have 
 little to live on. No, Miss Crawford,'' 
 he added, in a more serious tone, " there 
 ar^ 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 sor- 
 rowful 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 go- 
 ing 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. 
 
( 88 ) 
 
 self-inquiry of whether she should 
 take leave or not just then, and how, 
 to a very speedy issue. With undoubt^ 
 ing 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 with- 
 out in the least expecting Edmund's at- 
 tendance, she would have hastened away 
 alone ; but the general pacie was quicken- 
 ed, and they all accompanied her into the 
 house through which it was necessary 
 to pass. Dr. Grant was in the vesti- 
 bule, and as they stopt to speak to 
 him, she found from Edmund's man- 
 ner that he did mean to go with her.~r 
 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 tb^ 
 next day ; and Fanny had barely time 
 for an unpleasant feeling on the occa- 
 sion, 
 
( 89 ) 
 
 sion, 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 per- 
 fectly new a circumstance in the eventsi 
 of Fanny's life, that she was all sur- 
 prize 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 ascer- 
 taining 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 there- 
 fore 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 
 
i 90 ) 
 
 to the contrary, Mrs. G rant might 
 fexpect her. 
 
 '* And you know what your dinnel- 
 will be," -said Mrs. Grant, smiling— 
 fc^' the turkey- — and I assure you a very 
 fine one; for, my dear" — turning to her 
 fcusband — " cook insists up6n the 
 turkey's being dressed to-morrow." 
 
 " Very well, very well," cried Dn 
 Grant, " all the better. I am glad to 
 hear you have any thing so good iti 
 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 to- 
 gether ; and except in the immediate 
 discussion of this engagement, which 
 Edmund spoke of with the warmest 
 
 satisfaction, 
 
( m ) 
 
 satisfaction, as so particularly desirable 
 for her in the intimacy which he saw 
 Avith so much pleasure established, it 
 was a silent walk — for having finished 
 that subject, he grew thoughtful aad 
 indisposed for any other^ 
 
 A 
 
 doldw 
 
 CHAP- 
 
( m ) 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ** But why should Mrs. Grant ask 
 Fanny?" said Lady Bcrtratn. "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 r 
 
 " If you put such a question to 
 her," cried Edmund, preventing his 
 cousin's speaking, " Fanny will imme- 
 diately 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," 
 
( 93 ) 
 
 ma'am," said Fanny, in a self-denying 
 tone — 
 
 " But my mother will have my fa- 
 ther with her all the evening." 
 i " 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 Jirst invitation it should be ac- 
 cepted." 
 
 " I do not know. We will ask him. 
 But he Avill be very much surprized 
 that Mrs. Grant should ask Fanny at 
 all." 
 
 There was nothing more to be said, 
 or that could be said to any purpose, 
 
 till 
 
( 94 ) 
 
 till Sir Thomas were present; but the 
 subject involving, as it did, her owu 
 evening's comfort for the morrow, was 
 so much uppermost in Lady Bertram's 
 mind, that half an hour afterwards, on 
 bis looking in for a minute in his way- 
 from hi;^ 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- — moi'e anxious perhaps than 
 she ought to be — for what was it after 
 all whether she went or staid ? — but J# 
 her uncle were to be a great while coh*^' 
 sidering and deciding, and with very ■ 
 
 grave 
 
(r 95 ) . 
 
 gj^ve looks, and those grave looks di- 
 rected 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 
 w;ill surprize you. Mrs. Grant has asfcr 
 ed Fanny to dinner !" 
 
 ^' Well," said Sir Thomas, as if wait-? 
 ing more to accomplish the surprize. 
 
 " Edmund wants her to go. But 
 how can I spare her?" 
 
 "She will be late," said Sir Thomas, 
 taking out his watch, " but what i$r 
 your difficulty?" 
 
 Edmund found himself obliged to 
 speak and fill up the blanks in hi& mo- 
 ther's story. He told the whole, and 
 she had only to add, " So strange ! for 
 MfS- Grant never used to ask her." 
 
 ^* But is not it very natural," obt 
 served Edmund, " that Mrs. Grant 
 should wish to procure so agreeable a 
 visitor for her sister.'^" 
 
 i-^A " Nothing 
 
(.96 ) 
 
 ^^ Nothing can be more natural,** 
 said Sir Thomas, after a short delibera- 
 tion ; " nor, were there no sister in the 
 case, could any thing in my opinion be 
 inore natural. Mrs. Grant's shewing 
 civility to Miss Price, to Lady Ber- 
 tram's niece, could never want expla- 
 nation. The only surprize I can feel 
 is that this should be the Jirst 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 peo- 
 ple like to be together, I can see no 
 reason why she should be denied the 
 indulgence." 
 
 " But can I do without her, Sir 
 Thomas P' 
 1 " Indeed I think you may." 
 
 " She always makes tea, you know, 
 when my sister is not here." 
 
 " Your sister perhaps may be pre- 
 vailed on to spend the day with us, and 
 I shall certainly be at hcgpa^." . 
 
 ■''"^- •" V^ry 
 
( y7 ) 
 
 *^ 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 set- 
 tled, and without the smallest hesita- 
 tion on your uncle's side. He had but 
 one opinion. You are to go." 
 
 " Thank you, I am so glad," was 
 Fanny's instinctivereply; 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 some- 
 thing there to pain me ?" 
 
 In spite of this conviction, however, 
 she was glad. Simple as such an en- 
 gagement might appear in other eyes, 
 it had novelty and importance in her's, 
 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 pre- 
 
 voL. II. F paration 
 
( m ) 
 
 paratipjEii were ^njoy men tsinthemselvesf 
 She had neither sympathy nor assistanca:' 
 fro«a tho^e who ought to have enterecjit 
 in;tO her feelings and directed her tastft^^i 
 for Lady Bertram never thought o#£ 
 beiiig/ useful to any body, and Mrs. ^, 
 Norri3, when she came on the morrow^jij 
 ill Gopj^equence of an early call and lu^^, 
 vitation from Sir Thomas, was in a very 
 ill humpur^ and seemed intent only oi^^: 
 lessening her niece's pleasure, both 
 present and future, as much as possi- 
 ble. 
 
 " Uppn 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 
 diiiing, out at all ; and it is what you» 
 must not depend upon ever being re- 
 peated. 
 
(99) 
 
 peated. Nor must you be fancying,- 
 that the invitation is meant as any par- 
 ticular compliment to t/ou ; the com- 
 pliment is intended to your unele and 
 aunt, and me. Mrs. Grant thinks it 
 a civility due to us to take a little no- 
 tice 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 
 w^s endeavouring to put her annt's 
 evening work in such a state as to pre- 
 vent her being missed. 
 
 ^'Oh! depend upon it, your aunt 
 can do very well without you, or you 
 would not be allowed to go. / shall 
 be here, so you may be quite easy 
 about your aunt. And I hope you 
 F 2 will 
 
( 100 ) 
 
 »11 have a vei:y agreeable day and find 
 it all mighty delightful But I mu^t 
 ohserve^ that five is the very awkward- 
 est of all possible numbers to sit down 
 to table; and I cannot but be sur- 
 prized that such an elegant lady as 
 Mrs. Grant should not contrive bet- 
 ter ! 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 any body 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 infi- 
 nitely better it would have been ! and 
 how much more he would have been 
 respected 1 for people are never j-jb- 
 spected when they step out of their 
 proper sphere. Remember that, Fanny. 
 Five, only five to be sitting round 
 that table ! However, you will haye 
 dinner enough on it jfbr tm<J dare 
 
 say,| i^^ro- .\,b]4j[i ^f^fiito^Di<a 
 
 s^.M-r ,■ ,- ' ' ' Mrs. 
 
( 10! ) 
 
 ^ Mi's. 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 gw^you a hint, Fanny, 
 now that you are going into company 
 without any of us ; and I do beseech 
 and intreat you not to be putting your- 
 self 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 
 <lo, believe me. Remember, where- 
 ever you are, you must be the lowest 
 and last; and though Miss Crawford 
 is in a manner at home, at the Parson- 
 age? you ai'e 1^0 1 to be taking place of 
 feer.i And as to coming away at night, 
 yt»ii are to stay just as long as Edmund 
 chuSes. Leave him to settle that''' 
 
 "Yes, ma'am, I should not think of 
 any thing else." 
 
 *^ And if it should rain, which I think 
 
 exceedingly likely, for I never saw it 
 
 F 3 more 
 
X 102 ) 
 
 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 certain- 
 ly do not go home to night, and, there- 
 fore, 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 rea- 
 sonable. 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 engage- 
 ment 
 
( 103 ) 
 
 inent at this time of the year! Will 
 twenty minutes after four suit you?" 
 
 " Yes, sir," was Fanny's humble an- 
 swer, 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 fol- 
 lowed her uncle out of the room, hav- 
 ing 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 Edmunds account, I 
 observed he was hoarse on Thursday 
 night." 
 
 But this could not impose on Fanny. 
 She felt that the carriage was for her- 
 self and herself alone ; and her uncle's 
 consideration of her, coming immedi- 
 ately after such representations from 
 her aunt, cost her some tears of grati- 
 tude when she was alone. 
 
 The coachman drove round to a 
 
 minute; another minute brought down 
 
 ,F 4 the 
 
( ^^* ) 
 
 th^ gentleman, and as the lady had^ 
 with !a tnost scrupulous fear of being, 
 late, feeen many minutes seated in the 
 4_rawing room, Sir Thomas saw them 
 off in as good time as his own cpr- 
 rectly 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 w^ell 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 
 nave such another opportunity all the 
 winter. 1 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 
 
 verv 
 
( 105 ) 
 
 Md 7M -^dt Pi' hrts- -.^^-n'^mrs. ?rfl 
 Very pretty. I like tliese glossy spots. 
 
 Has not Miss Crawford a gown some- 
 
 thing the same t 
 
 In approaching the Parsonage they 
 passed close by the stable-yard and 
 coach-house. — 
 
 '^ Hey day !" 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 pro- 
 test ! There are his own two men 
 pushing it back into its old quarters. 
 He is here of course. This is quite a 
 surprize, Fanny. I shall be very glad 
 to see him," 
 
 There was no occasion, there was no 
 time for Fanny to say how very dif- 
 ferently she felt; but the idea of hav- 
 ing stich another to observe her, was a 
 great increase of the trepidation with 
 which she performed the very aweful 
 ceremony of walking into the draW^ 
 iho^room.' 'g^if'^o?^ :riiyj tvoiie. Vf^nrl: 
 
 In the drawing-room Mr. Crawford 
 F 5 certainly 
 
( me ) 
 
 ^rtainly 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 
 €ew days on leaving Bath. A very 
 tordial 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 for- 
 ward her favourite indulgence of being 
 suifered to sit silent and unattended 
 to. She was soon aware of this her- 
 self; 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 com- 
 pany, and to all the little distinctions 
 Consequent thereon, she found, white 
 they were at table, such a happy flow 
 of conversation prevailing in which 
 she was not required to take any part — 
 
 there 
 
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 every thing, and all together 
 between Mr. Crawford and Mrs. Grant, 
 •as to leave her the fairest prospect ©f 
 vhaving orily to listen in quiet, and oif 
 passing a very agreeable day. She 
 could not compliment the newly-ar- 
 rrved gentleman however with any ap- 
 pearance of interest in a scheme for 
 -extending his stay at Mansfield, and 
 sending for his hunters from Norfolk, 
 which, suggested by Dr. Grant, ad- 
 vised by Edmund, and warmly urged 
 by the two sisters, was soon in pos- 
 session 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 
 aUowed. She could not wish him to 
 5T5rft F 6 stay, 
 
( ms ) 
 
 stay, and would much rather not have 
 him speak to her. ?i:t5oltfi = 
 
 Her two absent cousins, especially 
 Maria, were much in her thoughts on 
 seeing him ; but no embarrassing re- 
 membrance affected his spirits. Here 
 :he was again on the same ground 
 where all had passed before, and appa- 
 i-ently 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-a&sembled in the draw- 
 ing-room, when Edmund, being en- 
 gaged apart in spme matter of business 
 with Dr. Grant, which seemed entirely 
 to engross them, and Mrs. Grant oc- 
 cupied at the tea-table, he began talk- 
 ing 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 undei-stand 
 
 T— Happy man !" 
 
 " Yes, 
 
{( ^m9 )) 
 
 ^^Fj^^ Yes, they bavebfe^n thdre-^about 
 a fortnight, Miss Price, have they not? 
 v---Ancl Julia is with them," 
 
 "And Mr. Yates, I presume, is not 
 .feroff-" . :i 
 
 - L^ " Mr. Yates ! — Oh ! we hear nothifjg 
 of Mr. Yates. I do not imagine he 
 figures much in the letters to Mans- 
 field 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 
 >df his lovely Maria will ever want him 
 >iJto make two -and -forty speeches to 
 viihy^"— adding, with a momentary seri- 
 ' ousness, '^ She is too good for him— 
 J .much too good." And then changing 
 fhistone again to one of gentle gal- 
 lantry, and addressing Fanny, he said, 
 
 vqq^sH'^you 
 
< no D 
 
 ** Vou were Mr. Rush worth's best 
 friend. Your kindness and patience 
 can never be forgotten, your indefati- 
 gable patience in trying to make it 
 possible for him to learn his part^ — ^in 
 'trying to give him a brain which na- 
 ture had denied— to mix up an undie3> 
 jstandingfor him out of the superfluitiy 
 <xf your own! He might not h^e 
 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 1" 
 he exclaimed, breaking forth again 
 ,^fter few minutes musing. "I shall 
 ,9;lways look back on our theatricals 
 rwith exquisite pleasure. There was 
 .jsuch an interest, such an animation, 
 such a spirit diffused ! Every body 
 felt it. We were all alive. There was 
 employment, hope, solicitude, bustle, 
 for evJery hour of the day. Always 
 ilc^i;>/' 'Qii . some 
 
( 111 ) 
 
 some little objection, some little doubt, 
 some little anxiety to be got over. I 
 never was happier." 
 
 With silent indignation, Fanny re- 
 peated to herself, " Never happier I— 
 never happier than when doing what 
 you must know was not justifiable !— - 
 never happier than when behaving so 
 dishonourably and unfeeHngly ! — -Oh I 
 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 un- 
 lucky. 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 1;remend0us weatheii^^^ 
 AwLt only by a steady contrary wind, 
 ; . or 
 
( lli ) ^ 
 
 or^^lffi. I think, Miss Pric^^^^^ 
 would have indulged ourselves witH 4^' ' 
 week's ^alm in the Atlantic at that | 
 season." ^^^^ 
 
 He seemed determined to be afr- 
 swered; and Fanny, averting her face, 
 said with a firmer tone than usual, 
 "As far as / am concerned, sir, I 
 would not have delayed his return for I 
 a day. My uncle disapproved it all 
 so entirely when he did arrive, that in 
 my opinion, every thing had gone quite 
 far enough." 
 
 She had never spoken so much a^ 
 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 wa$^ 
 surprized; but after a few moments 
 silent consideration of her, replied in 
 a calmer, graver tone, and as if the 
 candid result of conviction, " I be- 
 lieve you are right. It was more plea- -^ 
 sant than prudent. We were getting 
 to6 iioisy;" And then turning the 
 
 "^ :: conversation, 
 
( 113 ) 
 
 conversation, he would have engaged 
 hejr on some other subject, but her an j 
 sw^rs were so shy and reluctant that .„ 
 he could not advance in any. ,^^, 
 
 Miss Crawford, who had been re- 
 peatedly eyeing Dr. Grant and Ed- , 
 mund, now observed, " Those gentle- 
 men must have some very interesting 
 point to discuss." :^. 
 
 " The most interesting in the world,g j; 
 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 
 haiVf??a^ very pretty income to make 
 dvicks and drakes with, and earned 
 without much trouble. I apprehend 
 he will not have less than seven hun- 
 dred a year. Seven hundred a year is 
 a ifine thing for a younger brother ; 
 and as of course he will still live at 
 
 TOdii^k// -J J home, 
 
( 114 ) 
 
 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 
 mae more than the easy manner with 
 which every body settles the abund- 
 ance 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 ^ year." 
 
 " Perhaps I might; but all that yon 
 know is entirely comparative. Birth- 
 right and habit must settle the busi- 
 ness. 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 
 
( 115 ) 
 
 herself and let it pass ; and tried to 
 look calm and unconcerned when the 
 two gentlemen shortly afterwards join- 
 ed them. 
 
 " Bertram," said Henry Crawford, " I 
 shall make a point of eoming to Mans- 
 field to hear you preach your first ser- 
 mon. I shall come on purpose to en- 
 courage 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 
 ^ word; or only looking off just to 
 note down any sentence pre-eminently 
 beautiful ? We will provide ourselves 
 with tablets and a pencil. When will 
 M be ? You must preach at Mansfield, 
 :you know, that Sir Thomas and Lady 
 Bertram may hear you." 
 
 " I shall keep clear of you. Craw- 
 fold, as long as I can," said Edmund, 
 "for you would be more likely to dis- 
 :3eoncert me^ and I should be more sorry 
 
 to 
 
( 116 ) 
 
 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 ^s^ 
 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 no- 
 thing to do but to listen, and her tran- 
 quillity remained undisturbed the rest 
 of the evening, except when Mr. Craw- 
 ford now and then addressed to her a^ 
 question or observation, which she 
 qould not avoid answering. Miss 
 Crawford was too much vexed by whit 
 had passed to be in a humour for any^ 
 thing 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 
 
( 117 I 
 
 like a blow that had been suspeMerf; 
 and still hoped uncertain and at a dis-^ 
 tance, was felt with resentment and 
 mortification. She was very angrj^ 
 with him. She had thought her in* 
 fluence more. She A^c? begun to think 
 of him — she felt that she had — with 
 great regard, with almost decided in- 
 tentions ; but she would now meet hitf 
 with his own cool feelings. It w^^ 
 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 in- 
 difference. She would henceforth ad- 
 mit his attentions without any idea 
 beyond immediate amusement. If A^: 
 could so command his affections, Ae7^# 
 §bould do her no harm, ^^ 
 
 ^M ^ CHAP- 
 
( 118 ) 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 He^try 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 Hues of explanation to 
 the Admiral, he looked refund 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 inter- 
 mediate days, and what do you think 
 itisB" 
 
 ** To walk and ride with me^ to b^ 
 
 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 
 
( 119 ) 
 
 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." ^H *^ 
 
 /f Fanny Price! Nonsense! No,' 
 no. You ought to be satisfied with 
 her two cousins." 
 
 v^V 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 
 o€ 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 diiFerent crea-^ 
 ture from what she was in the autumn^ 
 She was then merely a quiet, modesty 
 not plain looking girl, but she is now; 
 absolutely pretty. I used to think sh^ 
 had neither complexion nor coun- 
 tenance j but in that soft skin of her's, 
 
 so 
 
(f lao ) 
 
 so frequently tinged with a blush as it 
 \K3^ yesterday, there is decided beauty ^ 
 and fmm what I observed of her eyes 
 aud mouth, Idonotdespair of their beings' 
 capable of expression enough when &he 
 has any thing to express. And then- — 
 her air, her manner, her tout ensemble 
 is so indescribably improved ! She 
 most be grown two inches, at least, 
 since October." 
 
 " Phoo ! phoo ! This is only be-^ 
 cause there were no tall women to com-;?:, 
 pare her with, and because she has 
 got a new gown, and you never saw her 
 so well dressed before. She is- ju^r 
 what she was in October, believe mes* 
 The; truth is, that she was the only 
 girl in company for you to notice, and 
 yan. ^ust have a somebody. I' have 
 always thought her pretty— -not i^rik? 
 ingly pretty — but * pretty enough' as 
 people say; a sort (>f beautry^^.tha^ 
 grows on one. ; Hei: eye^ sfhould J^ 
 daj:ber, but she has a &wee| smtile ; but 
 a§' J^ <#ji8 iwonderful degree^ of vim- 
 
 ' provement, 
 
( 121 ) 
 
 proVemcnt, I am sure it may all be re-* 
 solved into a better style of dress and- 
 your having nobody else to look at;' 
 and therefore, if you do set about at* 
 flirtation with her, you never will per- 
 suade mc that it is in compliment to 
 her beauty, or that it proceeds froin 
 any thing but your own idleness and^ 
 folly." ^^ 
 
 Her brother gave only a smile t6^ 
 this accusation, and soon afterwards 
 said, " I do not quite know what to 
 make of Miss Fanny. I do not un-T 
 derstand her. I could not tell what"^ 
 she would be at yesterday. What is 
 her character? — Is she solemn? — K^ 
 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 mef 1 
 with a girl who looked so grave ori^ 
 me ! I must try to get the better' ' 
 of this. Her looks say, ^ I will not 
 
 yoi. II. G like 
 
( 122 ) 
 
 like you, I am determined not to like 
 jou/ and I say, she shall. 
 
 ," Foolish fellow ! And so this is 
 her attraetion 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 un- 
 happy ; a little love perhaps may ani- 
 mate and do her good, but I will not 
 haveyx)u 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 wh^n I 
 take it and talk to her; to think as I 
 l;hink, be interested in all my posses- 
 sions 
 
( 123 ) 
 
 sions 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 further 
 remonstrance, she left Fanny to her 
 fate — a fate which, had not Fanny's 
 heart been guarded in a way unsus- 
 pected 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 ta- 
 lent, 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, 
 G % she 
 
( 124 ) 
 
 she could have escaped heart- whol6 
 from the courtship (though the court- 
 ship only of a fortnight) of such a man 
 as Crawford, in spite of there being 
 sdiifie previous ill-opinion of him to be 
 overcome, had not her affection been 
 engaged elsewhere. With all the se- 
 curity which love of another and dis- 
 esteem of him could give to the peace 
 of mind he was attacking, his con- 
 tinued 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 for- 
 merly. She had by no mieans for- 
 gotten 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 im- 
 possible not to be civil to him in return, 
 A very few days were enough to ef- 
 fect this ; and at the end of those few 
 days, circumstances arose which had a 
 
 tendency 
 
( 125 ) 
 
 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 every 
 body. WiUiam, her brother, the so 
 long absent and dearly loved brother, 
 was in England again. She had a let- 
 ter 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 Craw- 
 ford walked up with the newspaper in 
 his hand, which he had hoped would 
 bring the first tidings, he found her 
 trembhng with joy over this letter, and 
 listening with a glowing, grateful coun- 
 tenance to the kind invitation which 
 her uncle was most collectedly dic^ 
 tating in reply. 
 
 It was but the day before, that Craw- 
 ford 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, 
 g3 but 
 
( 126 ) 
 
 bfit the interest then excited had been 
 very properly lively, determining him 
 on his return to town -to apply for in- 
 formation as to the probable period of 
 the Antwerp's return from the Medi- 
 terranean, &c. ; 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 ear- 
 liest naval intelligence. He proved, 
 however, to be too late. All those fine 
 first feelings, of which he had hoped to 
 be the excitor, were already given. 
 But his intention, the kindness of his 
 intention, was thankfully acknow- 
 ledged^ — quite thankfully and warmTy, 
 for she was elevated beyond the com- 
 mon 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 
 
( 127 ) 
 
 doiibt 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 ac- 
 cordingly 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 cere- 
 mony nor fearfulness to delay the mo- 
 ment of meeting, she was with him as 
 g4 he 
 
^ ( 128 ) 
 
 he entered the house, and the first 
 minutes of exquisite feeling had no in- 
 terruption and no witnesses, unlessthe 
 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 
 Avhere 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 prot^g^, 
 certainly a very different person from 
 the one he had equipped seven years 
 a^go, but a young man of an open, 
 pleasant countenance, and frank, un- 
 studied, but feeling and respectful 
 manners, and such as confirmed him 
 his friend. 
 
 It was long before Fanny could re- 
 tjQver from the cigitating liappiness of 
 
 such 
 
V '^^9 ) 
 
 siich an hour as was formed by me 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 disap- 
 pointment inseparable from the altera- 
 tion 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, how- 
 ever, did gradually come, forwarded 
 by an aifection on his side as warm as 
 her own, and much less incumbered 
 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 to- 
 gether with true enjoyment, and every 
 succeeding morrow renewed a t^te-a- 
 t^te, which Sir Thomas could not but 
 observe with complacency, even before 
 Edmund had pointed it out to him. 
 
 G 5 Excepting 
 
( 130 ) 
 
 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 ex- 
 cited, Fanny had never known so 
 much felicity in her life, as in this un- 
 checked, equal, fearless intercourse with 
 the brother and friend, who was open- 
 ing all his heart to her, telling her all 
 his hopes and fears, plans, and solici- 
 tudes respecting that long thought of, 
 dearly earned, and justly valued bless- 
 ing 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 diifermg 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 
 
( 131 ) 
 
 Earliest years could be gone over again, 
 and every former united pain and plea- 
 sure retraced with the fondest recol- 
 lection. An advantage this, a strength- 
 ener 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 ha- 
 bits, have some means of enjoyment in 
 their power, which no subsequent con- 
 nections can supply ; and it must be 
 by a long and unnatural estrangement, 
 by a divorce which no subsequent 
 connection can justify, if such precious 
 remains of the earliest attachments are 
 ever entirely outlived. Too often, 
 alas ! it is so. — Fraternal love, some- 
 times aluiost every thing, is at others 
 worse than nothing. But with William 
 and Fanny Price, it was still a senti- 
 ment in all its prime and freshness, 
 wounded by no opposition of interest, 
 cooled by no separate attachment, and 
 feeling the influence of time and ab- 
 sence only in its increase. ^ 
 
 g6 An 
 
( 152 ) 
 
 An aiFection so amiable was advanc-' 
 ing each in the opinion of all who had 
 hearts to value any thing good. Henry 
 Crawford was as much struck with it 
 as any. He honoured the warm heart- 
 ed, blunt fondness of the young sailor, 
 which led him to say, with his hand 
 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 wo- 
 men, at the Commissioner's, at Gibral- 
 tar, 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 de- 
 scribing any of the imminent hazards, 
 or terrific scenes, which such a period, 
 at sea, must supply. 
 
 It was a picture which Henry Craw- 
 ford 
 
( 133 ) 
 
 ford had moral taste enough to value- 
 JFanny's attractions increased — : in- 
 creased two-fold— for the sensibiUty 
 which beautified her complexion and 
 illumined her countenance, was an at- 
 traction in itself. He was no longer 
 in doubt of the capabilities of her 
 heart. She had feeling, genuine feel- 
 ing. 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 seek- 
 ing them, was to understand the re- 
 citor, to know the young man by his 
 histories ; and he listened to his clear, 
 simple, spirited details with full satis- 
 faction — seeing in them, the proof of 
 good principles, professional know- 
 ledge, energy, courage, and cheerful- 
 
 nt^s — 
 
( 134 ) 
 
 ness — every thing 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 Mediter- 
 ranean 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 every body in 
 quest of two needlefulls of thread or 
 a second hand shiit button in the 
 midst of her nephew's account of a 
 shipwreck or an engagement, every 
 body else was attentive ; and even Lady 
 Bertram could not hear of such horrors 
 unmoved, or without sometimes lift- 
 ing her eyes from her work to say, 
 *' Dear me! how disagreeable.—-! 
 wonder any body can ever go to sea."^ 
 To Henry Crawford they gave a 
 
 different 
 
( 135 ) 
 
 different feeling. He longed to havd 
 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, be- 
 fore 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 pro- 
 duced 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 com- 
 mand. 
 
( m ): 
 
 ma-pd. . Ifi one respect it wa« better, 
 as it gave him the means of conferring 
 a kindness where he wished to oblige. 
 With spirits, courage, and curiosity up 
 to any thing, 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 re- 
 turned safe and well, without accident 
 or discredit, could she be reconciled to 
 the risk, or feel any of that obligation 
 
 to 
 
( m ) 
 
 to Mr. Crawford for lending the horse 
 which he had fully intended it should 
 produce. When it was proved how- 
 ever 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. 
 
 CHAP. 
 
^ ( 138 ) 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 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 Pi ice, 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 dis- 
 engaged 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 advan- 
 tageous matrimonial establishment that 
 could be among the apparent possibi-/? 
 lities of any one most dear to him, 
 and disdaining' even as a littleness the 
 being quick-sighted on &uch points, 
 
 he 
 
( 13P ) 
 
 he could not avoid perceiving in a grand 
 and careless way that Mr. Crawford 
 was somewhat distinguishing his niece 
 ^ — nor perhaps refrain (though uncon- 
 sciously) from giving a more willing 
 assent to invitations on that account. 
 
 Hts readiness, however, in agreeing 
 to diiie at the Parsonage, when the 
 general invitation was at last hazarded, 
 after many debates and many doubts 
 as to whether it were w^orth while, 
 " because Sir Thomas seemed so ill 
 inclined ! and Lady Bertram was so 
 indolent ! " — proceeded from good 
 breeding and good-will 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 
 
( 140 ) 
 
 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, accord 
 ing 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 every 
 body being as perfectly complying 
 and w^ithout a choice as on such occa- 
 sions they always are, Speculation was 
 decided on almost as soon as Whist,;. 
 
( 141 ) 
 
 and] Lady Bertram soon found herself 
 in the critical situation of being ap- 
 plied 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 con- 
 tented answer — " then Speculation if 
 you please, Mrs. Grant. I know nothing 
 about it, but Fanny must teach me." 
 
 Here Fanny interposed however with 
 anxious protestations of her own equal 
 ignorance ; she had never played the 
 game nor seen it played in her life; 
 and Lady Bertram felt a moment's in- 
 decision again— but upon every body*« 
 
 assuring 
 
( 142 ) 
 
 assuring her that nothing could be so. 
 easy, that it was the easiest game on 
 the cards, and Henry Crawford's step- 
 ping forward with a most earnest re- 
 quest to be allowed to sit between her 
 ladyship and Miss Price, and teach 
 them both, it was so settled; and Sir 
 Thomas, Mrs. Norris, and Dr. and Mrs. 
 Grant, being seated at the table of 
 prime Intellectual state and dignity, 
 the remaining six, under Miss Craw- 
 ford's direction, were arranged round 
 the other. It was a fine arrano-ement 
 for Henry Crawford, who was close to 
 Fanny, and with his hands full of 
 business, having two persons cards to 
 manage as well as his own — for though 
 it was impossible for Famiy not to feel 
 herself mistress of the rules of the 
 game in three minutes, he had yet to 
 inspirit her play, sharpen her avarice, 
 and harden her heart, which, especially 
 in any competition with William, was 
 a work of some difficulty; and as for 
 Lady Bertram, he must continue in 
 
 charge 
 
( 143 ) 
 
 charge of all her fame and fortune 
 through the whole ev^etiing; and if 
 quick enough to keep her from look- 
 ing at her cards when the deal began, 
 must direct her in v/hatever was to be 
 done with them to the end of it. 
 
 He was in high spirits, doing every 
 thing with happy ease, and pre-eminent 
 in all the lively turns, quick resources, 
 and playful impudence that could do 
 honour to the game ; and the round 
 table was altogether a very comforta- 
 ble contrast to the steady sobriety and 
 orderly silence of the other. 
 
 Twice had Sir Thomas inquired into 
 the enjoyment and success of his lady, 
 but in vain ; no pause was long enough 
 for the time his measured manner 
 needed ; and very little of her state 
 could be known till Mrs. Grant was 
 able, at the end of the first rubber, to 
 go to her and pay her compliments. 
 
 *' I hope your ladyship is pleased 
 with the game." 
 
 " Oh ! dear, yes. — Very entertain- 
 ing 
 
( 144 ) 
 
 ing indeed. A very odd game. I do 
 not know what it is all about. I am 
 never to see my cards ; and Mr. Craw- 
 ford does all the rest." 
 
 " Bertram," said Crawford some time 
 afterwards, taking the opportunity of 
 a little languor in the game, " I have 
 never told you what happened to me 
 yesterday in my ride home." They 
 had been hunting together, and were 
 in the midst of a good run, and at 
 some distance from Mansfield, when 
 his horse being found to have flung a 
 shoe, Henry Crawford had been obliged 
 to give up, and make the best of his 
 way back. " I told you I lost my 
 way after passing that old farm house, 
 with the yew trees, because I can never 
 bear to ask; but I have not told you 
 that, with my usual luck — for I never 
 do wrong without gaining by it — I 
 found myself in due time in the very 
 place which I had a curiosity to see. I 
 was-suddenly, upon turning the corner 
 of a steepish downy field, in the midst 
 
 of 
 
( 145 ) 
 
 of a retired little village between gently 
 rising hills ; a small stream before me 
 to be forded, a church standing on a 
 sort of kaipll to my right — ^which 
 church was strikingly large and hand* 
 some for the place, and not a gentle- 
 man or half a gentleman's house to be 
 seen excepting one — to be presumed 
 the Parsonage, within a stone's throw 
 of the said knoll and church. I found 
 myself in short in Thornton Lacey." 
 
 " It sounds like it," said Edmund^ 
 ^* but which way did you turn after 
 passing Se well's farm ?" 
 
 " I answer no such irrelevant and 
 insidious questions ; though were I to 
 answer all that you could put in the 
 course of an hour, you would never be 
 able to prove that it was noi Thornton 
 Lacey — for such it certainly v/as." 
 
 " You inquired then ?" 
 
 " No, I never inquire. But I told 
 a man mending a hedge that it was 
 Thornton Lacey, and he agreed to it." 
 
 VOL. II. H " You 
 
( 146 ) 
 
 " You have a good memory. I had 
 forgotten having ever told you half so 
 much of the place." 
 
 Thornton Lacey was the name of 
 his impending living, as Miss Crawford 
 well knew; and her interest in a ne- 
 gociation for William Price's knave 
 increased. 
 
 " Well," continued Edmund, " and 
 how did you like what you saw ?" 
 
 " Very much indeed. You are a lucky 
 fellow. There will be work for five 
 summers at least before the place is 
 live-able." 
 
 ^* No, no, not so bad as that. The 
 farm-yard must be moved, I grant you ; 
 but I am not aware of any thing else. 
 The house is by no means bad, and 
 when the yard is removed, there may 
 be a very tolerable approach to it." 
 
 " The farm-yard must be cleared 
 away entirely, and planted np to shut 
 out the blacksmith's shop. The house 
 must be turned to fiont the ea^t in- 
 
t 147 ) 
 
 stead of the north — the entrance and 
 principal rooms, I mean, must be on 
 that side, where the view is really very 
 pretty; I am sure it may be done. 
 And there must be your approach-— 
 through what is at present the garden. 
 You must make a new garden at what 
 is now the back of the house ; which 
 will be giving it the best aspect in the 
 world — sloping to the south-east. The 
 ground seems precisely formed for it. 
 I rode fifty yards up the lane between 
 the church and the house in order to 
 look about me; and saw how it might 
 all be. Nothing can be easier. The 
 meadows beyond what will be the gar- 
 den, as well as what now is, sweeping 
 round from the lane 1 stood in to the 
 north-east, that is, to the principal road 
 through the village, must be all laid 
 together of course ; very pretty mea- 
 dows they are, finely sprinkled with 
 timber. They belong to the living, I 
 suppose. If not, you must purchase 
 diem. Then the stream — something 
 H 2 must 
 
( 148 ) 
 
 must be done with the stream; but I 
 could not quite determine what I 
 had two or three ideas." 
 
 "And I have two or three ideas 
 also," said Edmund, *' and one of them 
 is that very little of your plan for 
 Thornton Lacey will ever be put in 
 practice. I must be satisfied with 
 rather less ornament and beauty. I 
 think the house and premises maybq 
 made comfortable, and given the air 
 of a gentleman's residence without any 
 very heavy expense, and that must 
 suffice me; and I hope may suffice all 
 who care about me." 
 
 Miss Crawford, a little suspicious 
 and resentful of a certain tone of voice 
 and a certain half-look attending the 
 last expression of his hope, made a 
 hasty finish of her dealings with Wil- 
 liam Price, and securing his knaveat 
 an exorbitant rate, exclaimed, " There, 
 I will stake my last like a woman of 
 spirit. No cold prudence for me. I 
 am not born to sit still and do nQt||ing. 
 
( 149 ) 
 
 if I lose the game, it shall not be from 
 not striving for it." 
 
 The game was her's, and only did 
 hot pay her for what she had given to 
 secure it. Another deal proceeded, 
 and Crawford began again about 
 Thornton Lacey. 
 
 " My plan may not be the best pos^ 
 sible; I had not many minutes to 
 form it in: but you must do a good 
 deal^- The place deserves it, and you 
 wijl find yourself not satisfied with 
 much less than it is capable of. — (Ex- 
 cuse me, your ladyship must not see 
 your cards. There, let them lie just 
 before you.) The place deserves it, 
 Bertram. You talk of giving it the 
 ait of a gentleman's residence. That 
 will be done, by the removal of the 
 farm-yard, for, independent of that 
 terrible nuisance, I nev^er saw a house 
 of the kind which had in itself sq 
 much the air of a gentleman's resi- 
 dence, so much the look of a some- 
 thing above a mere Parsonage House, 
 H 3 above 
 
( 150 ) 
 
 above the expenditure of a few htiii^ 
 dreds a year. It is not a scrambling 
 collection of low single rooms, with 
 as many roofs as windows — it is not 
 cramped into the vulgar compactness 
 of a square farm-house — it is a solid, 
 roomy, mansion-like looking house, 
 such as one might suppose a respecta- 
 ble old country family had lived in 
 from generation to generation, through 
 two centuries at least, and were now 
 spending from two to three thousand 
 a year iii." Miss Crawford listenedj 
 and Edmund agreed to this. " The 
 air of a gentleman's residence, there- 
 fore, you cannot but give it, if you do 
 any thing. But it is capable of much 
 more. (Let me see, Mary; Lady Bei> 
 tram bids a dozen for that queen; no, 
 no^ a dozen is more than it is worth. 
 Lady Bertram does not bid a dozen. 
 She will have nothing to say to it. 
 Go on, go on.) By some such im^ 
 provements as I have suggested, (I do 
 not really require you to proceed upon 
 
 my 
 
( 1^1 ) 
 
 my pl^n, though by the bye I doubt 
 any body's striking out a better) — 
 you may give it a higher character. 
 You may raise it into a place. From 
 being the mere gentleman's residence, 
 it becomes, by judicious improvement, 
 the residence of a man of education, 
 taste, modern manners, good connec- 
 tions. All this may be stamped on it ; 
 and that house receive such an air as 
 to make its owner be set down as the 
 great land-holder of the parish, by 
 every creature travelling the road; 
 especially as there is no real squire's 
 house to dispute the point ; a circum- 
 stance between ourselves to enhance 
 the value of such a situation in point 
 of privilege and independence beyond 
 all calculation. You think with me, 
 I hope— (turning with a softened voice 
 to Fanny). — Have you ever seen the 
 place?" 
 
 Fanny gave a quick negative, and 
 
 tried to hide her interest in the sub- 
 
 ?ject by an eager attention to her 
 
 h4 brother, 
 
brdtker, who was driving as hafird ^ 
 bargain and imposing on her as much 
 as he could; but Crawford pursued 
 with " No, no, you must not part 
 with the queen. You have bought 
 her too dearly, and your brother does 
 not offer half her value. No, no, sir^ 
 hands off — hands off. Your sister 
 does not part with the queen. She ia 
 quite determined. The game will be 
 yours, turning to her again — it will 
 certainly be yours." '^?v 
 
 "And Fanny had much rather it 
 were William's," said Edmund, smiling 
 at her. " Poor Fanny ! not allowed 
 to cheat herself as she wishes 1" 
 WG"Mr. Bertram," said Miss Crawford, 
 a few minutes afterwards, " you know 
 Henry to be such a capital improver, 
 that you cannot possibly engage in 
 any thing of the sort at Thornton 
 Lacey, without accepting his help. 
 Only think how useful he was at So- 
 therton ! Only think what grand things 
 were produced there by our all going 
 
 with 
 
( 153 ) 
 
 ^with him one hot day in August to 
 drive about the grounds, and see his 
 genius take fire. There we went, and 
 there we came home again; and what 
 was done there is not to be told !" 
 
 Fanny's eyes were turned on Craw- 
 ford for a moment with an expression 
 more than grave, even reproachful.; 
 but on catching his were instantly 
 withdrawn. With something of con- 
 sciousness he shook his head at his 
 sister, and laughingly replied, " I can- 
 not say there was much done at Sother- 
 ton ; but it was a hot day, and we 
 were all walking after each other and 
 bewildered." As soon as a general buz 
 gave him shelter, he added, in a low 
 voice directed solely at Fanny, " I 
 should be sorry to have my powers of 
 planning judged of by the day at So- 
 ; therton. I see things very differently 
 now. Do not think of me as I ap- 
 peared tlien." :i,^^ v/oa ai^ 
 
 Sotherton wa§ a w^rlr to^ catch Mrs. 
 uNorris, ^ud being just then in the 
 dir H^ happy 
 
( 1^4 )' 
 
 happy leisure which followed securing 
 the odd trick by Sir Thomas's capital 
 play and her own, against Dr. and 
 Mrs. Grant's great hands, she called 
 out in high good-humour, " Sotherton! 
 " Yes, that is a place indeed, and we 
 had a charming day there. William, 
 you are quite out of luck; but the next 
 time you come I hope dear Mr. and 
 Mrs. Rushworth will be at home, and 
 I am sure I can answer for your being- 
 kindly received by both. Your cousins 
 are not of a sort to forget their rela- 
 tions, and Mr. Rushworth is a most 
 amiable man. They are at Brighton 
 ftow, you know — ^in one of the best 
 houses there, as Mr. Rushworth's fine 
 fortune gives them a right to be. I 
 do not exactly know the distance, 
 but when you get back to Portsmouth, 
 if it is not very far off, you ought to 
 go over and pay your respects to 
 them; and I could send a little parcel 
 by you that I wiant to get conveyed to 
 your cousins." 
 
 " I should 
 
( us ) 
 
 " I should be very happy, aunt — but 
 Brighton is almost by Beachey Head ; 
 and if I could get so far, I could not 
 expect to be welcome in such a smart 
 pkoe as that— rpoor scimbby midship- 
 Kifcn as I am*" 
 
 Mrs. Norris was beginning an eag^r^ 
 assurance of the affability he might^ 
 depend on, when she was stopped by 
 Sir Tliomas's saying with authority, 
 '* I do not advise your going to Brigh- 
 ton, William, as I trust you may soon 
 have more convenient opportunities of 
 meeting, but my daughters would be 
 happy to see their cousins any where ; 
 and you will find Mr. Rushworth most 
 sincerely disposed to regard all the 
 connections of our family as his 
 own." 
 
 "I would rather find him private 
 secretary to the first Lord than any 
 thing else," was William's only answer, 
 in an under voice, not meant to reach 
 far, and the subject dropped. 
 
 As yet Sir Thomas had seen nothing 
 u6 to 
 
( J^ > 
 
 to rema^Fkin Mr. Crawford's behaviotlr; 
 but when the Whist table broke up at 
 the. end of the second rubber, and 
 leaving Dr. Grant and Mrs. Norris to 
 dispute over their last play, he became 
 a looker-on at the other, he found his 
 niece the object of attentions, or rather 
 of professions of a somewhat pointed 
 chciracter. 
 
 . Henry Crawford was in the first glow 
 of another scheme about Thornton 
 Lacey, and not being able to catch^ 
 Edmund's ear, was detailing it to his 
 fair neighbour with a look of con- 
 siderable earnestness. His scheme was 
 to rent the house himself the following 
 winter, that he might have a home of 
 his own in that neighbourhood ; and 
 it was not merely for the use of it in 
 the hunting season, (as he was then tell- 
 ing her,) though that consideration had 
 certainly some weight, feeling as hedid^' 
 that in spite of all Dr. Grant's veryo 
 great kindness, it was impossible fovi 
 him and his horses to be accommor 
 
 dated 
 
( 157 ) 
 
 dated where they now were without 
 material inconvenience; but his at- 
 tachment to that neighbourhood did 
 not depend upon one amusement or 
 one season of the year : he had set his 
 heart upon having a something there 
 that he could come to at any time, 
 a little homestall at his command 
 where all the holidays of his year 
 might be spent, and he might find 
 himself continuing, improving, and 
 perfecting that friendship and inti- 
 macy with the Mansfield Park family 
 which was increasing in value to him 
 every day. Sir Thomas heard and was 
 not offended. There was no want of 
 respect in the young man's address ; 
 and Fanny's reception of it was so 
 proper and modest, so calm and unin- 
 vifting, that he had nothing to censure 
 in her. She said little, assented only 
 here and there, and betrayed no incli- 
 nation either of appropriating any 
 part of the compliment to herself or 
 of strengthening his views in favour 
 
 of 
 
of Northamptonshire. Finding by^ 
 whom he was observed, Henry Graw-*' 
 ford addressed himself on the same 
 subject to Sir Thomas, in a more every 
 day tone, but still with feeling. 
 
 " I want to be your neighbour, Sir 
 Thomas, as you have perhaps heard me 
 telling Miss Price. May I hope for 
 your acquiescence and for your not 
 imfluencing your son against such a 
 tenant?" 
 
 Sir Thomas, politely bowing, replied 
 -^" it is the only way, sir, in which I 
 could not wish you established as a per- 
 manent neighbour; but I hope, ^ad 
 believe, that Edmund will occupy his 
 own house at Thornton Lacey. Ed- 
 mund, am I saying too much ?" 
 
 - Edmund, on this appeal, had first to 
 hear what was going on, but on undern 
 standing the question, was at no loss 
 for an answer. . * 
 
 " Certainly, sir, I have no idea but^ 
 of residence. But, Crawford, thougJi 
 I refuse you as a tenaiit, came to me 
 
 Hi as 
 
( 159 ) 
 
 as a friend. Consider the house as 
 half your own every winter, and we 
 will add to the stables on your own 
 improved plan, and with all the im- 
 provements of your improved plan 
 that may occur to you this spring." 
 
 " We shall be the losers," continued 
 Sir Thomas. " His going, though only 
 eight miles, will be an unwelcome 
 contraction of our family circle ; but 
 I should have been deeply mortified, 
 if any son of mine could reconcile 
 himself to doing less. It is perfectly 
 natural that you should not have 
 thought much on the subject, Mr. 
 Crawford. But a parish has wants and 
 claims which can be known only by 
 a clergyman constantly resident, and 
 which no proxy can be capable of sa- 
 tisfying to the same extent. Edmund 
 might, in the common phrase, do the 
 duty of Thornton, that is, he might 
 read prayers and preach, without giv- 
 ing up Mansfield Park ; he might ride 
 over, ev^ry Sunday, to a house nomi- 
 nally 
 
( 160 ) 
 
 nally inhabited, and go through divine 
 service; he might be the clergyman 
 of Thornton Lacey every seventh day, 
 for three or four hours, if that would 
 content him. But it will not He 
 knows that human nature needs more 
 lessons than a weekly sermon can con- 
 vey, and that if he does not live among 
 his parishioners and prove himself by 
 constant attention their well-wisher 
 and friend, he does very little either 
 for their good or his own." 
 
 Mr. Crawford bowed his acquies- 
 cence. 
 
 , *' I repeat again," added Sir Thomas, 
 " that Thornton Lacey is the only 
 house in the neighbourhood in which 
 I should not be happy to wait on Mr. 
 'Crawford as occupier." 
 lid Mr. Crawford bowed his thanks^tna 
 0fi:*^Sir Thomas," said Edmund, *^ mi- 
 ddubtedly understands the duty of a 
 parish priest. — We must hope his $i^ 
 fmy prove that he knows it too." '^o^^; 
 r-t Whatever effect Sir Thomas's little 
 
 harangue 
 
( 161 ) 
 
 harangue might really produce on Mr, 
 Crawford, it raised some awkward sen- 
 jsations in two of the others, two of his 
 most attentive listeners, Miss Craw- 
 ford and Fanny. — One of whom, hav- 
 ing never before understood that 
 Thornton was so soon and so com- 
 pletely to be his home, was pondering 
 with downcast eyes on what it would 
 be, not to see Edmund every day ; and 
 the other, startled from the agreeable 
 fancies she had been previously indulg- 
 ing on the strength of her brother's 
 description, no longer able, in the pic- 
 ture she had been forming of a future 
 Thornton, to shut out the church, sink 
 the clergyman, and see only the respect- 
 able, elegant, modernized, and occa- 
 sional residence of a man of independ- 
 ent fortune — was considering Sir 
 Thomas, with decided ill-will, as the 
 destroyer of all this, and suffering the 
 more from that involuntary forbear- 
 ance which his character and manner 
 commanded, and from not daring to 
 ^u^k;i. I relieve 
 
( 16S ) 
 
 relieve herself by a single attempt at 
 throwing ridicule on his cause. 
 
 All the agreeable of her speculation 
 was over for that hour. It was time to 
 have done with cards if sermons pre- 
 vailed, and she was glad to find it ne- 
 cessary to come to a conclusion and 
 be able to refresh her spirits by a 
 change of place and neighbour. 
 
 The chief of the party were now 
 collected irregularly round the fire, 
 and waiting the final break up. William 
 and Fanny were the most detached. 
 They remained together at the other* 
 wise deserted card-table, talking Very 
 comfortably utid not thinkifig of the 
 rest, till some of the rest began to 
 think of them. Henry Crawford's 
 chair was the first to be given a direc- 
 tion towards them, and he sat silently 
 observing them for a few minutes; 
 himself in the meanwhile observed by 
 Sir Thomas, who was standing in ch^^ 
 with Dr. Grant. -^^^^ 
 
 " This is the Assembly night,'* said 
 
 William. 
 
( 163 ) 
 
 William. " If I were at Portsmouth, 
 I should be at it perhaps." 
 
 " But you do not wish yourself at 
 Portsmouth, William ?" 
 
 " No, Fanny, that I do not. I shall 
 have enough of Portsmouth, and of 
 dancing too, when I cannot have you. 
 And I do not know that there would 
 be any good in going to the Assembly, 
 for I might not get a partner. The 
 Portsmouth girls turn up their noses 
 at any body who has not a commissioiit 
 One might as well be nothing as a 
 midshipman. One is nothing indeed* 
 You remember the Gregorys ; they 
 are grown up amazing fine girls, but 
 they will hardly speak to mCy because 
 Lucy is courted by a lieutenant." 
 
 " Oh ! shame, shame ! — But never 
 mind it, William. (Her own cheeks in 
 a glow of indignation as she spoke.) 
 It is not worth minding. It is no re- 
 flection on 1/ou ; it is no more than 
 what the greatest admirals have all ex- 
 p^fUC^diM more .or less, in their time. 
 v^ibHI^W You 
 
( 164 ) 
 
 You mst thiiik bf '^itffc^^nnst 
 try to make up your mind to it as one 
 of the hardships which fall to every 
 sailor's share — -like bad weather and 
 hard living— only with this advantage, 
 that there will be an end to it, that 
 there will come a time when you will 
 have nothing of that sort to endure. 
 When you are a heutenant !— only 
 think, William, when you are a lieii- 
 teliant, how little you will care for any 
 nonsense of this kind." 
 
 " I begin to think I shall never be 
 a lieutenant, Fanny, fevery body gets 
 made but me." 
 
 " Oh ! my dear William, do not 
 talk so, do not be so desponding. My 
 uncle says nothing, but I am sure he 
 will do every thing in his power to get 
 you made. He knows, as well as you 
 do, of what consequence it is." ' ' 
 
 She was checked by the sight of her 
 uncle much nearer to them than she 
 had any suspicion of, and each found 
 it necessary to talk of something else. 
 
 "Are 
 
( 165 ) 
 
 .^ "Are you fond of dancing, Fanny?" 
 . " Yes, very ; — only I am soon 
 tired." 
 
 " I should like to go to a ball with 
 you and see you dance. Have you 
 never any balls at Northampton ? — I 
 should like to see you dance, and I'd 
 dance with you if you would, for no- 
 body would know who I was here, and 
 I should like to be your partner once 
 more. We used to jump about to- 
 gether many a time, did not we? when 
 the hand-organ was in the street? 1 
 am a pretty good dancer in my way, 
 but I dare say you are a better." — And 
 turning to his uncle, who was now close 
 to them — " Is not Fanny a very good 
 dancer, sir?" 
 
 Fanny, in dismay at such an un- 
 precedented question, did not know 
 which way to look, or how to be pre- 
 pared for the answer. Some very grave 
 reproof, or at least the coldest expres- 
 sion of indifference must be coming to 
 distress her brother, and sink her to 
 ^r -■- ■ the 
 
( 166 ) 
 
 the ground. But, on the contrary, it 
 was no worse than, " I am sorry to say 
 that I am unable to aniswer your ques- 
 tion. I have never seen Fanny dance 
 since she was a little girl ; but I trust 
 we shall both think she acquits herself 
 like a gentlewoman when we do see 
 her, which perhaps we may have an 
 opportunity of doing ere long." 
 
 " I have had the pleasure of seeing 
 your sister dance, Mr. Price," said 
 Henry Crawford, leaning forward, 
 *' and will engage to answer every in- 
 quiry which you can make on the sub- 
 ject, to your entire satisfaction. But 
 I believe (seeing Fanny look distressed) 
 it must be at some other time. There 
 is one person in company who does not 
 like to have Miss Price spoken of" 
 
 True enough, he had once seen 
 Fanny danCe ; and it was equally true 
 that he would now have answered for 
 her gliding about with quiet, light 
 elegance, and jn admirable time, but 
 in fact he could not for the life of him 
 
 recall 
 
( 167 ) 
 
 recall what her dancing had been, and 
 rather took it for granted that she had 
 been present than remembered any 
 thing about her. 
 
 He passed, however, for an admirer 
 of her dancing ; and Sir Thomas, by no 
 means displeased, prolonged the con- 
 versation on dancing in general, and 
 was so well engaged in describing the 
 balls of Antigua, and listening to what 
 his nephew could relate of the different 
 modes of dancing which had fallen 
 within his observation, that he had not 
 heard his carriage announced, and was 
 first called to the knowledge of it by 
 the bustle of Mrs. Norris. 
 
 " Come, Fanny, Fanny, what are 
 you about ? We are going. Do not 
 you see your aunt is going ? Quick, 
 quick. I cannot bear to keep good 
 old Wilcox waiting. You should al- 
 ways remember the coachman and 
 horses. My dear Sir Thomas, we have 
 settled it that the carriage should come 
 imrVio 6Yil *^dt lot b^-ck 
 
( 168 ) 
 
 back for you, and Edmund, and 
 William." 
 
 Sir Thomas could not dissent, as it 
 had been his own arrangement, pre- 
 viously communicated to his wife and 
 sister; but that seemed forgotten by 
 Mrs. Norris, who must fancy that she 
 settled it all herself. 
 
 Fanny's last feeling in the visit was 
 disappointment — for the shawl which 
 Edmund was quietly taking from the 
 servant to bring and put round her 
 shoulders, was seized by Mr. Crawford's 
 quicker hand, and she was obliged to 
 be indebted to his more prominent 
 attention. 
 
 CHAP- 
 
( 169 ) 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 William's desire of seeing Fanny 
 dance, made more than a momentary- 
 impression on his uncle. The hope of 
 an opportunity, which Sir Thomas 
 had then given, was not given to be 
 thought of no more. He remained 
 steadily incHned to gratify so amiable 
 a feeling — to gratify any body else who 
 might wish to see Fanny dance, and 
 to give pleasure to the young people in 
 general; and having thought the 
 matter over and taken his resolution in 
 quiet independence, the result of it 
 appeared the next morning at break- 
 fast, when, after recalling and com- 
 mending what his nephew had said, he 
 added, " I do not like, William, that 
 you should leave Northamptonshire 
 without this indulgence. It would 
 give me pleasure to see you both dance. 
 You spoke of the balls at Northamp- 
 ton. Your cousins have occasionally 
 VOL. II. I attended 
 
( 170 ) 
 
 attended them ; but they wauld not 
 altogether suit us now. The fatigUiC 
 would be too much for your aunt J 
 believe, we must not think of a North- 
 ampton ball. A dance at hcwne 
 would be more eligible^-and if " — 
 
 " Ah ! my dear Sir Thomas," inter- 
 rupted Mrs. Norris, "I knew what 
 was coming. I knew what you were 
 going to say. If dear Julia were ai 
 home, or dearest Mrs. Rushworth at 
 Sotherton, to afford a reason, an occa- 
 sion for such a thing, you would be 
 tempted to give the young people a 
 dance at Mansfield. I know you 
 would. If they were at home to grace 
 the ball, a ball you would have this 
 very Christmas. Thank your uncle, 
 William, thank your uncle." 
 
 " My daughters," replied Sir Tho- 
 mas, gravely interposing, " have their 
 pleasures at Brighton, and I hope are 
 very happy ; but the dance which I 
 think of giving at Mansfield, will be 
 for their cousins. Could we be all as- 
 sembled, 
 
( 171 ) 
 
 scmbled, our satisfaction would ua- 
 doubtedly be more complete, but the 
 absence of some is not to debar the 
 others of amusement." ^ 
 
 Mrs. Norris had not another word 
 to say. She saw decision in his looks, 
 and her surprize and vexation required 
 some minutes silence to be settled into 
 composure. A ball at such a timet 
 His daughters absent and herself not 
 consulted! There was comfort, how- 
 ever, soon at hand. She must be the 
 doer of every thing; Lady Bertram 
 would of couse be spared all thought 
 and exertion, and it would all fall upon 
 her. She should have to do the ho- 
 nours of the evening, and this reflec- 
 tion quickly restored so much of her 
 good humour as enabled her to join in 
 with the others, before their happiness 
 and thanks were all expressed. 
 
 Edmund, William, and Fanny, did, 
 in their different ways, look and speak 
 as much grateful pleasure in the pro- 
 mised ball, as Sir Thomas could desire. 
 1% Edmund's 
 
( W2 ) 
 
 Edmund's feelings were for the other 
 two. His father had never conferred 
 a, favour or shewn a kindness more to 
 his satisfaction. 
 
 Lady Bertram was perfectly quies- 
 cent and contented, and had no ob- 
 jections to make. Sir Thomas engaged 
 for its giving her very little trouble, 
 and she assured him, " that she was not 
 at all afraid of the trouble, indeed she 
 could not imagine there would be 
 any," . _ 
 
 Mrs. Norris was ready with her sug- 
 gestions as to the rooms he would think 
 fittest to be used, but found it all pre- 
 arranged; and w^hen she would have 
 conjectured and hinted about the day, 
 it appeared that the day was settled 
 too. Sir Thomas had been amusing 
 himself with shaping a very complete 
 outline of the business ; and as soon 
 as she would listen quietly, could read 
 his list of the families to be invited, 
 from whom. he calculated, with all ne- 
 cess^Xj- allowance for the shortness of 
 
 the 
 
( 173 ) 
 
 the notice, to collect young people 
 enough to form twelve or fourteen 
 couple ; and could detail the consider- 
 ations which had induced him to fix 
 on the 22d, as the most eh'gible day. 
 William was required to be at Ports- 
 mouth on the 24th; the 22d would 
 therefore be the last day of his visit ; 
 but where the days were so few it 
 would be unwise to fix on any earlier. 
 Mrs. Norris was obliged to be satisfied 
 with thinking just the same, and with 
 having been on the point of proposing 
 the 22d herself, as by far the best day 
 for the purpose. 
 
 The ball was now a settled thing, 
 and before the evening a proclaimed 
 thing to all whom it concerned. In-^ 
 vitations were sent with dispatch, and 
 many a young lady went to bed that 
 night with her head full of happy cares 
 as well as Fanny. — To her, the cares 
 were sometimes almost beyond the hap- 
 piness ; for young and inexperienced, 
 with small means of choice and no con- 
 I 3 " "" " fidenc^ 
 
( 174 ) ^ 
 
 fidence in her own taste — the " how 
 she should be dressed" was a point of 
 painful solicitude; and the almost 
 solitary ornament in her possession, a 
 very pretty amber cross which William 
 had brought her from Sicily, was the 
 greatest distress of all, for she had no- 
 thing but a bit of ribbon to fasten it to^^ 
 and' though she had worn it in that 
 manner once, would it be allowable at 
 such a time, in the midist of all the rich 
 ornaments which she supposed all the 
 other young ladies would appear in? 
 And yet not to wear it ! William had 
 wanted to buy her a gold chain too, 
 but the purchase had been beyond his 
 means, and therefore not to wear the 
 cross might be mortifying him. These 
 were anxious considerations ; enough 
 to sober her spirits even under the 
 prospect of a ball given principally for 
 her gratification. 
 
 - > The preparations meanwhile went 
 to, and Lady Bertram continued to 
 8Tt on her sofa without any incon- 
 venience 
 
( i75 ) 
 
 yeiiience from them. She had some 
 extra visits from the housekeeper, and 
 her maid was rather hurried in making 
 up a new dress for her ; Sir Thomas 
 gave orders and Mrs. Norris ran about, 
 but all this gave her no tiouble, and as 
 she had foreseen, *^ there was in fact 
 no trouble in the business." 
 
 Edmund was at this time particularly 
 full of cares ; his mind being deeply 
 occupied in the consideration of two 
 important events now at hand, which 
 W€re to fix his fate in life- — ordination 
 and matrimony — events of such a 
 serious character as to make the ball, 
 which would be very quickly followed 
 by one of them, appear of less moment 
 uvn his eyes than in those of any other 
 f^pisrson in the house. On the 23d he 
 was going to a friend near Peterbo- 
 rough in the same situation as himself, 
 and they were to receive ordination in 
 the course of the Christmas week- 
 Half his destiny would then be deter^ 
 mined^but the other half might not 
 irtma^'^ 1 4 be 
 
( 176 ) 
 
 be so very smoothly wooed. His duties 
 would be established, but the wife who 
 was to share, and animate, and reward 
 those duties might yet be unattainable. 
 He knew his own mind^ but he was 
 not always perfectly assured of know- 
 ing Miss Crawford's. There were points 
 on which they did not quite agree, there 
 were moments in which she did not 
 seem propitious, and though trusting 
 altogether to her affection, so far as to 
 be resolved (almost resolved) on bring- 
 ing it to "a decision within a very short 
 time, as soon as the variety of business 
 before him were arranged, and he knew 
 what he had to offer her — he had many 
 anxious feelings, many doubting hours 
 as to the result. His conviction of her 
 regard for him was sometimes very 
 strong ; he could look back on a long 
 course of encouragement, and she was 
 as perfect in disinterested attachment 
 as in every thing else. But at other 
 times doubt and alarm intermingled 
 with his hopes, and when he thought of 
 
( 177 ) 
 
 her acknowledged disinclination for 
 privacy and retirement, her decided 
 preference of a London life — what 
 could he expect but a determined re- 
 jection ? unless it were an acceptance 
 even more to be deprecated, demand- 
 ing such sacrifices of situation and 
 employment on his side as conscience 
 must forbid. 
 
 The issue of all depended on one 
 question. Did she love him well 
 enough to forego what had used to be 
 essential points — did she love him well 
 enough to make them no longer essen- 
 tial ? And this question, which he was 
 continually repeating to himself, though 
 oftenest answered wHth a " Yes," had 
 sometimes its " No." 
 
 Miss Crawford was soon to leave 
 Mansfield, and on this circumstance 
 the " no" and the " yes" had been very 
 recently in alternation . He had seen her 
 eyes sparkle as she spoke of the dear 
 friend's letter, which claimed a long 
 visit from her in London, and of the 
 I 5 kindness 
 
( 178 ) 
 
 kindness of Henry, in engaging to re- 
 main where he was till January, that 
 he might convey her thither ; he had 
 heard her speak of the pfeasure of such 
 a jourjiey with an animation which had 
 " no" in every tone. But this had 
 occurred on the first day of its being 
 settled, within the first hour of the 
 burst of such enjoyment, when nothing 
 but the friends she was to visit, was 
 before her. He had since heard her 
 express herself differently — with other 
 feelings — more chequered feelings ; 
 he had heard her tell Mrs. Grant that 
 she should leave her with regret ; that 
 she began to believe neither the friends 
 nor the pleasures she was going to 
 were worth those she left behind; and 
 that though she felt she must go, and 
 ^Icnew she should enjoy herself when 
 once away, she was already looking 
 forward to being at Mansfield ^gain. 
 Was there not a " yes" in all this ? 
 ^^' With such matters to ponder oi^r, 
 ^ and arrange, and re-arrang^j Edmund 
 
 could 
 
( ^>79 :) 
 
 ^ould not, on his own account, think 
 very much of the evening, which the 
 rest of the family were looking forward 
 to with a more equal degree of strong 
 interest. Independent of his two cou- 
 sins enjoyment in it, the evening was 
 to him of no higher value than any other 
 appointed meeting of the two families 
 might be. In every meeting there was 
 a hope of receiving further confirmation 
 of Miss Crawford's attachment; but 
 the whirl of a ball-room perhaps was 
 not particularly favourable to the ex- 
 citement or expression of serious feel- 
 ings. To engage her early for the two 
 first dances, was all the command of 
 individual happiness which he felt in 
 his power, and the only preparation for 
 the ball which he could enter into, in 
 spite of all that was passing around him 
 on the subject, from morning till night. 
 Tr Thursday was the day of the ball : 
 and on Wednesday morning, Fanny, 
 ^ill unable to satisfy herself, as to what 
 jhe oji^ht ta wear, determined to seek 
 Lo-) 1 6 the 
 
the icounsel of the more enlightenedy 
 and apply to Mrs. Grant and her sister, 
 whose acknowledged taste would cer- 
 tainly bear her blameless ; and as 
 Edmund and William were gone to 
 Northampton, and she had reason to 
 think Mr. Crawford likewise out, she 
 walked down to the Parsonage without 
 m uchfear of wanting an opportunity for 
 private discussson ; and the privacy of 
 such a discussion was a most important 
 part of it to Fanny, being more than 
 half ashamed of her own solicitude. 
 
 She met Miss Crawford within a few 
 yards of the Parsonage, just setting out 
 to call on her, and as it seemed to her, 
 tha,t her friend, though obliged to in- 
 sist on turning back, was -unwilling to 
 lose her walk, she explained her busi- 
 ness at once and observed that if she 
 would be so kind as to give her opinion, 
 it might be all talked over as well with- 
 out doors as within. Miss Crawford 
 appeared gratified by the application, 
 and after a moment's thought, urged 
 
 Fanny's 
 
( '181 ) 
 
 Fanny's returning with her in a much 
 more cordial manner than before, and 
 proposed their going up into her room, 
 where they might have a comfortable 
 coze, without disturbing Dr. and Mrs. 
 Grant, who were together in the draw- 
 ing-room. It was just the plan to suit 
 Fanny; and with a great deal of gratitude 
 on her side for such ready and kind 
 attention, they proceeded in doors and 
 upstairs, and were soon deep in the 
 interesting subject. Miss Crawford, 
 pleased with the appeal, gave her all her 
 best judgment and taste, made every 
 thing easy by her suggestions, and 
 tried to make every thing agreeable by 
 her encouragement. The dress being 
 settled in all its grander parts,—" But 
 what shall you have by way of neck- 
 lace ?" said Miss Crawford. " Shall 
 not you wear your brother's cross ?" 
 And as she spoke she was undoing a 
 small parcel, which Fanny had observed 
 in her hand when they met. Fanny 
 acknowledged her wishes and doubts 
 
 on. 
 
( 182 ) 
 
 on this point; she did not know how 
 either to wear the cross, or to refrain 
 from wearing it. She was answered 
 by having a small trinket-box placed 
 before her, and being requested to 
 chuse from among several gold chains 
 and necklaces. Such had been the 
 parcel with which Miss Crawford was 
 provided, and such the object of her 
 intended visit; and in the kindest 
 manner she now urged Fanny's taking 
 one for the cross and to keep for her 
 sake, saying every thing she could 
 think of to obviate the scruples which 
 were making Fanny start back at first 
 wifh a look of horror at the proposal. 
 J r " You see what a collection I have," 
 said she, " more by half than I ever 
 use or think of. I do not offer them 
 as new. I offer nothing but an old 
 necklace. You must forgive the liberty 
 a|id oblige me." 
 
 rrc '.Fanny still resisted^ and from feer 
 
 heart. The gift was too valuable. Bi^t, 
 
 Miss Ci'awford persevered, and argiied 
 
 v^a£l' 'the 
 
(| 183 ) 
 
 the case with so much aiFectionate 
 earnestness through all the heads of 
 William and the cross, and the ball^ 
 and herself, as to be finally successful. 
 Fanny found herself obliged to yield, 
 that she might not be accused of pride 
 or indifference, or some other littleness ; 
 and having with modest reluctance 
 given her consent, proceeded to make 
 the selection. She looked and looked, 
 longing to know which might be least 
 valuable ; and was determined in her 
 choice at last, by fancying there was 
 one necklace more frequently placed 
 before her eyes than the rest. It was 
 of gold prettily worked; and though 
 Fanny would have preferred a longer 
 and a plainer chain as more adapted 
 for her purpose, she hoped in fixing on 
 this, to be chusing what Miss Crawford 
 least wished to keep. Miss Crawford 
 smiled her perfect approbation; and 
 hastened to complete the gift by put 
 ting the necklace round her and 
 -Inaking her see how well it looked. 
 ^"'- Fanny 
 
( 184 ) 
 
 Fanny had not a word to say against 
 its becomingness, and excepting what 
 remained of her scruples, was exceed- 
 ingly pleased with an acquisition so 
 very apropos. She would rather per- 
 haps have been obliged to some other 
 person. But this was an unworthy 
 feeling. Miss Crawford had antici- 
 pated her wants with a kindness which 
 proved her a real friend. " When I 
 wear this necklace I shall always think 
 of you," said she, " and feel how very 
 kind you were." 
 
 " You must think of somebod}^ else 
 too when you wear that necklace," 
 rephed Miss Crawford. " You must 
 think of Henry, for it was his choice 
 in the first place. He gave it to me, 
 and with the necklace I make over to 
 you all the duty of remembering the 
 original giver. It is to be a family 
 remembrancer. The sister is not to be 
 in your mind without bringing the 
 hrother too." 
 
 Fanny, in great astonishment and 
 
 confusion,^ 
 
( 18.5 ) 
 
 confusion, would have returned the 
 present instantly. To take what had 
 been the gift of another person — of a 
 brother too — impossible !— it must not 
 be !— -and with an eagerness and em- 
 barrassment quite diverting to her 
 companion, she laid down the necklace 
 again on its cotton, and seemed resolved 
 either to take another or none at all. 
 Miss Crawfurd thought she had never 
 seen a prettier consciousness. " My 
 dear child," said she laughing, "what 
 are you afraid of? Do you think 
 Henry will claim the necklace as mine, 
 and fancy you did not come honestly 
 by it? — or are you imagining he would 
 be too much flattered by seeing round 
 your lovely throat an ornament which 
 his money purchased three years ago, 
 before he knew there was such a throat 
 in the world? — or perhaps — looking 
 archly — you suspect a confederacy be- 
 tween us, and that what I am now 
 doing is with his knowledge and at 
 his desireP"' ^''^"'"' 
 
 With 
 
( IBS ) 
 
 With the deepest blushes Faimy.|jj©»^. 
 tested against such a thought. ^« j t^*? 
 
 '* Well then," replied Miss Crawford 
 more seriously but without at all be- 
 lieving her, " to convince me that you 
 suspect no trick, and are ^s unsuspi- 
 cious of compliment as I have always 
 found you, take the necklace, and say 
 no more about it. Its being a gift of 
 my brother s need not make the smallcsii 
 difference in your accepting it, as I 
 assure you it makes none in my 
 willingness to part with it. He igi 
 always giving me something or other* 
 i have such innumerable presents from 
 him that it is quite impossible for me 
 to value, or for him to remember half. 
 And as for this necklace, I do not sup 
 po^e I have worn it six times ; it is 
 very pretty— but I never think of itr| 
 and though you would be most hear^ 
 tily welcome to any other in my 
 trinket-^box, you have happened to % 
 on the very one which, if I have ja 
 choice, I would rather part jwitibij^nd 
 
 see 
 
( 187 ) 
 
 see in your possession than any other. 
 Say no more against it, I entreat you. 
 Such a trifle js not worth half so 
 many words." 
 
 Fanny dared not make any further 
 opposition; and with renewed but 
 less happy thanks accepted the neck- 
 lace again, for there was an expression 
 in Miss Crawford's eyes which she 
 could not be satisfied with. 
 
 It was impossible for her to be in- 
 sensible of Mr. Crawford's change of 
 manners. She had long seen it. He 
 evidently tried to please her — he was 
 gallant — he was attentive— he was some- 
 thing like what he had been to her 
 cousins : he wanted, she supposed, to 
 cheat her of her tranquillity as he had 
 cheated them ; and whether he might 
 not have some concern in this neck- 
 lace 1 — She could not be convinced 
 that he had not, for Miss Crawford, 
 complaisant as a sister, was careless as 
 a woman and a friend. 
 
 Reflecting and doubting, and feeling 
 
 that 
 
( 188 ) 
 
 that the possession of what she had so 
 much wished for, did not bring much 
 satisfaction, she now walked home 
 again — with a change rather than a 
 diminution of cares since her treading 
 that path before. 
 
 
 ■■':.viiran: 
 CHAP- 
 
( 189 ) 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 On reaching home, Fanny went im- 
 mediately up stairs to deposit this un- 
 expected acquisition, this doubtful 
 good of a necklace, in some favourite 
 box in the east room which held all her 
 smaller treasures ; but on opening the 
 door, what was her surprize to find her 
 cousin Edmund there writing; at the 
 table ! Such a sight having never oc- 
 curred before, was almost as wonderful 
 as it was welcome. 
 
 ** Fanny," said he directly, leaving 
 'his seat and his pen, and meeting her 
 with something in his hand, " I b^g 
 your pardon for being here. I come to 
 look for you, and after waiting a little 
 while in hope of your coming in, was 
 making use of your inkstand to ex- 
 plain my errand. You will find the 
 beginning of a note to yourself; but I 
 can now speak my business, which is 
 merely to beg your acceptance of this 
 . .%^B- little 
 
C 190 ) 
 
 little trifle — a chain for William's cross. 
 You ought to have had it a week ago, 
 but there has been a delay from my 
 brother's not being in town by several 
 days so soon as I expected; and I 
 have only just now received it at North- 
 ampton. I hope you will like the 
 chain itself, Fanny. I endeavoured 
 to consult the simplicity of your taste, 
 but at any rate I know you will be 
 kind to my intentions, and consider it, 
 as it really is, a token of the love of 
 one of your oldest friends." 
 
 And so saying, he was hurrying 
 #away, before Fanny, overpowered by 
 a thousand feelings of pain and plea- 
 stve, could attempt to speak ; but 
 quickened by one sovereign wish she 
 then called out, " Oh ! cousin, stop a 
 moment, pray stop." 
 
 He turned back. 
 
 " 1 cannot attempt to thank you,^* 
 she continued in a very agitated man- 
 ner, " thanks are out of the question. 
 I feel much more than I can possibly 
 
 express. 
 
( m ) 
 
 express* Your goodness in thinking 
 of me in such a way is beyond" — 
 
 " If this is all you have to say, 
 Fanny," smiling and turning away 
 again — 
 
 " No, no, it is not. I want to con- 
 sult you." 
 
 Almost unconsciously she had now 
 undone the parcel he had just put into 
 her hand, and seeing before her, in all the 
 niceness of jewellers' packing, a plain 
 gold chain perfectly simple and neat, 
 she could not help bursting forth 
 again. " Oh ! this is beautiful indeed ! 
 this is the very thing, precisely what I 
 wished for ! this is the only ornament 
 I have ever had a desire to possess, ft 
 will exactly suit my cross. They 
 must and shall be worn together. It 
 comes too in such an acceptable mo- 
 ment. Oh ! cousin, you do not know 
 how acceptable it is." 
 
 " My dear Fanny, you feel these 
 things a great deal too much. I am 
 most happy that you like the chain, 
 and that it should be here in time for 
 
 to-morrow : 
 
( m ) 
 
 to-morrow : but your thanks are far 
 beyond the occasion. Believe me, I 
 have no pleasure in the world superior 
 to that of contributing to yours. No, 
 I can safely say, I have no pleasure so 
 complete, so uncilloyed. It is without 
 a drawback." 
 
 Upon such expressions of; affection, 
 Fanny could have lived an hour 
 without saying another word ; but 
 Edmund, after waiting a moment, 
 obliged her to bring down her mind 
 from itS" heavenly flight by saying, 
 " But what is it that you want to CQn- 
 sult me about ?" 
 
 It was about the necklace, which 
 she was now most earnestly longing^to 
 return, and hoped to obtain his appro- 
 bation of her doing. She gave the 
 history of her recent visit, and now 
 her raptures might well be over, for 
 Edmund was so struck with the cir- 
 cumstance, so delighted with what 
 Miss Crawford had done, so gratified 
 by such a coincidence of conduct be- 
 tween them, that Fanny could not but 
 
 admit 
 
( 193 ) 
 
 admit the superior power of one plea- 
 sure over his own mind, though it 
 might have its drawback. It was 
 some time before she could get his 
 attention to her plan, or any answer to 
 her demand of his opinion ; he was in 
 a reverie of fond reflection, uttering 
 only now and then a few half sen- 
 tences of praise ; but when he did 
 awake and understand, he was very 
 decided in opposing what she wished. 
 " Return the necklace ! No, my 
 dear Fanny, upon no account. It 
 would be mortifying her severely. 
 There can hardly be a more unpleasant 
 sensation than the having any thing^ 
 returned on our hands, which we have 
 given with a reasonable hope of its con- 
 tributing to the comfort of a friend. 
 Why should she lose a pleasure which 
 she has shewn herself so deserving' 
 of?" 
 
 " If it had been given to me in the 
 
 first instance," said Fanny, " I should 
 
 not have thought of returning it; 
 
 VOL. II. X but 
 
( 194 ) 
 
 but being her brother's present, is not 
 it fair to suppose that she would rather 
 not part with it, when it is not 
 wanted ?" 
 
 " Shemustnotsuppose it not wanted, 
 not acceptable at least; and its having 
 been originally her brother's gift makes 
 no difference, for as she was not pre- 
 vented from offering, nor you from 
 taking it on that account, it ought 
 not to affect your keeping it. No 
 doubt itjs handsomer than mine, and 
 fitter for a ball-room." 
 
 " No, it is not handsomer, not at all 
 handsomer in its way, and for my pur- 
 pose not half so fit The chain will 
 agree with William's cross beyond all 
 comparison better than the necklace." 
 
 " For one night, Fanny, for only one 
 night, if it be a sacrifice — I am sure 
 you will, upon consideration, make that 
 sacrifice rather than give pain to one 
 who has been so studious of your com- 
 fort. Miss Crawford's attentions to 
 you have been— not more than you 
 
 were 
 
( 195 ) 
 
 were justly entitled to — I am the last 
 person to think that could be — but 
 they have been invariable ; and to be 
 returning them with what must have 
 something the air of ingratitude, 
 though I know it could never have 
 the meaning, is not in your nature I 
 am sure. Wear the necklace, as you 
 are engaged to do to-morrow evening, 
 and let the chain, which was not or- 
 dered with any reference to the ball, 
 be kept for commoner occasions. This 
 is my advice. I would not have the 
 shadow of a coolness between the two 
 whose intimacy I have been observing 
 with the greatest pleasure, and in whose 
 characters there is so much general re- 
 semblance in true generosity and na- 
 tural delicacy as to make the few slight 
 differences, resulting principally from 
 situation, no reasonable hindrance to a 
 perfect friendship. I would not have 
 the shadow of a coolness arise," he 
 repeated, his voice sinking a little^ 
 K 2 " between 
 
( 196 ) 
 
 *' between the two dearest objects I 
 have on earth." 
 
 He was gone as he spoke; and Fanny 
 remained to tranquillise herself as she 
 could. She was one of his two dearest 
 -—that must support her. But the 
 other !— the first ! She had never heard 
 him speak so openly before, and though 
 it told her no more than what she had 
 long perceived, it was a stab ; — for it 
 told of his own convictions and views. 
 They were decided. He would marry 
 Miss Crawford. It was a stab, in spite 
 of every long-standing expectation ; 
 and she was obliged to repeat again 
 and again that she was one of his two 
 dearest, before the words gave her any 
 sensation. Could she beheve Miss 
 Crawford to deserve him, it would be — 
 Oh1 how different would it be — ^how 
 far more tolerable I But he was de- 
 ceived in her; he gave her merits 
 which she had not; her faults were 
 "what they had ever been, but he saw 
 
 them 
 
( 197 ) 
 
 them no longer. Till she had shed 
 many tears over this deception, Fanny 
 could not subdue her agitation ; and 
 the dejection which followed could 
 only be relieved by the influence of 
 fervent prayers for his happiness. 
 
 It Avas her intention, as she felt it to 
 be her duty, to try to overcome all that 
 was excessive, all that bordered on 
 selfishness in her affection for Edmund. 
 To call or to fancy it a loss, a disap- 
 pointment, would be a presumption; 
 for which she had not words strong 
 enough to satisfy her own humility. 
 To think of him as Miss Crawford 
 might be justified in thinking, would 
 in her be insanity. To her, he could 
 be nothing under any circumstances- 
 nothing dearer than a friend. Why 
 did such an idea occur to her even 
 enough to be reprobated and for- 
 bidden ? It ought not to have touched 
 on the confines of her imagination. 
 She would endeavour to be rational, 
 and to deserve the right of judging of 
 K 3 Miss 
 
< 198 ) 
 
 Miss Crawford's character and the pri- 
 vilege of true solicitude for him by a 
 sound intellect and an honest heart. 
 
 She had all the heroism of principle, 
 and was determined to do her duty ; 
 but having also many of the feelings 
 of youth and nature, let her not be 
 much wondered at if, after making all 
 these good resolutions on the side of 
 self-government, she seized the scrap 
 of paper on which Edmund had begun 
 writing to her, as a treasure beyond 
 all her hopes, and reading with the 
 tenderest emotion these words, " My 
 very dear Fanny, you must do me the 
 favour to accept" — locked it up with 
 the chain, as the dearest part of the 
 gift. It was the only thing approach- 
 ing to a letter which she had ever 
 received from him; she might never 
 receive another ; it was impossible that 
 she ever should receive another so per- 
 fectly gratifying in the occasion and 
 the style. Two lines more prized had 
 never fallen from the pen of themost dis- 
 tinguished 
 
( 199 ) 
 
 ting-uished author — never more com- 
 pletely blessed the researches of the 
 fondest biographer. The enthusiasm 
 of a woman's love is even beyond the 
 biographer's. To her, the hand-writing 
 itself, independent of any thing it 
 may convey, is a blessedness. Never 
 were such characters cut by any other 
 human being, as Edmund's commonest 
 hand- writing gave ! This specimen, 
 written in haste as it was, had not a 
 fault ; and there was a felicity in the 
 flow of the first four words, in the 
 arrangement of" My very dear Fanny," 
 which she could have looked at for 
 ever. 
 
 Having regulated her thoughts and 
 comforted her feelings by this happy 
 mixture of reason and weakness, she 
 was able, in due time, to go down and 
 resume her usual employments near 
 her aunt Bertram, and pay her the 
 usual observances without any appa- 
 rent want of spirits. 
 
 Thursday, predestined to hope and 
 K 4 enjoyment. 
 
( 200 ) 
 
 enjoyment, came ; and opened with 
 more kindness to Fanny than such 
 self-willed, unmanageable days often 
 volunteer, for soon after breakfast a 
 very friendly note was brought from 
 Mr. Crawford to William stating, that 
 as he found himself obliged to go to 
 London on the morrow for a few^ days, 
 he could not help trying to procure a 
 companion ; and therefore hoped that 
 if William could make up his mind to 
 leave Mansfield half a day earlier than 
 had been proposed, he would accept a 
 place in his carriage. Mr. Crawford 
 meant to be in town by his uncle's 
 accustomary late dinner-hour, and 
 William was invited to dine with him 
 at the Admiral's. The proposal was a 
 very pleasant one to William himself, 
 who enjoyed the idea of travelling- 
 post with four horses and such a good 
 humoured agreeable friend ; and in 
 likening it to going up with dispatches, 
 was saying at once every thing in 
 favour of its happiness and dignity 
 
 wljich 
 
( 201 ) 
 
 which his imagination could suggest; 
 and Fanny, from a different motive, was 
 exceedingly pleased : for the original 
 plan was that William should go up 
 by the mail fiom Northampton the 
 following night which would not have 
 allowed him an hour's rest before he 
 must have got into a Portsmouth 
 coach ; and though this offer of Mr. 
 Crawford's would rob her of many 
 hours of his company, she was too 
 happy in having William spared from 
 the fatigue of such a journey, to think 
 of any thing else. Sir Thomas approved 
 of it for another reason. His nephew's 
 introduction to Admiral Crawford 
 might be of service. The Admiral he 
 believed had interest. Upon the whole, 
 it was a very joyous note. Fanny's 
 spirits lived on it half the morning, 
 deriving some accession of pleasure 
 from its writer being nimself to go 
 away. 
 
 As for the ball so near at hand, she 
 
 had too many agitations and fears to 
 
 K 5 have 
 
( 202 ) 
 
 have half the enjoyment in anticipa- 
 don which she ought to have had, or 
 must have been supposed to have^ by 
 the many young ladies looking forward 
 to the same event in situations more at 
 ea^e, but under circumstances of less 
 aao velty, less interest, less peculiar gra- 
 tifica;tion than would be attributed to 
 her. Miss Price, known only by namje 
 to half the people invited, wasnow to 
 make her first appearance, and must be 
 regarded as the Queen of the evening. 
 Who could be happier than Miss 
 Price ? But Miss Price had not been 
 brought up to the trade ni teaming out ; 
 and had she known in what light this 
 ball wasj in general, considered respect- 
 ing her, it would very fiiuch have 
 lessened her comfort by increasing the 
 fears she already had, of doing wjioaig 
 and being looked Sut To dance with- 
 ;out much observation ^Dr any. extra- 
 ordinary fatigue, to have strength and 
 partBiersfor about half tihe evenings to 
 dance a little with Edmund, and not a 
 
 great 
 
( Q03 ) 
 
 great deal with Mr. Crawford, to sec 
 William enjoy himself, and be able 
 to keep away from her aunt Norris, was 
 the height of her ambition, and seemed 
 to comprehend her greatest possibility 
 of happiness. As these were the best 
 of her hopes, they could not always 
 prevail; and in the course of a long 
 morning, spent principally with her 
 two aunts, she was often under the 
 influence of much less sanguine views. 
 William, determined to make this last 
 day a day of thorough enjoyment, was 
 out snipe shooting ; Edmund, she had 
 too much reason to suppose, was at the 
 Parsonage ; and left alone to bear the 
 worrying of Mrs. Norris, who was 
 cross because the house-keeper would 
 have her own way with the supper, 
 and whom she coula not avoid thousrh 
 the house-keeper might, Fanny was 
 worn down at last to think every thing 
 an. evil belonging to the ball, and when 
 sent oiF with a parting worry to dress, 
 moved as languidly towards her own 
 k6 room, 
 
( 204 ) 
 
 room, and felt as incapable of happi- 
 ness as if she had been allowed no 
 share in it. 
 
 ' As she walked slowly up stairs she 
 thought of yesterday ; it had been 
 about the same hour that she had 
 returned from the Parsonage, and 
 found Edmund in the east room. — 
 " Suppose I were to find him there 
 again to-day !" said she to herself in a 
 fond indulgence of fancy. 
 
 " Fanny," said a voice at that mo- 
 ment near her. Starting and looking 
 up, she saw across the lobby she had 
 just reached Edmund himself, stand- 
 ing at the head of a different stair- 
 case. He came towards her. " You 
 look tired and fagged, Fanny. You 
 have been walking too far." 
 
 *' No, I have not been out at all." 
 
 " Then you have had fatigues within 
 doors, which are worse. You had 
 better have gone out." 
 
 Fanny, not liking to complain, found 
 it easiest to make no answer; and 
 
 though 
 
( 205 ) 
 
 though he looked at her with his usual 
 kindness, she believed he had soon 
 ceased to think of her countenance. 
 He did not appear in spirits ; some- 
 thing unconnected with her was pro- 
 bably amiss. They proceeded up 
 stairs together, their rooms being on 
 the same floor above. 
 
 " I come from Dr. Grant's," said 
 Edmund presently. " You may guess 
 my errand there, Fanny." And he 
 looked so conscious, that Fanny could 
 think but of one errand, which turned 
 her too sick for speech. — " I wished 
 to engage Miss Crawford for the two 
 first dances," was the explanation that 
 followed, and brouglit Fanny to life 
 again, enabling her, as she found she 
 was expected to speak, to utter some- 
 thing like an inquiry as to the result. 
 
 " Yes," he answered, " she is en- 
 gaged to me ; but (with a smile that 
 did not sit easy) she says it is to be the 
 last time that she ever will dance with 
 me. She is not serious. I think, I 
 
 hope, 
 
( 206 ) 
 
 hope, I am sure she is not serious — ^but 
 I would rather not hear it. She never 
 has danced with a clergyman she says^ 
 and she never will. For my own sake, 
 I could wish there had been no ball 
 just at — I mean not this very week, this 
 very day — to-morrow I leave home." 
 
 Fanny struggled for speech, and 
 said, " I am very sorry that any thing 
 has occurred to distress you. This 
 ought to be a day of pleasure. My 
 uncle meaiit it so." 
 
 " Oh ! yes, yes, and it will be a day 
 of pleasure. It will all end right. I 
 am only vexed for a moment.. In fact^ 
 it is not that I consider the ball as ill- 
 timed; — what does it signify? But,, 
 Fanny," — stopping her by taking her 
 hand, and speaking low and seriously, 
 " you know what all this means. You 
 see how it is; and could tell me^ 
 perhaps better than I could tell you, 
 iiow and wby I am vexed. Let me 
 talk to you a little. You are a kind, 
 kind listener. I have been pained 
 
 by 
 
( ^07 ) 
 
 by her manner this morning, 2Md can- 
 not get the better of it. I know i^r 
 disposition to be as sweet and fauttkss 
 as your own, but the influence of her 
 former companions makes her seem, 
 gives to her conversation, to her pro- 
 fessed opinions, sometimes a tinge of 
 wrong. She does not think evil, tffiit 
 she speaks it — speaks it in playfulness 
 — ^and though I know it to be playful- 
 ness, it grieves me to the soul." 
 
 " The effect of education," said 
 Fanny gently. 
 
 Edmund could not feut 'agree to it. 
 " Yes, that uncle and atant ! They 
 have injured the finest mind! — for 
 sometimes, Fanny, I own to you^ it 
 ido^ :appear more thaninanner; it 
 appears as if the mind itself Was 
 tamted." 
 
 Fanny ima;gined this to be an appeal 
 to her judgment, and therefore, aftei*^ 
 moment's considemtion, said, ." If you 
 only want me as a listener, cousin, I 
 ^ili be as useful as I can; but I am 
 
 not 
 
C 208 ) 
 
 not qualified for an adviser. Do not 
 ask advice of me, I am not compe- 
 tent." 
 
 " You are right, Fanny, to protest 
 against such an office, but you need 
 not be afraid. It is a subject on 
 which I should never ask advice. It is 
 the sort of subject on which it had 
 better never be asked ; and few I 
 imagine do ask it, but when they want 
 to be influenced against their con- 
 science. I only want to talk to you. " 
 
 " One thing more. Excuse the 
 liberty — but take care how you talk to 
 me. Do not tell me any thing now, 
 which hereafter you may be sorry for. 
 The time may come — " 
 
 The colour rushed into her cheeks 
 as she spoke. 
 
 " Dearest Fanny !" cried Edmund, 
 pressing her hand to his lips, with 
 almost as much warmth as if it had 
 been Miss Crawford's, " you are all 
 considerate thought ! — But it is un- 
 necessary here. The time will never 
 
 come. 
 
( 209 ) 
 
 come. No such time as you allude 
 to will ever come. I begin to think 
 it most improbable ; the chances grow 
 less and less. And even if it should 
 — there will be nothing to be remem- 
 bered by either you or me, that we 
 need be afraid of, for I can never be 
 ashamed of my own scruples ; and 
 if they are removed, it must be by 
 changes that will only raise her cha- 
 racter the more by the recollection of 
 the faults she once had. You are the 
 only being upon earth to whom I should 
 say what I have said ; but you have 
 always known my opinion of her ; you 
 can bear me witness, Fanny, that I have 
 never been bhnded. How many a 
 time have we talked over her little 
 errors! You need not fear me. I have 
 almost given up every serious idea of 
 her; but I must be a blockhead in- 
 deed if, whate^ter befell me, I could 
 think of your kindness and sympathy 
 without the sincerest gratitude." 
 He had said enough to shake the 
 
 experience 
 
( £10 ) 
 
 experience of eighteen. He had said 
 enough to give Fanny some happier 
 feelings than she had lately known^ 
 and with a brighter look, she answered, 
 " Yes, cousin, I am convinced that 
 ^fou would be incapable of any thing 
 else, though perhaps some might not. 
 I cannot be afraid of hearing any thing 
 you wish to say. Do not check your- 
 self. Tell me whatever you like.'^ 
 
 They were now on the second floor, 
 and the appearance of a housemaid 
 prevented any further conversation. 
 For Fanny's present comfort it was 
 concluded perhaps at the happiest 
 moment; had he been able to talk 
 another five minutes, there is no saying 
 that he might not have talked away all 
 Miss Crawford's faults and his own 
 despondence. But as it was, they parted 
 with looks on his side of grateful 
 afFection, and with some very precious 
 sensations on her's. She had felt no- 
 thing like it for houTS. Since the 
 first |oy from Mr. Cratvfbrd's note to 
 
 William 
 
( 211 ) 
 
 William had worn away, she had been 
 in a state absolutely their reverse ; there 
 had been no comfort around, no hope 
 within her. Now, every thing was 
 smiling. William's good fortune re- 
 turned again upon her mind, smd 
 seemed of greater value than at first. 
 The ball too — -such an evening of 
 pleasure before her ! It was now a real 
 animation ! and she began to dress for 
 it with much of the happy flutter which 
 belongs to a ball. All went well— she 
 did not dislike her own looks; and 
 when she came to the necklaces again, 
 her good fortune seemed complete, for 
 upon trial the one given her by Miss 
 Crawford would by no means go 
 through the ring of the cross. She 
 had, to oblige Edmund, resolved to 
 wear it — 'but it was too large for tiiie 
 purpose. His therefore must be worn > 
 and having, with delightful feelings, 
 joined the chain and the cross, those 
 memorials of the two most beloved of 
 her heart, those dearest tokens&o formed 
 
 for 
 
( S12 ) 
 
 for each other by every thing real and 
 imaginary — and put them round hef 
 neck, and seen and felt how full of 
 William and Edmund they were, she 
 was able, without an effort, to resolve 
 on wearing Miss Crawford's necklace 
 too. She acknowledged it to be right. 
 Miss Crawford had a claim ; and when 
 it was no longer to encroach on, to 
 interfere with the stronger claims, the 
 truer kindness of another, she could 
 do her justice even with pleasure to 
 herself. ' The necklace really looked 
 very well; and Fanny left her room 
 at last, comfortably satisfied with her* 
 self and all about her. 
 
 Her aunt Bertram had recollected 
 her on this occasion, with an unusual 
 degree of wakefulness. It had really 
 occurred to her, unprompted, that 
 Fanny, preparing for a ball, might be 
 glad of better help than the upper 
 housemaid's, and when dressed herself, 
 she actually sent her own maid to assist 
 her ; too late of course to be of any 
 
 use. 
 
( 213 ) 
 
 use. Mrs. Chapman had just reached 
 the attic floor, when Miss Price came 
 out of her room completely dressed, 
 and only civilities were necessary — 
 but Fanny felt her aunt's attention 
 almost as much as Lady Bertram or 
 Mrs. Chapman could do themselves. 
 
 CHAP- 
 
( 2:14 ) 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Her ^ncle and both her aunts were 
 in the drawing-room when Fanny went 
 down. To the former she was an in- 
 teresting object, and he saw with plear 
 sure the general elegance of her ap- 
 pearance and her being in remarkably 
 good looks. The neatness and pro- 
 priety of her dress was all that he^ 
 would allow himself to commend in her 
 presence, but upon her leaving the 
 room again soon afterwards, he spoke 
 of her beauty with very decided 
 praise. 
 
 " Yes," said Lady Bertram, " she 
 looks very well. I sent Chapman to 
 her." 
 
 " Look well ! Oh yes," cried Mrs. 
 Norris, " she has good reason to look 
 well with all her advantages : brought 
 up in this family as she has been, with 
 all the benefit of her cousins' manners 
 before her. Only think, my dear Sir 
 
 Thomas, 
 
( 215 ) 
 
 Thomas, what extraordinary advaiir 
 tages you and I have been the means 
 of giving her. The very gown you, 
 have been taking notice otV is your 
 own generous present to her when 
 dear Mrs. Rush worth married. What 
 would she have been if we had not 
 taken her by the hand?" 
 
 Sir Thomas said no more ; but when 
 they sat down to table the eyes of the 
 two young men assured him, that the 
 subject might be gently touched again 
 when the ladies withdrew, with more 
 success. Fanny saw that she was ap- 
 proved; and the consciousness of look- 
 ing well, made her look still better. 
 From a variety of causes she was happy, 
 and she was soon made stijl happier ; 
 for in following her aunts out of the 
 room, Edmund, who was holding open 
 the door, said as she passed him, "You 
 must dance with me, Fanny; you 
 must keep two dances for me ; any two 
 that you like, except the first." She 
 had nothing more to wish for. She 
 
 had 
 
( ^16 ) 
 
 had hardly ever been in a state so 
 nearly approaching high spirits in her 
 hfe. Her cousins' former gaiety on 
 the day of a ball was no longer sur- 
 prizing to her ; she felt it to be indeed 
 very charming, and was actually prac- 
 tising her steps about the drawing- 
 room as long as she could be safe from 
 the notice of her aunt Norris, who 
 was entirely taken up at first in fresh 
 arranging and injuring the noble fire 
 which the butler had prepared. 
 
 Half an hour followed, that would 
 have been at least languid under any 
 other circumstances, but Fanny's hap- 
 piness still prevailed. It was but to 
 think of her conversation with Ed- 
 mund ; and what was the restlessness 
 of Mrs. Norris ? What were the yawns 
 of Lady Bertram? 
 
 The gentlemen joined them; and 
 soon after began the sweet expectation 
 of a carriage, when a general spirit of 
 ease and enjoyment seemed diffused, 
 and they all stood about and talked 
 
 and 
 
( 217 ) 
 
 and laughed, and every moment had 
 its pleasure and its hope. Fanny felt 
 that there must be a struggle in Ed- 
 mund's cheerfulness, but it was de- 
 lightful to see the effort so successfully 
 made. 
 
 When the carriages were really heard, 
 when the guests began really to assem- 
 ble, her own gaiety of heart was much 
 subdued ; the sight of so many strangers 
 threw her back into herself; and be- 
 sides the gravity and formality of the 
 first great circle, which the manners of 
 neither Sir Thomas nor Lady Bertram 
 were of a kind to do away, she found 
 herself occasionally called on to endure 
 something worse. She was introduced 
 here and there by her uncle, and forced 
 to be spoken to, and to curtsey, and 
 speak again. This was a hard duty, 
 and she was never summoned to it, 
 without looking at WiUiam, as he 
 walked about at his ease in the back 
 ground of the scene, and longing to be 
 with him. 
 VQL. II. L The 
 
( ^18 ) 
 
 The entrance of the Grants and 
 Crawfords was a favourable epoch. 
 The stiffness of the meeting soon gave 
 way before their popular manners and 
 more diffused intimacies : — little groups 
 were formed and every body grew 
 comfortable. Fanny felt the advan- 
 tage ; and, drawing back from the toils 
 of civility, would have been again most 
 happy, could she have kept her eyes 
 from wandering between Edmund and 
 Mary Crawford. She looked all love- 
 liness—and what might not be the end 
 of it ? Her own musings were brought 
 to an end on perceiving Mr. Crawford 
 before her, and her thoughts were put 
 into another channel by his engaging 
 her almost instantly for the two first 
 dances. Her happiness on this occa- 
 sion was very much a-la-mortal, finely 
 chequered. To be secure of a partner 
 at first, was a most essential good — for 
 tne moment of beginning was now 
 growing seriously near, and she so little 
 understood her own claims as to think, 
 
 that 
 
( 219 ) 
 
 that if Mr. Crawford had not asked 
 her, she must have been the last to be 
 sought after, and should have received 
 a partner only through a series of 
 inquiry, and bustle, and interference 
 which would have been terrible ; but 
 at the same time there was a pointed- 
 ness in his manner of asking her, which 
 she did not like, and she saw his eye 
 glancing for a moment at her neck- 
 lace — with a smile — she thought there 
 was a smile — which made her blush and 
 feel wretched. And though there was 
 no second glance to disturb her, though 
 his object seemed then to be only quietly 
 agreeable, she could not get the better 
 of her embarrassment, heightened as 
 it was by the idea of his perceiving it, 
 and had no composure till he turned 
 away to some one else. Then she could 
 gradually rise up to the genuine satis- 
 faction of having a partner, a voluntary 
 partner secured against the dancing 
 began. 
 
 When the company were moving 
 L 21 into 
 
( 220 ) 
 
 into the ball-room she found herself 
 for the first time near Miss Crawford, 
 whose eyes and smiles were imme- 
 diately and more unequivocally direct- 
 ed as her brother's had been, and who 
 was beginning to speak on the subject^ 
 when Fanny, anxious to get the story 
 over, hastened to give the explanation 
 of the second necklace — the real chain. 
 Miss Crawford listened ; and all her 
 intended compliments and insinuations 
 to Fanny were forgotten ; she felt only 
 one thing ; and her eyes, bright as 
 they had been* before, shewing they 
 could yet be brighter, she exclaimed 
 with eager pleasure, " Did he? Did 
 Edmund ? That was like himself. No 
 other man would have thought of it. 
 I honour him beyond expression." 
 And she looked around as if longing 
 to tell him so. He was not near, he 
 was attending a party of ladies out of 
 the room ; and Mrs. Grant coming up 
 to ,the two girls and taking an arm of 
 each, they followed with the rest. 
 
 Fanny's 
 
( 221 ) 
 
 Fanny's heart sunk, but there was no 
 leisure for thinking long even of Miss 
 Crawford's feelings. They were in 
 the ball-room, the violins were play- 
 ing, and her mind was in a flutter that 
 forbad its fixing on any thing serious. 
 She must watch the general arrange- 
 ments and see how every thing was 
 done. 
 
 In a few minutes Sir Thomas came 
 to her, and asked if she were engaged ; 
 and the " Yes, sir, to Mr. Crawford," 
 was exactly what he had intended to 
 bear, Mr. Crawford was not far off; 
 Sir Thomas brought him to her, saying 
 something which discovered to Fanny, 
 that she was to lead the way and open 
 the ball ; an idea that had never oc- 
 curred to her before. Whenever she 
 had thought on the minutiae of the 
 evening, it had been as a matter of 
 course that Edmund would begin with 
 Miss Crawford, and the impression 
 was so strong, that though her uncle 
 spoke the contrary, she could not help 
 L 3 an 
 
( 222 ) 
 
 an exclamation of surprize, a hint of 
 her unfitness, an entreaty even to be 
 excused. To be urging her opinion 
 against Sir Thomas's, was a proof of 
 the extremity of the case, but such was 
 her horror at the first suggestion, that 
 she could actually look him in the face 
 and say she hoped it might be settled 
 otherwise ; in vain however ; — Sir 
 Thomas smiled, tried to encourage her, 
 and then looked too serious and said 
 too decidedly — " It must be so, my 
 dear," for her to hazard another word; 
 and she found herself the next moment 
 conducted by Mr, Crawford to the 
 top of the room, and standing there to 
 be joined by the rest of the dancers, 
 couple after couple as they were 
 formed. 
 
 She could hardly believe it. To be 
 placed above so many elegant young 
 women ! The distinction was too 
 great. It was treating her like her 
 cousins ! And her thoughts flew to 
 those absent cousins with most un- 
 feigned 
 
( 223 ) 
 
 feigned and truly tender regret, that 
 they were not at home to take their 
 own place in the room, and have their 
 share of a pleasure which would have 
 been so very delightful to them. So 
 often as she had heard them wish for 
 a ball at home as the greatest of all 
 felicities ! And to have them away 
 when it was given — and for her to be 
 opening the ball — and with Mr. Craw- 
 ford too ! She hoped they would not 
 envy her that distinction now ; but 
 when she looked back to the state of 
 things in the autumn, to what they 
 had all been to each other when once 
 dancing in that house before, the pre- 
 sent arrangement w^as almost -more 
 than she could understand herself. 
 
 The ball began. It was rather honour 
 than happiness to Fanny, for the first 
 dance at least; her partner was in 
 excellent spirits and tried to impart 
 them to her, but she was a great deal 
 too much frightened to have any en- 
 joyment, till she could suppose herself 
 L 4 no 
 
( 224 ) 
 
 no longer looked at. Young, pretty, 
 and gentle, however, she had no awk- 
 wardnesses that were not as good as 
 graces, and there were few persons 
 present that were not disposed to praise 
 her. She was attractive, she was mo- 
 dest, she was Sir Thomas's niece, and 
 she was soon said to be admired by 
 Mr. Crawford. It was enough to give 
 her general favour. Sir Thomas him- 
 self was watching her progress down 
 the dance with much complacency ; he 
 was proud of his niece, and without 
 attributing all her personal beauty, as 
 Mrs. Norris seemed to do. to hprtvo*>c 
 
 P ^^ivation to Mansfield, he was pleased 
 with himself for having supplied every 
 thing else ; — education and manners 
 she owed to him. 
 
 Miss Crawford saw much of Sir 
 Thomas's thoughts as he stood, and 
 havingjin spite of all his wrongs towards 
 her, a general prevailing desire of re- 
 commending herself to him, took an 
 opportunity of stepping aside to say 
 
 something 
 
( 225 ) 
 
 something agreeable of Fanny. Het 
 praise was warm, and he received it as 
 she could wish, joining in it as far as 
 discretion, and politeness, and slowness 
 of speech would allow, and certainly- 
 appearing to greater advantage on the 
 subject, than his lady did, soon after- 
 wards, when Mary, perceiving her on a 
 sofa very near, turned round before 
 she began to dance, to compliment 
 her on Miss Price's looks. 
 
 " Yes, she does look very well," was 
 Lady Bertram's placid reply. " Chap- 
 man helped her dress. I sent Chap- 
 man to her." Not but that she was 
 really pleased to have Fanny admired ; 
 but she was so much more struck with 
 her own kindness in sending Chapman 
 to her, that she could not get it out 
 of her head. 
 
 Miss Crawford knew Mrs. Norris 
 too well to think of gratifying her by 
 commendation of Fanny; to her, it 
 was as the occasion offered. — " Ah ! 
 ma'am, how much we want dear Mrs. 
 L 5 Rushworth 
 
Rushworth and Julia to night 1" and 
 Mrs. Norris paid her with as many 
 smiles and courteous words as she had 
 time for, amid so much occupation as 
 she found for herself, in making up 
 card-tables, giving hints to Sir Thomas, 
 and trying to move all the chaperons to 
 a better part of the room. 
 
 Miss Crawford blundered most to- 
 wards Fanny herself, in her intentions 
 to please. She meant to be giving 
 her little heart a happy flutter, and 
 filling her with sensations of delightful 
 self-consequence ; and misinterpreting 
 Fanny's blushes, still thought she must 
 be doing so — when she went to her 
 after the two first dances and said, 
 with a significant look, " perhaps i/ou 
 can tell me why my brother goes to 
 town to-morrow. He says, he has busi- 
 ness there, but will not tell me Vv^hat. 
 The first time he ever denied me his 
 confidence ! But this is what we all 
 come to. All are supplanted sooner or 
 ater. Now, I must apply to you for 
 
 information. 
 
( ^%1 ) 
 
 information. Pray what is Henry go- 
 
 ing for ?' 
 
 Fanny protested her ignorance as 
 steadily as her embarrassment allowed. 
 
 " Well, then," replied Miss Crawford 
 laughing, " I must suppose it to be 
 purely for the pleasure of conveying 
 your brother and talking of you by 
 the way/' 
 
 Fanny was confused, but it was the 
 confusion of discontent ; while Miss 
 Crawford wondered she did not smile, 
 and thought her over-anxious, or 
 thought her odd, or thought her any 
 thing rather than insensible of pleasure 
 in Henry's attentions. Fanny had a 
 good deal of enjoyment in the course 
 of the evening — but Henry's atten- 
 tions had very little to do with it. She 
 would much rather not have been 
 asked by him again so very soon, and 
 she wished she had not been obliged 
 to suspect that his previous inquiries 
 of Mrs. Norris, about the supper-hour, 
 were all for the sake of securing her at 
 L 6 that 
 
( ^28 ) 
 
 that part of the evening. But it was 
 not to be avoided ; he made her feel 
 that she wsls the object of all ; though 
 she could not say that it was un- 
 pleasantly done, that there was indeli- 
 cacy or ostentation in his manner — 
 and sometimes, when he talked of Wil- 
 liam, he was really not un-agreeable, 
 and shewed even a warmth of heart 
 which did him credit. But still his at- 
 tentions made no part of her satisfac- 
 tion. She was happy whenever she 
 looked at William, and saw how per- 
 fectly he was enjoying himself, in every 
 five minutes that she could walk about 
 with him and hear his account of his 
 partners; she was happy in knowing 
 herself admired, and she was happy in 
 having the two dances with Edmund 
 still to look forward to, during the 
 greatest part of the evening, her hand 
 being so eagerly sought after, that her 
 indefinite engagement with him was in 
 continual perspective. She was happy 
 even when they did take place; but 
 
 not 
 
( 229 ) 
 
 not from any flow of spirits on his side, 
 or any such expressions of tender gal- 
 lantry as had blessed the morning. 
 His mind was fagged, and her happi- 
 ness sprung from being the friend with 
 whom it could find repose. " I am 
 worn out with civiUty/' said he. " I 
 have been talking incessantly all night, 
 and with nothing to say. But with 
 you, Fanny, there may be peace. You 
 will not want to be talked to. Let us 
 have the luxury of silence." Fanny 
 would hardly even speak her agree- 
 ment. A weariness arising probably, 
 in great measure, from the same feel- 
 ings which he had acknowledged in 
 the morning, was peculiarly to be re- 
 spected, and they went down their two 
 dances together with such sober tran- 
 quillity as might satisfy any looker-on, 
 that Sir Thomas had been bringing up 
 no wife for his younger son. 
 
 The evening had afforded Edmund 
 little pleasure. Miss Crawford had 
 been in gay spirits when they first 
 
 danced 
 
( 230 ) 
 
 danced together, but it was not her 
 gaiety that could do him good ; it ra- 
 ther sank than raised his comfort ; and 
 afterwards — for he found himself still 
 impelled to seek her again, she had ab- 
 solutely pained him by her manner of 
 speaking of the profession to which iie 
 was now on the point of belonging. 
 They had talked — and they had been 
 silent — he had reasoned — she had ridi- 
 culed — and they had parted at last with 
 mutual vexation. Fanny, not able to 
 refrain entirely from observing them, 
 had seen enough to be tolerably satis- 
 fied. It was barbarous to be happy 
 when Edmund was suffering. Yet 
 some happiness must and would arise, 
 from the very conviction, that he did 
 suffer. 
 
 When her two dances with him were 
 over, her inclination and strength for 
 more were pretty well at an end ; and 
 Sir Thomas having seen her rather walk 
 than dance down the shortening set, 
 breathless and with her hand at her 
 
 side. 
 
( 231 ) 
 
 side, gave his orders for her sitting 
 down entirely. From that time, Mr. 
 Crawford sat down likewise. 
 
 " Poor Fanny !" cried William, com- 
 ing for a moment to visit her and 
 working away his partner's fan as if 
 for life : — " how soon she is knocked 
 up ! Why, the sport is but just be- 
 gun. I hope we shall keep it up these 
 two hours. How can you be tired so 
 soon ?" 
 
 " So soon ! my good friend," said 
 Sir Thomas, producing his watch with 
 all necessary caution — " it is three 
 o'clock, and your sister is not used to 
 these sort of houls." 
 
 " Well then, Fanny, you shall not 
 get up to-morrow before I go. Sleep 
 as long as you can and never mind 
 me." 
 
 '' Oh ! William." 
 
 " What ! Did she think of being 
 up before you set off?" 
 
 " Oh ! yes, sir," cried Fanny, rising 
 
 eagerly 
 
( S32 ) 
 
 eagerly from her seat to be nearer her 
 uncle, " I must get up and breakfast 
 with him. It will be the last time you 
 know, the last morning." 
 
 " You had better not. — He is to have 
 breakfasted and be gone by half past 
 nine. — Mr. Crawford, I think you call 
 for him at half past nine ?" 
 
 Fanny was too urgent, however, and 
 had too many tears in her eyes for de- 
 nial; and it ended in a gracious, " Well, 
 well," which was permission. 
 
 " Yes, half past nine," said Craw- 
 ford to William, as the latter was leav- 
 ing them, " and I shall be punctual, 
 for there will be no kind sister to get 
 up for me. " And in a lower tone to 
 Fanny, " I shall have only a desolate 
 house to hurry from. Your brother 
 will find my ideas of time and his own 
 very different to-morrow." 
 
 After a short consideration. Sir Tho- 
 mas asked Crawford to join the early 
 breakfast party in that house instead 
 
 of 
 
( 233 ) 
 
 of eating alone ; he should himself be 
 of it; and the readiness with which his 
 invitation was accepted, convinced him 
 that the suspicions whence, he must 
 confess to himself, this very ball had 
 in great measure sprung, were well 
 founded. Mr. Crawford was in love 
 with Fanny. He had a pleasing anti- 
 cipation of what would be. His niece, 
 meanwhile, did not thank him for what 
 he had just done. She had hoped to 
 have William all to herself, the last 
 morning. It would have been an un- 
 st)§akable indulo-ei^r.?.. P.iit though her 
 
 wishes were overthrown there was no 
 spirit of murmuring within her. On 
 the contrary, she was so totally un- 
 \ised to have her pleasure consulted, or 
 to have any thing take place at all in 
 the way she could desire, that she was 
 more disposed to wonder and rejoice in 
 having carried her point so far, than 
 to repine at the counteraction which 
 followed. 
 
 Shortly 
 
( 234 ) 
 
 Shortly afterwards, Sir Thomas was 
 again interfering a little with her incli- 
 nation, by advising her to go imme- 
 diately to bed. " Advise" was his 
 word, but it was the advice of abso- 
 lute power, and she had only to rise 
 and, with Mr. Crawford's very cordial 
 adieus, pass quietly away ; stopping at 
 the entrance door, like the Lady of 
 Branxholm Hall, " one moment and no 
 more," to view the happy scene, and 
 take a last look at the five or six deter- 
 mined couple, who were still hard at 
 work^ — and then, creeping slowly up 
 the principal staircase, pursued by the 
 ceaseless country-dance, feverish with 
 hopes and fears, soup and negus, sore- 
 footed and fatigued, restless and agi- 
 tated, yet feeling, in spite of every 
 thing, that a ball was indeed delight- 
 ful. 
 
 In thus sending her away. Sir Tho- 
 mas perhaps might not be thinking 
 merely of her health. It might occur 
 
 to 
 
( 235 ) 
 
 to him, that Mr. Crawford had been 
 sitting by her long enough, or he might 
 mean to recommend her as a wife by 
 shewing her persuadableness. 
 
 CHAP- 
 
( 236 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 The ball was over — and the break- 
 fast was soon over too; the last kiss 
 was given, and William was gone. Mr. 
 Crawford had, as he foretold, been very 
 punctual, and short and pleasant had 
 been the meal. 
 
 After seeing William to the last mo- 
 ment, Fanny walked back into the 
 breakfast-room with a very saddened 
 heart to grieve over the melancholy 
 ^hange ; and there her uncle kindly 
 
 left her to cry in peace, conceiving 
 perhaps that the deserted chair of each 
 young man might exercise her tender 
 enthusiasm, and that the remaining 
 cold pork bones and mustard in Wil- 
 liam's plate, might but divide her feel- 
 ings with the broken egg-shells in Mr. 
 Crawford's. She sat and cried con amove 
 as her uncle intended, but it was con 
 amore fraternal and no other. William 
 was gone, and she now felt as if she had 
 
 wasted 
 
( mi ) 
 
 wasted half his visit in idle cares and sel- 
 fish solicitudes unconnected with him. 
 
 Fanny's disposition was such that 
 she could never even think of her aunt 
 Norris in the meaereness and cheer- 
 lessness of her own small house, with- 
 out reproaching herself for some little 
 want of attention to her when they had 
 been last together; much less could 
 her feelings acquit her of having done 
 and said and thought every thing by 
 William, that was due to him for a 
 whole fortnight. 
 
 It was a heavy, melancholy day.- — > 
 Soon after the second breakfast, Ed- 
 mund bad them good bye for a week, 
 and mounted his horse for Peterbo- 
 rough, and then all were gone. No- 
 thing remained of last night but re- 
 membrances, which she had nobody to 
 share in. She talked to her aunt Ber- 
 tram — she must talk to somebody of 
 the ball, but her aunt had seen so little 
 of what passed, and had so little cu- 
 riosity. 
 
( 238 ) 
 
 riosity, that it was heavy work. Lady 
 Bertram was not certain of any body's 
 dress, or any body's place at supper, but 
 her own. " She could not recollect what 
 it was that she had heard about one of 
 the Miss Maddoxes, or what it was that 
 Lady Prescott had noticed in Fanny; 
 she was not sure whether Colonel Har- 
 rison had been talking of Mr. Craw- 
 ford or of William, when he said he 
 was the finest young man in the room ; 
 somebody had whispered something to 
 her, she had forgot to ask Sir Thomas 
 what it could be." And these were 
 her longest speeches and clearest com- 
 munications ; the rest was only a lan- 
 guid " Yes — yes — very well — did you? 
 did he ? — I did not see that — I should 
 not know one from the other." This 
 was very bad. It was only better than 
 Mrs. Norris's sharp answers would have 
 been ; but she being gone home with 
 ail the supernumerary jellies to nurse a 
 sick maid, there was peace and good 
 
 humour 
 
( Q39 ) 
 
 humour in their little party, though it 
 could not boast much beside. 
 
 The evening was heavy like the day 
 — " I cannot think what is the matter 
 with me I" said Lady Bertram, when 
 the tea-things were removed. " I feel 
 quite stupid. It must be sitting up so 
 late last night. Fanny, you must do 
 something to keep me awake. I can- 
 not work. Fetch the cards, — I feel 
 so very stupid." 
 
 The cards were brought, and Fanny 
 played at cribbage with her aunt till 
 bed- time ; and as Sir Thomas was read- 
 ing to himself, no sounds were heard 
 in the room for the next two hours 
 beyond the reckonings of the game — 
 " And that makes thirty-one ; — four in 
 hand and eight in crib.- — You are to 
 deal, ma'am ; shall I deal for you ?" 
 Fanny thought and thought again of 
 the difference which twenty-four hours 
 had made in that room, and all that 
 part of the house. Last night it had 
 been hope and smiles, bustle and mo- 
 tion, 
 
( 240 ) 
 
 tlon, noise and brilliancy in the draw- 
 ing-room, and out of the drawing- 
 room, and every where. Now it was 
 languor, and all but solitude. 
 
 A good night's rest improved her 
 spirits. She could think of William 
 the next day more cheerfully, and as 
 the morning aiForded her an opportu- 
 nity of talking over Thursday night 
 with Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford, 
 in a very handsome style, with all the 
 heightenings of imagination and all 
 the laughs of playfulness which are 
 so essential to the shade of a departed 
 ball, she could afterwards bring her 
 mind without much effort into its every- 
 day state, and easily conform to the 
 tranquillity of the present quiet week. 
 
 They were indeed a smaller party than 
 she had ever known there for a whole 
 day together, and he was gone on 
 whom the comfort and cheerfulness of 
 every family-meeting and every meal 
 chiefly depended. But this must be 
 learned to be endured. He would soon 
 
 be 
 
( 241 ) 
 
 be always gone ; and she was thank- 
 ful that she could now sit in the same 
 room with her uncle, hear his voice, 
 receive his questions, and even answer 
 them without such wretched feelings 
 as she had formerly known. 
 
 " We miss our two young men," was 
 Sir Thomas's observation on both the 
 first and second day, as they formed 
 their very reduced circle after dinner ; 
 and in consideration of Fanny's swim- 
 ming eyes, nothing more was said on 
 the first day than to drink their good 
 health ; but on the second it led ta 
 something farther. William was kindly 
 commended and his promotion hoped 
 for. " And there is no reason to sup- 
 pose," added Sir Thomas, " but that his 
 visits to us may now be tolerably fre- 
 quent. As to Edmund, we must leam 
 to do without him. This will be the 
 last winter of his belonging to us, as 
 he has done." " Yes," said Lady 
 Bertram, " but I wish he was not going 
 away. They are all going away I 
 VOL. II. M thinks 
 
( 242 ) 
 
 think. I wish they would stay at 
 home." 
 
 This wish was levelled principally at 
 Julia, who had just applied for peir 
 mission to go to town with Maria ; and 
 as Sir Thomas thought it best for each 
 daughter that the permission should 
 be granted, Lady Bertram, though in 
 her own good nature she would not 
 have prevented it, was lamenting the 
 change it made in the prospect of 
 Julia's return, which would otherwise 
 have taken place about this time. A 
 great deal of good sense followed on 
 Sir Thomas's side, tending to recon- 
 cile his wife to the arrangement. Every 
 thing that a considerate parent ought 
 to feel was advanced for her use ; and 
 every thing that an affectionate mother 
 must feel in promoting her children^ 
 enjoyment, was attributed to her na- 
 ture. Lady Bertram agreed to it all 
 with a calm " Yes" — and at the 
 end of a quarter of an hour's silent 
 consideration, spontaneously observed, 
 
 ** Sir 
 
( S43 ) 
 
 " Sir Thomas, I have been thinking— 
 and 1 am very glad we took Fanny as 
 we did, for now the others are away, we 
 feel the good of it." 
 
 Sir Thomas immediately improved 
 this compliment by adding, ^* Very 
 true. We shew Fanny what a good 
 girl we think her by praising her to he? 
 face — she is now a very valuable com- 
 panion. If we have been kind to Aer, 
 she is now quite as necessary to us.'* 
 
 " Yes," said Lady Bertram present- 
 ly — " and it is a comfort to think that 
 we shall always have her.'' 
 
 Sir Thomas paused, half smiled, 
 glanced at his niece, and then gravely 
 replied, " She will never leave us, I 
 hope, till invited to some other home 
 that may reasonably promise her greater 
 happiness than she knows here." 
 
 ^' And that is not veiy likely to be, 
 Sir Thomas. Who should invite her? 
 Maria might be very glad to see her at 
 Sothcrton nbw and then, but she would 
 tibt think of B&king her to live there — 
 
 ^ m2 and 
 
( 244 ) 
 
 and I am sure she is better off here — 
 and besides I cannot do without her." 
 The week which passed so quietly 
 and peaceably at the great house in 
 Mansfield, had a very different cha- 
 racter at the Parsonage. To the young 
 lady at least in each family, it brought 
 very different feelings. What was 
 tranquiUity and comfort to Fanny was 
 tediousness and vexation to Mary. 
 Something arose from difference of, 
 disposition and habits-one so easily 
 satisfie;d, the other so unused to en- 
 dure ; but still more might be imputed 
 to difference of circumstances. In 
 some points of interest they were ex- 
 actly opposed to each other. To Fan- 
 ny's mind, Edmund's absence was 
 really in its cause and its tendency a 
 relief. To Mary it was every way pain- 
 ful. She felt the want of his society 
 every day, almost every hour; and 
 was too much in want of it to derive 
 any thing but irritation from consider- 
 ing the object for which he went. He 
 
 could 
 
( 245 ) 
 
 «ould not have devised any thing more 
 likely to raise his consequence than 
 this week's absence, occurring as it 
 did at the very time of her brother's 
 going away, of Wilham Price's going 
 too, and completing the sort of general 
 break-up of a party which had been 
 so animated. She felt it keenly. They 
 were now a miserable trio, confined 
 within doors by a series of rain and 
 snow, with nothing to do and no va- 
 riety to hope for. Angry as she was 
 Avith Edmund for adhering to his own 
 notions and acting on them in defiance 
 of her, (and she had been so angry 
 that they had hardly parted friends at 
 the ball,) she could not help thinking 
 of him continually when absent, dwell- 
 ing on his merit and aflfection, and 
 longing again for the almost daily 
 meetings they lately had . His absence 
 was unnecessarily long. He should not 
 have planned such an absence — he 
 should not have left home for a week, 
 when her own departure from Mansfield 
 u3 was 
 
( U6 ) 
 
 was so near. Then she began to blame 
 herself. She wished she had not spokea 
 feo warmly in their last conversationi 
 She was afraid she had used soine 
 .i8trong— some contemptuous expreis- 
 sions in speaking of the clergy, and 
 that should not have been. It was ill- 
 bred^ — it was wrong. She wished such 
 words unsaid Avith all her heart. 
 
 Her vexation did not end with, the 
 Aveek, All this was bad, but she had 
 still moi-e to feel when Friday came 
 round again and brought no Edmund 
 "^when Saturday came and still no 
 Edmund-— and when, through th^ 
 slight communication with the oth-er 
 family which Sunday produced, she 
 learnt that 1^ liad actually written 
 home to defer his return, having pro- 
 mised to remain some days longer with 
 his friend! 
 
 If she had felt impatience and re- 
 gret before — if she had been sorry for 
 what she said, and feared its too strong 
 efifect on him, she now felt and feai'ed 
 
 it 
 
( 247 ) 
 
 it all tenfold more. She had, moreover, 
 to contend with one disagreeable emo- 
 tion entirely new to her — jealousy. 
 His friend Mr. Owen had sisters — He 
 might find them attractive. But at 
 amy rate his staying away at a time, 
 when, according to all preceding plans, 
 she w as to remove to London, meant 
 something that she could not bear. 
 Had Henry returned, as he talked of 
 doing, at the end of three or four days, 
 she should now have been leaving 
 Mansfield. It became absolutely ne- 
 cessary for her to get to Fanny and 
 try to learn something more. She 
 could not live any longer in such so- 
 litary wretchedness ; and she made her 
 way to the Park, through difficulties 
 of walking which she had deemed un- 
 conquerable a week before, for the 
 chance of hearing a little in addition, 
 for the sake of at least hearing his 
 name. 
 
 The fii-st half hour was lost, for 
 
 Fanny and Lady Bertram were together, 
 
 M 4 and 
 
( 248 ) 
 
 and unless she had Fanny to herself 
 she could hope for nothing. But at 
 last Lady Bertram left the room — and 
 then almost immediately Miss Craw- 
 ford thus began, with a voice as well 
 regulated as she could — " And how 
 do yoii like your cousin Edmund's 
 staying away so long? — Being the only 
 young person at home, I consider you 
 as the greatest sufferer. — You must 
 miss him. Does his staying longer 
 surprize you ?"' 
 
 " I do not know," said Fannv hesir 
 tatingly. — " Yes— I had not particu* 
 larly expected it." 
 
 " Perhaps he will always stay longer 
 than he talks of. It is the general 
 way all young men do." 
 
 " He did not, the only time he went 
 to see Mr. Owen before." 
 
 " He fmds the hoa«e more agreeable 
 ncm. — He is a very — a very pleasing 
 young man himself, and I cannot help 
 being rather concerned at not seeing 
 him again before I go to London, as 
 
 Avil! 
 
( M9 ) 
 
 iritt now undoubtedly be the Case,-— 
 I am looking for Henry every day^ 
 and as soon as he comes there will be 
 nothing to detain me at Mansfield. I 
 should like to have seen him once more, 
 I confess. But you must give my 
 compliments to him. Yes— I think it 
 must be compliments. Is not there 
 a something wanted. Miss Price, in our 
 language— a something between com- 
 pliments and — and love — to suit the 
 sort of friendly acquaintance we have 
 had together? — So many months ac- 
 quaintance! — But compliments may 
 be sufficient here. — Was his letter a 
 long one? — Does he give you much 
 account of what he is doing? — Is it 
 Christmas gaieties that he is staying 
 fpr?" 
 
 " I only heard a part of the letter ; 
 it was to my uncle — but I believe it was 
 very short; indeed I am sure it was 
 but a few lines. All that I heard was 
 that his friend had pressed him to stay 
 logger, and that he had agreed to do 
 f M 5 so. 
 
( 250 ) 
 
 tso: A few days longer, or somt Says 
 longer, I am not quite s^re whichil^ ■ 
 
 " Oh ! if be wrote to his father — 
 But I thought it might have been to 
 Ltuiy Bertram or you. But if he wrote 
 to his father, no wonder he was con- 
 cise. Who could write chat to Sir 
 Thomas? If he had written to you, 
 there would have been more particu- 
 lars. You would hav€ heard of balls 
 aiad parties. — He would have sent you 
 a description of every thing and every 
 body. How many Miss Owens are 
 there?" 
 
 ** Three grown up." 
 
 " Are they musical ?" 
 
 ** I do not at all know. I nevet 
 heard." 
 
 " That is the first question, you 
 know,*' said Miss Crawford, trying to 
 appear gay and unconcerned, " which 
 e^ery woman who plays herself is sure 
 to ask about another. But it is very 
 foolish to ask questions about any 
 yosung iadieis— -about any thr^e sisters 
 
 r-r.,,. ; ),/ just 
 
( 251 ) 
 
 just grown up ; for one knows, with- 
 out being told, exactly wh^t they ar€ — 
 all very accomplished and pleasing, 
 and one very pretty. There is a beauty 
 in every family. — It is a regular thing. 
 Two play on the piano-forte, and one 
 on the harp — and all sing — or would 
 sing if they were taught — or sing all 
 the better for not being taught — or 
 something like it." 
 
 " I know nothing of the Miss 
 Owens," said Fanny calmly. 
 
 " You know nothing and you care 
 less, as people say. Never did tone 
 express indifference plainer. Indeed 
 how can one care for those one has 
 never seen? — Well, when your cousin 
 comes back, he will find Mansfield very 
 quiet ; — all the noisy ones gone, your 
 brother and mine and myself. I do 
 not like the idea of leaving Mrs. Grant 
 now the time draws near. She docs not 
 like my going." 
 
 Fanny felt obliged to speak. " You 
 
 cannot doubt your being missed by 
 
 i M Q many," 
 
( 252 ) 
 
 many," said she. " You will be very 
 jnuch missed." 
 
 Miss Crawford turned her eye on 
 her, as if wanting to hear or see more, 
 and then laughingly said, " Oh ! 3^es, 
 missed as every noisy evil is missed 
 when it is taken away ; that is, there 
 is a great difference felt. But I am not 
 fishing; don't compliment me. If 1 
 am missed, it will appear. I may be 
 discovered by those who want to see 
 me. I shall not be in any doubtful, 
 or distant, or unapproachable region." 
 
 Now Fanny could not bring herself 
 to speak, and Miss Crawford was dis- 
 appointed ; for she had hoped to hear 
 some pleasant assurance of her power, 
 from one who she thought must 
 know; and her spirits were clouded 
 again. 
 
 " The Miss Owens," said she soon 
 afterwards — " Suppose you were to 
 have one of the Miss Owens settled at 
 Thornton Lacey ; how should you like 
 it? Stranger things have happene^. 
 
 I dare 
 
( 253 ) 
 
 I dare say they are trying for it. And 
 they are quite in the right, for it would 
 be a very pretty estabHshment for 
 them. I do not at all wonder or blame 
 them. — It is every body's duty to do 
 as well for themselves as they can. 
 Sir Thomas Bertram's son is somebody ; 
 and now, he is in their own line. Their 
 father is a clergyman and their brother 
 is a clergyman, and they are all clergy- 
 men together. He is their lawful 
 property, he fairly belongs to them. 
 You don't speak, Fanny — Miss Price 
 — you don't speak. — But honestly no Wj 
 do not you rather expect it than other- 
 wise ?" 
 
 " No," said Fanny stoutly, " I do 
 not expect it at all." 
 
 " Not at all !"— cried Miss Crawford 
 with alacrity. " I wonder at that. But 
 I dare say you know exactly — I always 
 imagine you are — perhaps you do not 
 think him likely to marry at all— or not 
 at present." 
 
 " No, I do not," said Fanny softly 
 
 — hoping 
 
( ^54 ) 
 
 —hoping she did not err either in the 
 beiief or the acknowledgment of it. 
 
 Her companion looked at her keenly ; 
 and gathering greater spirit from the 
 blush soon produced from such a look, 
 only said, " He is best off as he is," 
 and turned the subject. 
 
 CHAP- 
 
( 255 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Miss Crawford's uneasiaess was 
 much lightened by this conversation, 
 and she walked home again in spirits 
 which might have defied almost ano- 
 ther week of the same small party in 
 the same bad weather, had they been 
 put to the proof; but as that very 
 evening brought her brother down 
 from London again in quite, or more 
 than quite, his usual cheerfulness, she 
 had nothing further to try lier own. 
 His still refusing to tell her what he 
 had gone for, was but the promotion 
 of gaiety ; a day before it might have 
 irritated, but now it was a pleasant 
 joke — suspected only of concealing 
 something planned as a pleasant sur- 
 prize to herself. And the next day 
 did bring a surprize to her. Henry 
 had said he should just go and ask 
 the Bertrams how they did, and be 
 back in ten minutes — but he was gone 
 ihkio above 
 
( 256 ) 
 
 above an hour ; and when his sister, 
 who had been waiting for him to walk 
 with her in the garden, met him at last 
 most impatiently in the sweep, and 
 cried out, " My dear Henry, where can 
 you possibly have been all this time ?'' 
 he had only to say that he had been 
 sitting with Lady Bertram and Fanny. 
 
 " Sitting with them an hour and 
 half!" exclaimed Mary. 
 
 But this was only the beginning of 
 her surprize. 
 
 . ' " Yes, Mary," said he, drawing her 
 arm within his, and walking along the 
 sweep as if not knowing where he was 
 — I could not get away sooner — Fanny 
 looked so lovely ! — I am quite deter- 
 mined, Mary. My mind is entirely 
 made up. Will it astonish you ? No 
 —You must be aware that I am quite 
 determined to marry Fanny Price." 
 
 The surprize was now complete ; for 
 in spite of whatever his consciousness 
 might suggest, a suspicion of his having 
 any such views had never entered his 
 
 sister'* 
 
( 257 ) 
 
 sister's imagination ; and she looked 
 so truly the astonishment she felt, that 
 he was obliged to repeat what he had 
 said, and more fully and more solemnly. 
 The conviction of his determination 
 once admitted, it was not unwelcome. 
 There was even pleasure w^ith the 
 surprize. Mary was in a state of 
 mind to rejoice in a connection with 
 the Bertram family, and to be not 
 displeased with her brother's marrying 
 a little beneath him. 
 
 " Yes, Mary," was Henry's con- 
 cluding assurance. " I am fairly caught. 
 You know with what idle designs I 
 began — but this is the end of them. I 
 have (I flatter myself) made no incon- 
 siderable progress in her affections; 
 but my own are entirely fixed." 
 
 " Lucky, lucky girl !" cried Mary 
 as soon as she could speak — " what a 
 match for her ! My dearest Henry, 
 this must be my Jirst feeling ; but my 
 second, which you shall have as sin- 
 cerely, is that I approve your choice 
 
 from 
 
( 25S ) 
 
 from my soul, and foresee your happi- 
 ness as heartily as I wish and desire it. 
 You will have a sweet little wife ; all 
 gratitude and devotion. Exactly what 
 you deserve. What an amazing match 
 for her! Mrs. Norris often talks of 
 her luck; what will she say now? 
 The delight of all the family indeed ! 
 And she has some true friends in it. 
 How they will rejoice ! But tell me 
 all about it Talk to me for ever. 
 When did you begin to think seriously 
 about her ?" 
 
 Nothing could be more impossible 
 than to answer such a question, though 
 nothing be more agreeable than to 
 have it asked. " How the pleasing 
 plague had stolen on him" he could 
 not say, and before he had expressed 
 the same sentiment with a little varia- 
 tion of words three times over, his 
 sister eagerly interrupted him with, 
 " Ah ! my • dear Henry, and this is 
 what took you to London ! This was 
 your business ! You chose to consult 
 
 the 
 
( 259 ) 
 
 the Admiral, before you made up your 
 mind." 
 
 But this he stoutly denied. He 
 knew his uncle too well to consult him 
 on any matrimonial scheme. The 
 Admiral hated marriage, and thought 
 it never pardonable in a young man of 
 independent fortune. 
 
 " When Fanny is known to him," 
 continued Henry, " he will doat on 
 her. She is exactly the woman to do 
 away every prejudice of suoh a man 
 as the Admiral, for she is exactly such 
 a woman as he thinks does not exist 
 in the world. She is the very impos* 
 sibility he would describe — if indeed 
 he has now delicacy of language 
 enough to embody his own ideas. But 
 till it is absolutely settled — settled 
 beyond all interference, he shall know 
 nothing of the matter. No, Mary, 
 you are quite mistaken. You have 
 not discovered my business yet !" 
 
 " Well, well, I am satisfied. I know 
 now to c whom it must relate, and am 
 
 in 
 
( 260 ) 
 
 in no hurry for the rest. Fanny Price 
 — Wonderful — quite wonderful ! — That 
 Mansfield should have done so much 
 for — that you should have found your 
 fate in Mansfield ! But you are quite 
 right, you could not have chosen 
 better. There is not a better girl in 
 the world, and you do not want for 
 fortune; and as to her connections, 
 they are more than good. The Bertrams 
 are undoubtedly some of the first 
 people in this country. She is niece 
 to Sir Thomas Bertram ; that will be 
 enough for the world. But go on, go 
 on. Tell me more. What are your 
 plans ? Does she know her own hap- 
 piness ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " What are you waiting for ?" 
 
 " For — for very little more than 
 opportunity. Mary, she is not like 
 her cousins ; but I think I shall not 
 ask in vain." 
 
 " Oh ! no, you cannot. Were you 
 even less pleasing — supposing her not 
 
 to 
 
( 261 ) 
 
 to love you already, (of which however 
 I can have little doubt,) you would be 
 safe. The gentleness and gratitude of 
 her disposition would secure her all 
 your own immediately. From my soul 
 I do not think she would marry you 
 without love ; that is, if there is a girl 
 in the world capable of being unin- 
 fluenced by ambition, I can suppose it 
 )ier ; but ask her to love you, and she 
 will never have the heart to refuse." 
 
 As soon as her eagerness could rest 
 in silence, he was as happy to tell as she 
 could be to listen, and a conversation 
 followed almost as deeply interesting 
 to her as to himself, though he had in 
 fact nothing to relate but his own sen- 
 sations, nothing to dwell on but Fanny's 
 charms. — Fanny's beauty of face and 
 figure, Fanny's graces of manner and 
 goodness of heart were the exhaust- 
 less theme. The gentleness, modesty, 
 and sweetness of her character were 
 warmly expatiated on, that sweetness 
 which makes so essential a part of 
 
 every 
 
( 262 ) 
 
 eveiy woman's worth in the judgment 
 of man, that though he sometimes 
 loves where it is not, he can never 
 believe it absent. Her temper he had 
 good reason to depend on and to praise. 
 He had often seen it tried. Was there 
 one of the family, excepting Edmund, 
 who had not in some way or other con- 
 tinually exercised her patience and for- 
 bearance ? Her affections wereevidently 
 strong. To see her with her brother ! 
 What could more delightfully prove 
 that the warmth of her heart was equal 
 to its gentleness?— What could be more 
 encouraging to a man who had her 
 love in view ? Then^ her understanding 
 was beyond every suspicion, quick 
 and clear ; and her manners were the 
 mirror of her own modest and elegant 
 mind. Nor was this all. Henry Craw- 
 ford had too much sense not to feel 
 the worth of good principles in a 
 wife, though he was too little accus- 
 tomed to serious reflection to know 
 them by ther proper name ; but when 
 
 h^ 
 
( 263 ) 
 
 he talked of her havhig such a 
 steadiness and regularity of conduct, 
 such a high notion of honour, and 
 such an observance of decorum as 
 might warrant any man in the fullest 
 dependence on her faith and integrity, 
 he expressed what was inspired by the 
 knowledge of her being well principled 
 and religious. 
 
 " I could so wholly and absolutely 
 confide in her," said he ; " and that is 
 what I want." 
 
 Well might his sister, believing as 
 she really did that his opinion of Fanny 
 Price was scarcely beyond her merits, 
 rejoice in her prospects. 
 
 " The more I think of it," she cried, 
 " the more am I convinced that you 
 are doing quite right, and though I 
 should never have selected Fanny 
 Price as the girl most likely to attach 
 you, I am now persuaded she is the 
 very one to make you happy. Your 
 wicked project upon her peace turns 
 ::. ^niBH I.. out 
 
( 264 ) 
 
 out a clever thought indeed. You wiik 
 both find your good in it." # 
 
 " It was bad, very bad in me against 
 such a creature ! but I did not knows, 
 her then. And she shall have no 
 reason to lament the hour that first 
 put it into my head. I will make her 
 very happy, Mary, happier than she 
 has ever yet been herself, or ever seen 
 any body else. I will not take her 
 from Northamptonshire. I shall let 
 Everingham, and rent a place in 
 this neighbourhood — perhaps Stanwix 
 Lodge. I shall let a seven years' lease 
 of Everingham. I am sure of aa^is 
 excellent tenant at half a word. I 
 could name three people now, who 
 would give me my own terms and 
 thank me." ^^J 
 
 " Ha!" cried Mary, '' settle in 
 Northamptonshire 1 That is pleasant ! 
 Then we shall be all together." ■ > 
 
 When she had spoken it, she recol-t^^^ 
 lected herself, and wished it unsaid ;5fi$ 
 
( ^65 ) 
 
 but there was no need of confusion, 
 for her brother saw her only as the 
 supposed inmate of Mansfield Parson- 
 age, and replied but to invite her in 
 the kindest manner to his own house, 
 and to claim the best right in her. 
 
 " You must give us more than half 
 your time," said he ; "I cannot admit 
 Mrs. Grant to have an equal claim with 
 Fanny and myself, for we shall both 
 have a right in you. Fanny will be so 
 truly your sister !" 
 
 Mary had only to be grateful and 
 give general assurances ; but she was 
 now very fully purposed to be the 
 guest of neither brother nor sister 
 many months longer. 
 
 " You will divide your year between 
 London and Northamptonshire .^" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " That's right ; and in London, of 
 course, a house of your own; no longer 
 with the Admiral. My dearest Henry, 
 the advantage to you of getting away 
 from the Admiral before your manners 
 
 VOL. II. N are 
 
( M6 ) 
 
 aY6 htirt by the contag-ion of his, hi&^b 
 you have contracted any of his foolish 
 o^pinionsj or leamt to sit over your 
 dinner, as if it were the best blessing 
 of life ! — Vou are not sens^ible of the 
 gain, for your regard for him Ms 
 blinded you ; but, in my estimation, 
 your marrying early may be the savirig 
 of you. To have seen you grow like the 
 Admiral in word or deed, look or ges- 
 ture, would have broken niy heart. '^ 
 
 " Well, well, we do not think quite 
 alike here. The Admiral has his faults, 
 but he is a very good man, and has 
 been more than a father to me. Few 
 fathers would have let me have i«y 
 own way half so much. You must 
 not prejudice Fanny against him. I 
 must have them love one another.", 
 
 Mary refrained from saying what she 
 felt, that there could not be two persons 
 in existence, whose characters and mdn- 
 ners were less accordant; time Iwould 
 discover it to him ; but shecoitld not 
 lielp this reflection, on the Admiral. 
 
 ** Henry, 
 
( ^7 ) 
 
 ** Henry, I think so highly of Fanny 
 Price, that if I could suppose the next 
 Mrs. Crawford would have half the 
 reason which my poor ill used aunt 
 had to abhor the very name, I would 
 prevent the marriage, if possible ; but 
 I know you, I know that a wife you 
 idoved would be the happiest of women, 
 sand that even Avheri you ceased to love, 
 45he would yet find in you the liberality 
 and good-breeding of a gentleman." 
 
 The impossibility of not doing every 
 thing in the world to make Fanny 
 Price happy, or of ceasing to love 
 Fanny Price, was of course the ground- 
 work of his eloquent answer. 
 
 ** Had you seen her this morning, 
 Mary," he continued, " attending with 
 such ineffable sweetness and patience, 
 to all the demands of her aunt's stu- 
 pidity, working with her, and for her, 
 her colour beautifully heightened as 
 she leant over the work, then returning 
 to her seat to finish a note which she 
 ^ was previously engaged in writing for 
 v.^^^ii n2 that 
 
( £68 ) 
 
 that stupid woman's service, and all 
 this with such unpretending gentleness, 
 so much as if it were a matter of course 
 that she was not to have a moment at 
 her own command, her hair arranged 
 as neatly as it always is, and one little 
 curl falling forward as she wrote, which 
 she now and then shook back, and in 
 the midst of all this, still speaking at 
 intervals to me, or listening, and as if 
 she liked to listen to what I said. Had 
 you seen her so, Mary, you would not 
 have implied the possibility of her power 
 over my heart ever ceasing," 
 
 *^ My dearest Henry,'* cried Mary, 
 stopping short, and smiling in his face, 
 ** how glad I am to see you so much 
 in love! It quite delights me. But 
 what will Mrs. Rushworth and Julia 
 say?" ^ 
 
 " I care neither what they say, nor 
 what they feel. They will now see 
 what sort of woman it is that can 
 attach me, that can attach a man of 
 sense. I wish the discovery may do 
 
 them 
 
( ^69 ) 
 
 them any good. And they will now 
 see their cousin treated as she ought to 
 be, and I wish they may be heartily 
 ashamed of their own abominable neg- 
 lect and unkindness. They will be 
 angry," he added, after a moment's 
 silence, and in a cooler tone, " Mrs. 
 Rushworth will be very angry. It will 
 be a bitter pill to her; that is, like 
 other bitter pills, it will have two mo- 
 ments ill-flavour, and then be swallowed 
 and forgotten; for I am not such a cox- 
 comb as to suppose her feelings m.ore 
 lasting than other women's, though / 
 was the object of them. Yes, IMary, 
 my Fanny will feel a difference indeed, 
 a daily, hourly difference, in the beha- 
 viour of every being who approaches 
 her; and it will be the completion of 
 my happiness to know that I am the 
 doer of it, that I am the person to give 
 the consequence so justly her due. 
 Now she is dependent, helpless, fnciid- 
 iess, neglected, forgotten." 
 
 ^'' Nay, Hetiry, ^ot by all, notfor- 
 "' n3 gotten 
 
( ^70 ) 
 
 gotten by all, not friendless or for- 
 gotten. Her cousin Edmund never 
 forgets her." 
 
 '' Edmund — True, I believe he is 
 (generrfly speaking) kind to her ; and 
 so is Sir Thomas in his way, but it is 
 the way of a rich, superior, longworded, 
 arbitrary nncle. What can Sir Thomas 
 and Edmund together do, what Jo they 
 do for her happiness, comfort, honour^ 
 and dignity in the world to what I 
 shall dor 
 
 
 v'3^ V; Y:]in0t"ioaGo ^*'^ d^f^'"" 
 
 CHAP- 
 
( m ) 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Henry Crawford was at Mansfield 
 Park again the next morning, and 
 at an earlier hour than common visit- 
 ing warrants. The two ladies were 
 together in the breakfast-rooni, and 
 fortunately for him, Lady Bertram was 
 gn the very point of quitting it as he 
 entered. She was almost at the door, 
 and not chusing by any means to take 
 so much trouble in vain, she still went 
 on, after a civil reception, a short sen- 
 tence about being waited for, and a 
 " Let Sir Thomas know," to the ser- 
 vant. 
 
 Henry, overjoyed to have her go, 
 bowed and watched her off, and with^ 
 put losing another moment, turned in- 
 stantly to Fanny, and taking out some 
 letters said, with a most animated look, 
 '^ I must acknowledge myself infinitely 
 obliged to any creature who gives me 
 gych an opportunity of seeing you 
 4AH / ^^ alone: 
 
( 272 ) 
 
 alone : I have been wishing it more 
 than you can have any idea. Knowing 
 as I do what your feelings as a sister 
 'ire, I could hardly have borne that 
 4fny one in the house should share with 
 you in the first knowledge of the news 
 I now bring. He is made. Your bro- 
 ther is a Lieutenant. 1 have the in- 
 finite satisfaction of congratulating you 
 on your brother's promotion. Here 
 are the letters which announce it, this 
 moment come to hand. You will, per- 
 haps, like to see them." 
 
 Fanny could not speak, but he did 
 not want her to speak. To see the ex- 
 pression of her eyes, the change of her 
 complexion, the progress of her feel- 
 ings, their doubt, confusion, and feli- 
 city, was enough. She took the letters 
 as he gave them. The first was from 
 the Admiral to inform his nephew, in a 
 few words, of his having succeeded in 
 the object he had undertaken, the pro- 
 motion of young Price, and inclosing 
 two more, one from the Secretary of 
 .4f'^" the 
 
V 273 ) 
 
 the First Lord to a friend, whom the 
 Admiral had set to work in the busi- 
 ness, the other from that friend to 
 himself, by which it appeared that his 
 Lordship had the very great happiness 
 of attending to the recommendation of 
 Sir Charles, that Sir Charles was much 
 delighted in having such an oppor- 
 tunity of proving his regard for Ad- 
 miral Crawford, and that the circum- 
 stance of Mr. William Price's commis- 
 sion as second Lieutenant of H. M. 
 sloop Thrush, being made out, was 
 spreading general joy through a wide 
 circle of great people. 
 
 While her hand was trembling under 
 these letters, her eye running from 
 one to the other, and her heart swell- 
 ing with emotion, Crawford thus con- 
 tinued, with unfeigned eagerness, to 
 express his interest in the event. 
 
 " I will not talk of my own happi- 
 ness," said he, " great as it is, for I 
 think only of yours. Compared with 
 you, who has a right to be happy ? I 
 ]sr5 have 
 
C 274 ) 
 
 have almost grudged Thyself my owii 
 prior knowledge of what you ought 
 to have known before all the world. 
 I have not lost a moment, however. 
 The post was late this mormng, but 
 there has not been since, a moment's 
 delay. How impatient, how anxious, 
 how wild I have been on the subject, 
 I will not attempt to describe; how 
 severely mortified, iiow cruelly disap- 
 pointed, in not having it finished while 
 I was in London ! I was kept there 
 from day to day in the hope of it, for 
 nothing less dear to me than such an 
 object would have detained me half 
 the time fro^n Manslield. But though 
 my uncle entered into my wishes with 
 all the warfnth I could desire, and ex- 
 erted himself immediately, there were 
 difficulties from the absence of one 
 friend, and the engagements of another, 
 which at last I could no longer bear 
 tto JStay the end of, and knowing in 
 r.;\vhat good hands i left the cause, I 
 «caifie away on Monday, trusting that 
 
 many 
 
( ^ ) 
 
 many posts would not pass before I 
 should be followed by such very letters 
 as these. My uncle, who is the very 
 best man in the world, has exerted 
 himself, as I knew he would after see- 
 ing your brother. He was deUghted 
 with him. I would not allow myself 
 y^esterday to say how delighted, or to 
 repeat half that the Admiral said in his 
 praise. I deferred it all, till his praistC 
 should be proved the praise of a friend, 
 as this day does prove it. Now I may 
 say that even / could not require 
 William Price to excite a greater in- 
 terest, or be followed by warmer wishes 
 and higher commendation, than were 
 most voluntarily bestowed by my un- 
 cle, after the evening they passed to- 
 gether." 
 
 " Has this beeu all your doing then ?* 
 cried Fanny. " Good Heaven ! how 
 very, yery kind ! Have you really — 
 -was it by your desire — I beg your 
 pardon, but I am bewildered. Did 
 isi 6 Admiral 
 
f 276 ) 
 
 Admiral Crawford apply ?— how was 
 it? — -I am stupified." ^' 
 
 Henry was most happy to make *jt 
 more intelligible, by beginning at an 
 earlier stage, and explaining very par- 
 ticularly what he had done. His last 
 journey to London had been under- 
 taken with no other view than that of 
 introducing her brother in Hill-street, 
 and prevailing on the Admiral to exert 
 whatever interest he might have for 
 getting him on. This had been his 
 business. He had communicated it to 
 no creature ; he had not breathed a 
 syllable of it even to Mary ; while un- 
 certain of the issue, he could not have 
 -borne any participation of his feelings, 
 but this had been his business; and 
 he spoke with such a glow of what his 
 solicitude had been, and used such 
 strong expressions, was so abounding 
 in the deepest interest, in twofold mo- 
 ttoes, in mews and wishes more than 
 could be- ' t>old,^ ifeha^t * Faoany ixx)uld not 
 V s ' >h, A i. bjl ;:. bK ^ ■ hav^ 
 
( 277 ) 
 
 hskve remained insensible of his drift, 
 had she been able to attend ; but her 
 heart was so full and her senses still 
 so astonished, that she could listen but 
 imperfectly even to what he told her 
 of William, and saying only when he 
 paused, " How kind ! how very kind ! 
 Oh ! Mr. Crawford, we are infinitely 
 obliged to you. Dearest, dearest Wil- 
 liam 1" She jumped up and moved in 
 haste towards the door, crying out, 
 # I will go to my uncle. My uncle 
 ought to know it as soon as possible.'* 
 But this could not be suffered. The 
 opportunity was too fair, and his feel- 
 ings too impatient. He was after her 
 immediately. " She must not go, she 
 must allow him five minutes longer," 
 and he took her hand and led her back 
 to her seat, and was in the middle of 
 his further explanation, before she had 
 suspected for what she was detained. 
 When she did understand it, however, 
 and found herself expected to believe 
 that she had created sensations which 
 
 his 
 
( S7« ) 
 
 his heart had never known before, aaad 
 that every thing ^ had done for 
 William, was to he placed to tl)e 
 account of his excessive and unequalled 
 attachment to her, she was exceedingly 
 distressed, and for some moments 
 unable to speak. She considered it all 
 as nonsense, as mere trifling and 
 gallantry, which meant only to deceive 
 for the hour ; she could not but feel 
 that it was treating her improperly and 
 unworthily, and in such a way as she 
 had not deserved ; but it was like him- 
 ^if, and entirely of a piece with what 
 she had seen before ; and she would 
 aiot allow herself to shew half the dis- 
 pleasure she felt, because he had been 
 conferring an obligation, which no 
 want of delicacy on his part could make 
 a trifle to her. While her heart was 
 &till bounding with joy and gratitude 
 on William's behalf, she could not be 
 severely resentful of any thing that 
 injured only herself; and after having 
 twice drawn back her hand, and twice 
 
 attempted 
 
( 2?9 ) 
 
 attempted m vain to t«r« away fixjm 
 him, she got up and said only, ^Titlt 
 much agitation, " Don't, Mr. Craw- 
 ford, pray don't. I beg you would 
 not. This is a sort of talking which Is 
 very unpleasant to me. I must ^o 
 away. I cannot bear it." But he was 
 still talking on, describing his affec- 
 tion, soliciting a return, and, finally, 
 in words so plain as to bear but one 
 meaning even to her, offering himself, 
 hand, fortune, every thing to her ac- 
 ceptance. It was so; he had said it. 
 Her astonishment and confusion i^n- 
 creased ; and though still not knowing 
 how to suppose him serious, she could 
 hardly stand. He pressed for an a^ 
 Bwer. 
 
 '* No, no, no," she cried, hiding her 
 face. " This is all nonsense. Do not 
 distress me. I can hear no more of 
 this. Your kindness to William makes 
 me more obliged to you than words 
 €an express ; but I do not want, I 
 ^cannot bear, I must liot listen to such — 
 '■"^•. ■■•' No, 
 
( 2^80 ) 
 
 —No, no, don't think of me. liut 
 you are wo^ thinking of me. I know it 
 is all nothing." 
 
 ^^ She had burst away from him, and 
 at that moment Sir Thomas was heard 
 speaking to a servant in his way to- 
 wards the room they were in. It was 
 no time for further assurances or en- 
 treaty, though to part with her at a 
 moment when her modesty alone 
 seemed to his sanguine and pre-assured 
 mind to stand in the way of the hap- 
 piness he sought, was a cruel neces- 
 sity. — She rushed out at an opposite 
 door from the one her uncle, was ap- 
 proaching, and was walking up and 
 down the east room in the utmost con- 
 fusion of contrary feeling, before Sir 
 Thomas's politeness or apologies were 
 over, or he had reached the beginning 
 of the joyful intelligence^ which his 
 visitor came to communicate. 
 
 a* She was feeling, thinking, trembling, 
 about every thing • agitated, happy,' 
 iniserable, infinitely obligedjabsofiitefy 
 
 Wl angry. 
 
( 281 ) 
 
 angry. It was all beyond belief! He 
 was inexcusable, incomprehensible! — 
 But such were his habits, that he could 
 do nothing without a mixture of evil. 
 He had previously made her the hap- 
 piest of human beings, and now he 
 had insulted — she knew not what to 
 say— -how to class or how to regard it. 
 She would not have him be serious, 
 and yet what could excuse the use of 
 such words and offers, if they meant 
 but to trifle ? 
 
 But William was a Lieutenant.— 7%^^ 
 was a fact beyond a doubt and with- 
 out an alloy. She would think of it 
 for ever and forget all the rest. Mr. 
 Crawford would certainly never ad- 
 dress her so again : he must have seen 
 how unwelcome it was to her ; and in 
 that case, how gratefully she could 
 esteem him for his friendship to 
 William! 
 
 She would not stir farther from the 
 east-room than the head of the great 
 staircase, tilljiie had satisfied herself 
 
 of 
 
( 3m ) 
 
 of Mr. Crawford's having left the 
 house; but when convinced of his 
 being gone, she was eager to go down 
 and be with her uncle, and have all 
 the happiness of his joy as well as her 
 own, and all the benefit of his infor- 
 ]|;nation or his conjectures as to what 
 would now be William's destination. 
 Sir Thomas was as joyful as she could 
 desire, and very kind and communi- 
 cative; and she had so comfortable a 
 talk with him about William as to make 
 her feel as if nothing had occurred to 
 vex her, till she found towards the 
 close that Mr. Crawford was engaged 
 to return and dine there that very day. 
 This was a most unwelcome hearings 
 for though he might think nothing pf 
 what had passed, it would be quite 
 distressing to her to see him again so 
 jsoon, ^', 
 
 She tried to get the better of it, tried 
 very hard as the dinner hour approach* 
 ^, to feel and appear as usual; bi4l 
 it was quitq impo^siblpffQriihejviitofcil^ 
 
(■ SB5 ) 
 
 look most shy and uncomfortable wlien 
 their visitor entered the room. She 
 could not have supposed it in the power 
 of any concurrence of circumstances 
 to give her so many painful sensations 
 on the first day of hearing of William's 
 promotion. 
 
 Mr. Crawford was not only in the 
 room ; he was soon close to her. He 
 had a note to deliver from his sister. 
 Fanny could not look at him, but there 
 was no consciousness of past folly in 
 his voice. She opened her note imme- 
 diately, glad to have any thing to do, 
 and happy as she read it, to feel that 
 the fidgettings of her aunt Norris, who 
 was also to dine there, screened her a 
 little from view. 
 
 '* My DEAR Fanny, for so I may 
 now always call you, to the infinite 
 relief of a tongue that has been stumb- 
 ling at Miss Price for at least the last 
 six weeks— I cannot let my brother go 
 without sending you a few lines of 
 general congratulation, and giving my 
 
 most 
 
( 284 ) 
 
 most joyful consent and approval^ 
 Go on, my dear Fanny, and without 
 fear ; there can be no difficulties worth 
 naming. I chuse to suppose that the 
 assurance of my consent will be some- 
 thing; so, you may smile upon him 
 with your sweetest smiles this after- 
 noon, and send him back to me even 
 happier than he goes. 
 
 Yours affectionately, 
 M.G. 
 These were not expressions to do 
 Fanny any good ; for though she read 
 in too much haste and confusion to 
 form the clearest judgment of Miss 
 Crawford's meaning, it was evident that 
 she meant to compliment her on her 
 brother's attachment and even to ap- 
 pear to believe it serious. She did not 
 know what to do, or what to think. 
 There was wretchedness in the idea o^ 
 its being serious ; there was perplexity 
 and agitation every way. She was 
 distressed whenever Mf. Crawford 
 spoke t^ hier, and he spoke to her ihuch 
 ; too 
 
( 285 ) 
 
 too often ; and she was afraid there 
 was a something in his voice and 
 manner in addressing her, very dif- 
 ferent from what they were when he 
 talked to the others. Her comfort in 
 that day's dinner was quite destroyed ; 
 she could hardly eat any thing ; and 
 when Sir Thomas good humouredly 
 observed, that joy had taken away her 
 appetite, she was ready to sink with 
 shame, from the dread of Mr. Craw- 
 ford's interpretation ; for though no- 
 thing could have tempted her to turn 
 her eyes to the right hand where he 
 sat, she felt that his were immediately 
 directed towards her. 
 
 She was more silent than ever. She 
 would hardly join even when William 
 was the subject, for his commission 
 came all from the right hand too, and 
 there was pain in the connection. 
 
 She . thought Lady Bertram sat 
 longer than ever, and began to be in 
 despair of ever getting away ; but at 
 la,st they w^ere in the drawing-room 
 
( g«6 ) 
 
 slie was able to think as she wociM, 
 while her aunts finished the subject of 
 William's appointment in their own 
 style. 
 
 t: Mrs. Norris seemed as much de- 
 lighted with the saving it would be to 
 Sir Thomas, as with any part of it 
 " Now William would be able to keep, 
 himself, which would make a vast dif- 
 ference to his uncle, for it was un- 
 known how much he had cost his 
 uncle ; and indeed it would make some 
 difference in her presents too. She 
 was very glad that she had given 
 William what she did at parting, very 
 glad indeed that it had been in her 
 power, without material inconvenience 
 just at that time, to give him some- 
 thing rather considerable ; that is, for 
 Aer, with her limited means, for now 
 it would all be useful in helping to .fit 
 up his cabin. She knew he must be 
 at some expense, that he would have 
 many things to buy, though to be sure 
 his father and mother would be able to 
 
 put 
 
( £87 ) 
 
 put him in the way of getting every 
 thing very cheap — but she was very 
 glad that she had contributed her mite 
 towards it." 
 
 " I am glad you gave him something 
 considerable," said Lady Bertram, with 
 must unsuspicious calmness — " for I 
 ^ave him only 10/." 
 
 "Indeed!" cried Mrs. Norrrs, red- 
 dening. " Upon my word, he must 
 have gone off with his pockets well 
 lined ! and at no expense for his 
 journey to London eitlier !" 
 
 "Sir Thomas told me !()/» would be 
 enough." 
 
 ■ : Mrs. Norris, being not at all inclined 
 to question its sufficiency, began to 
 take the matter in another point. 
 Gt " It is amazing," said she, " how 
 vmuch young people cost their friends, 
 ._ what with bringing them up and put- 
 ting them out in the world ! They 
 little think how much it comes to, or 
 3 what their parents, or their uncles and 
 :|iupts pay for them in the course of 
 *rn the 
 
( 288 ) 
 
 the year. Now, here are my sister 
 Price's children; — take them all to- 
 gether, I dare say nobody would 
 believe what a sum they cost Sir 
 Thomas every year, to say nothing of 
 what / do for them." 
 
 " Very true, sister, as you say. But, 
 poor things ! they cannot help it; and 
 you know it makes very little difference 
 to Sir Thomas. Fanny, William must 
 not forget my shawl, if he goes to the 
 East Indies ; and I shall give him a 
 commission for any thing else that is 
 worth having, I wish he may go to 
 the East Indies, that I may have my 
 shawl. I think I will have two shawls, 
 Fanny." 
 
 Fanny, meanwhile, speaking only 
 when she could not help it, was very 
 earnestly trying to understand what 
 Mr. and Miss Crawford were at. There 
 was every thing in the world against 
 their being serious, but his words and 
 manner. Every thing natural, probable, 
 reasonable was against it; all their 
 
 habits 
 
( 289 ) 
 
 habits and ways of thinking, and all 
 her own demerits. — How could she 
 have excited serious attachment in a 
 man, who had seen so many, and been 
 admired by so many, and flirted A^ith 
 so many, infinitely her superiors — who 
 seemed so little open to serious impres- 
 sions, even where pains had been taken 
 to please him^ — who thought so slightly, 
 so carelessly, so unfeelingly on all such 
 points — who was every thing to every 
 body, and seemed to find no one es- 
 sential to him r — And further, how 
 could it be supposed that his sister, 
 with all her high and worldly notions 
 of matrimony, would be forwarding 
 any thing of a serious nature in such a 
 quarter ? Nothing could be more un- 
 natural in either. Fanny was ashamed 
 of her own doubts. Every thing might 
 be possible rather than serious attach- 
 ment or serious approbation of it 
 toward her. She had quite convinced 
 herself of this .before Sir Thomas and 
 Mr^ Crawford joined them. The diflfi- 
 voL. II. o culty 
 
( 290 ) 
 
 culty was in maintaining the convic- 
 tion quite so absolutely after Mr. Craw- 
 ford was in the room ; for once or twice 
 a look seerned forced on her whi^b she 
 did not know bow to class among the 
 common meaning ; in any other man 
 at least, she would have said that it 
 meant something very earnest, very 
 pointed. But sbe still tried to believe 
 it no more tban wbat be migbt often 
 have expressed towards ber cousins and 
 fifty other women. 
 
 Sbe thought be was wishing to speak 
 to her unbeard by the rest. Sbe fancied 
 he was trying for it the wbole evening 
 at intervals, Avbenever Sir Tbomas was 
 out of the room, or at all engaged with 
 Mrs. Norris, and sbe carefully refused 
 bim every opportunity. 
 
 At last — it seemed an at last to Fan- 
 ny's nervousness, tbough not remark- 
 ably late, — be began to talk of going 
 away ; but tbe comfort of the sound 
 was impaired by his turning to ber tbe 
 next moment, and saying, " Have you 
 
 nothing 
 
( 291 ) 
 
 nothing to sf nd to Mary ? No answer 
 to her note? . She will be disappointed 
 if she receives nothing from you. Pray 
 write to her, if it be only a line." 
 
 " Gh! yes, certainly," cried Fanny^ 
 rising in haste, the haste of embarrass- 
 ment and of wanting to get away — 
 " I will write directly." 
 
 She went accordingly to the table, 
 where she was in the habit of writing 
 for her aunt, and prepared her mate- 
 rials without knowing what in the 
 world to say ! She had read Miss 
 Crawford's note only once ; and how 
 to reply to any thing so imperfectly 
 understood was most distressing. Quite 
 unpractised in such sort of note-writing, 
 had there been time for scruples and 
 fears as to style, she would have felt 
 them in abundance ; but something 
 must be instantly written, and with 
 only one decided feeling, that of wish- 
 ing not to appear to think any thing 
 really intended, she wrote thus, in great 
 trembling both of spirits and hand : 
 
 ^^ "I AM 
 
( 292 ) 
 
 " I AM very much obliged to you, 
 my dear Miss Crawford, for your kind 
 congratulations, as far as they relate to 
 my dearest William. The rest of your 
 note I know means nothing ; but I am 
 so unequal to any thing of the sort, 
 that I hope you will excuse my beg- 
 ging you to take no further notice. I 
 have seen too much of Mr. Crawford 
 not to understand his manners ; if he 
 understood me as well, he would, I dare 
 say, behave differently. I do not know 
 what I Avrite, but it would be a great 
 favour of you never to mention the 
 subject again. With thanks for the 
 honour of your note, 
 
 I remain, dear Miss Crawford, 
 
 &c. &c." 
 
 The conclusion was scarcely intelli- 
 gible from increasing fright, for she 
 found that Mr. Crawford, under pre- 
 tence of receiving the note, was coming 
 towards her. 
 
 " You cannot think I mean to hurry 
 you," said he, in an under voice, per- 
 ceiving 
 
( 293 ) 
 
 ceiving the amazing trepidation with 
 which she made up the note ; " you 
 cannot think I have any such object. 
 Do not hurry yourself, I entreat." 
 
 " Oh ! I thank you, I have quite 
 done, just done—it will be ready in a 
 moment — I am very much obliged to 
 you — if you will be so good as to give 
 that to Miss Crawford." 
 
 The note was held out and must be 
 taken ; and as she instantly and with 
 averted eyes walked towards the fire- 
 place, where sat the others, he had 
 nothing to do but to go in good earnest. 
 
 Fanny thought she had never known 
 a day of greater agitation, both of pain 
 and pleasure ; but happily the pleasure 
 was not of a sort to die with the day 
 — for every day would restore the 
 knowledge of William's advancement, 
 whereas the pain she hoped would 
 return no more. She had no doubt 
 that her note must appear excessively 
 ill-written, that the language would 
 disgrace a child, for her distress had 
 
 allowed 
 
( ^94 ) 
 
 allowed no arrangement; but at least 
 it would assure them Jboth of her 
 being neither imposed on, nor gratified 
 by Mr. Crawford's attentions. 
 
 EXD OF THE SECOND VOLUME* 
 
 LONDON : 
 Printed by C. Roworth, Bell-yard, Temple-Bar. 
 
nftii 
 


MANSFIELD PARK, 
 
T. DAVISON, Lofjibaid street, 
 WluterriarSjLoudoa, 
 
MANSFIELD PARK : 
 
 A NOVEL. - 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 BY THE 
 
 AUTHOR OF «' PRTDE AND PREJUDICE."' 
 
 VOL. III. 
 
 SECOND EDITION, 
 
 PRINTED FOR J. MURRAY, ALBEMARLE-STREET. 
 1816. 
 
V. 5 
 
 MANSFIELD PARK 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Fanny had by no means forgotten 
 Mr. Crawford, when she awoke the 
 next morning; but she remembered 
 the purport of her note, and was not 
 less sanguine, as to its effect, than she 
 had been the night before. If Mr. 
 Crawford would but go away ! — That 
 was what she most earnestly desired; — 
 go and take his sister with him, as he 
 was to do, and as he returned to Mans- 
 field on purpose to do. And why it 
 was not done already, she could not 
 devise, for Miss Crawford certainly 
 wanted no delay. — Fanny had hoped, in 
 the course of his yesterday's visit, to hear 
 the day named ; but he had only spoken 
 VOL. III. B of 
 
( 2 ) 
 
 of their journey as what would take 
 place ere long. 
 
 Having so satisfactorily settled the 
 conviction her note would convey, she 
 could not but be astonished to see Mr. 
 Crawford, as she accidentally did, com- 
 ing up to the house again, and at an 
 hour as early as the day before.— His 
 qoming might have nothing to do with 
 her, but she must avoid seeing him if 
 possible; and being then in her way up 
 stairs, she resolved there to remain, 
 during the whole of his visit, unless 
 actually sent for; and as Mrs. Norris was 
 still in the house, there seemed little 
 danger of her being wanted. 
 
 She sat some time in a good deal of 
 agitation, listening, trembling, and fear- 
 ing to be sent for every moment ; but 
 as no footsteps approached the east 
 room, she grew gradually composed, 
 could sit down, and be able to employ 
 herself, and able to hope that Mr. Craw- 
 ford had come, and would go without 
 
 her 
 
( 3 ) 
 
 lier being obliged to know any thing of 
 the matter. 
 
 Nearly half an hour had passed^ and 
 slie was growing very comfortable, 
 when suddenly the sound of a step in re- 
 gular approach was heard — a heavy 
 step, an unusual step in that part of the 
 house ; it was her uncle's ; she knew it 
 as well as his voice ; she had trembled ^t 
 it as often, and began to tremble again, 
 at the idea of his coming up to speak 
 to her, whatever might be the subject. 
 —It was indeed Sir Thomas, who open- 
 ed the door, and asked if she were 
 there, and if he might come in. The 
 terror of his former occasional visits to 
 that room seemed all renewed, and 
 she felt as if he were going to examine 
 her again in French and English. 
 
 She was all attention, however, in 
 placvng a chair for him, and trying to 
 appear honoured ; and in her agitation, 
 had quite overlooked the deficiences of 
 her apartment, till he, stopping short as 
 B S he 
 
( 4 ) 
 
 he entered, said, with much surprise, 
 " Why have you no fire to-dayr" 
 
 There was snow on the ground, and 
 she was sitting in a shawl. She hesi- 
 tated. 
 
 " I am not cold, Sir — I never sit 
 here long at this time of year." 
 
 " But,— you have a fire in gene- 
 ral ?" 
 
 *^ No, Sir/' 
 
 " How eomes this about ; here mu^ 
 be some mistake. I understood that you 
 had the use of this room by way of 
 making you perfectly comfortable.— In 
 your bed-chamber I know you cannot 
 have a fire. Here is some great misap^ 
 prehension which must be rectified. 
 It is highly unfit for you to sit — be 
 it only half an hour a day, without a 
 fire. You are not strong. You are 
 chilly. Your aunt cannot be aware of 
 this." 
 
 Fanny would rather have been silent, 
 but being obliged to speak, she could 
 not forbear, in justice to the aunt she 
 
 loved 
 
( 5 ) 
 
 loved best, from saying something in 
 which the words " my aunt Norris'* 
 were distinguishable, 
 
 '^ I understand,^ cried her uncle re- 
 collecting himself, and not wanting 
 to hear more — " I understand. Your 
 aunt Norris has always been an advo- 
 cate, and very judiciously, for young 
 people's being brought up without un- 
 necessary indulgences ; but there should 
 be moderation in every thing. — She is 
 also very hardy herself, which of course 
 will influence her in her opinion of the 
 wants of others.^ And on another ac- 
 count too, I can perfectly compreliend. 
 — I know what her sentiments have 
 always been* The principle was good 
 in itself, but it may have been, and I 
 believe has been carried too far in your 
 case.— I am aware that there has been 
 sometimes, in some points, a mis- 
 placed distinction; but I think too well 
 of you, Fanny, to suppose you will ever 
 harbour resentment on that account. — 
 You have an understanding, which 
 
 will 
 
( 6 ) 
 
 will prevent you from receiving things 
 
 onlj in part, and judging partially by 
 
 the event. — You will take in the whole 
 
 m 
 of the past, you will consider times, 
 
 persons, and probabilities, and you will 
 feel that thei/ v/ere not least your 
 friends who were educating and pre- 
 paring you for that mediocrity of con- 
 dition which seemed to be your lot. — 
 Though their caution may prove even- 
 tually unnecessary, it was kindly meant j 
 and of this you may be assured, that 
 every advantage of affluence will be 
 doubled by the little privations arm re* 
 strictions that may have been imposed. 
 I am sure you will not disappoint my 
 opinion of you, by failing at any time 
 to treat your aunt Norris with the re- 
 spect and attention that are due to her. 
 — But enough of this. Sit down, my 
 dear. I must speak to you for a few^ 
 minutes, but I will not detain you 
 long. 
 
 Fanny obeyed, with eyes cast down 
 and colour rising. — After a moment*s 
 
 pause^ 
 
( 7 ) 
 
 pause. Sir Thomas^ trying to suppress 
 a smile, went on. 
 
 ** You are not aware, perhaps, that I 
 have had a visitor this morning. — I had 
 not been long in my own room, after 
 breakfast, when Mr. Crawford was 
 shewn in. — His errand you may proba- 
 bly conjecture." 
 
 fanny's colour grew ' deeper and 
 deeper ; and her uncle perceiving that 
 she was embarrassed to a degree that 
 made either speaking or looking up 
 quite impossible, turned away his own 
 eyes, and without any farther* pause, 
 proceeded in his account of Mr, Craw- 
 ford*s visit. 
 
 Mr. Crawford's business had been 
 to declare himself the lover of Fanny, 
 make decided proposals for her, and in- 
 treat the sanction of the uncle, who 
 seemed to stand in the place of her 
 parents; and he had done it all so 
 well, so openly, so liberally, so pro- 
 perly, that Sir Thomas, feeling, more- 
 ever, his own replies, and his own 
 
 remarks 
 
( 8 ) 
 
 remarks to have been very much to the 
 purpose — was exceedingly happy to 
 give the particulars of their conver- 
 jsation — and, little a^are of what was 
 passing in his niece's mind, conceived 
 that by such details he must be gratify- 
 ing her far more than himself. He 
 talked therefore for several minutes 
 without Fanny's daring to interrupt 
 him. — She had hardly even attained 
 the wish to do it. Her mind was in too 
 much confusion. She had changed her 
 position, and with her eyes fixed in- 
 tently on one of the windows, was listen- 
 ing to her uncle, in the upmost pertur- 
 bation and dismay. — For a nioment he 
 ceased, but she had barely become con- 
 scious of it, when, rising from his chair, 
 he said, '* And now, Fanny, havi^ng per- 
 formed one part of my commission, 
 and shewn you every thing placed on a 
 basis the most assured and satisfactory, 
 I may execute the remainder by prevail- 
 ing on you to accompany me down 
 stairs, where — though I cannot but pre- 
 
 smme 
 
( 9 ) 
 
 sume on having been no unacceptable 
 companion myself, I must submit to 
 your finding one still better worth lis- 
 tening to. — Mr. Crawford, as you have 
 perhapsforeseen,isyet in the house. Heis 
 inmy room, and hoping to seeyou there." 
 
 There was a look, a start, an excla- 
 mation, on hearing this, which astonish- 
 ed Sir Thomas ; but what was his in- 
 crease of astonishment on hearing her 
 exclaim — *' Oh! no. Sir, I cannot, in- 
 deed I cannot go down to him. Mr. 
 Crawford ought to know — he must 
 know that — I told him enough yester- 
 day to convince him — he spoke to me 
 on this subject yesterday — and I told 
 him without disguise that it was very 
 disagreeable to me, and quite out of my 
 power to return his good opinion." ' 
 
 " I do not catch your meaning,*' said 
 Sir Thomas, sitting down again.— "Gut 
 of your power to return his good opi- 
 nion ! what is all this? I know bespoke 
 to you yesterday, and (as far as I under-; 
 stand), received as much encouragement 
 B .5 to 
 
( 10 ) 
 
 to proceed as a well-judging young wo;- 
 man could permit herself to give. I was 
 very much pleased with what I collected 
 to have been your behaviour on the oo- 
 casion; it shewed a discretion highly to 
 be commended. But now, wlien he 
 has made his overtures so properly, and 
 honourably — what are your scruples 
 how /"* 
 
 " You are mistaken, Sir," — cried 
 Fanny, forced by the anxiety of the 
 moment even to tell her uncle that he 
 was wrongs — " You are quite mistaken. 
 How could Mr. Crawford say such a 
 thing? I gave him no encouragement 
 yesterday — On the contrary, I told him 
 — I cannot recollect my exact words — 
 but I am sure I told him that I would 
 not listen to him, that it was very un- 
 pleasant to me in every respect, and that 
 I begged him never to talk to me in that 
 manner again. — lam sure I said as much 
 as that and more; and I should have 
 said still more, — if I had been quite cer- 
 tain of his meaning any thing seriously, 
 
 but 
 
{ 11 ) 
 
 but I did not like to be — I could not bear 
 to be — imputing more than might be in- 
 tended. I thought it might all pass 
 for nothing with him" 
 
 She could say no more ; her breath 
 was almost gone. 
 
 " Am I to understand/' said Sir 
 Thomas, after a few moments silence, 
 " that you mean to refuse Mr. Craw- 
 ford?'' 
 
 " Yes, Sir.'' 
 
 "Refuse him?" 
 
 " Yes, Sir." 
 
 " Refuse Mr. Crawford I Upon wh^wt 
 plea ? For what reason ?" 
 
 " I — I cannot like him. Sir, well 
 enough to marry him." 
 
 *^ This is very strange!" said Sir 
 Thomas, in a voice of calm displeasure. 
 *' There is something in this which my 
 comprehension does not reach. Here 
 is a young man wishing to pay his 
 addresses to you, with every thing to 
 recommend him^ not merely situation 
 in life, fortune, and character, but with 
 
 more 
 
( 12 ) 
 
 more than common agreeableness, with 
 address and conversation pleasing to 
 every body. And he is not an acquaint- 
 ance of to-day, you have now known 
 him some time. His sister, moreover, 
 is your intimate friend, and he has been 
 doing that for your brother, which I 
 should suppose would have been almost 
 sufficient recommendation to you, had 
 there been no other. It is very uncertain 
 when my interest might have got Wil- 
 liam on. He has done it already." 
 
 'VYes,'^ said Fanny, in a faint voice, 
 and looking down with fresh shame; 
 and she did feel almost ashamed of her- 
 self, after such a picture as her uncle 
 had drawn, for not liking Mr. Craw- 
 ford. 
 
 *' You must have been aware,'' con- 
 tinued Sir Thomas, presently, " you 
 must have been some time aware of a 
 particularity in Mr. Crawford's manners 
 to you. This cannot have taken you by 
 surprise. You must have observed his 
 attentions; and though you always re- 
 
 ceived 
 
( 13 ) 
 
 ceived them very properly, (I have no 
 accusation to make on that head,) I 
 never perceived them to be unpleasant 
 to you. I am half inclined to think, 
 Fanny, that you do not quite know 
 your own feelings/' 
 
 " Oh ! yes. Sir, indeed I do. His at- 
 tentions were always — what I did not 
 like." 
 
 Sir Thomas looked at her with deeper 
 surprise. '' This is beyond me," said 
 he. "Tiiis requires explanation. Young 
 as you are, and having seen scarcely 
 any one, it is hardly possible that your 
 affections " 
 
 He paused and eyed her fixedly. He 
 saw her lips formed into a no, though 
 the sound was inarticulate, but her fao© 
 was like scarlet. That, however, in so 
 modest a girl might be very compatible 
 with innocence; and chusing at least to 
 appear satisfied, he quickly added, "No, 
 no, I know that is quite out of the ques- 
 tion — quite impossible. Well, there js 
 nothing more to be said/' 
 
 And 
 
( 14 ) 
 
 And for a few minutes he did say 
 nothing. He was deep in thought. 
 His niece was deep in thought hkewise, 
 trying to harden and prepare herself 
 against farther questioning. She would 
 rather die than own the truth, and she 
 hoped by a Httle reflection to fortify 
 herself beyond betraying it. 
 
 " Independently ofthe interest which 
 Mr. Crawford's choice seemed to justi- 
 fy/' said Sir Thomas, beginning again, 
 and very composedly, " his wishing to 
 marry at all so early is recommendatory 
 to me. I am an advocate for early 
 marriages, where there are misans in 
 proportion, and would have every young 
 man, with a sufficient income, settle as 
 soon after four and twenty as he can. 
 This is so much my opinion, that I am 
 sorry to think how little likely my own 
 eldest son, your cousin, Mr. Bertram, is 
 to marry early ; but at present, as far as 
 I can judge, matrimony makes no part 
 ot his plans or thoughts. I wish he 
 were more likely to fix.'* Here was a 
 
 glance 
 
( 1-5 ) 
 
 glance at Fanny. " Edmund I consider 
 from his disposition and habits as much 
 more likely to marry early than his 
 brother. He, indeed, I have lately 
 thought has seen the woman he could 
 love, which, I am convinced, my eldest 
 son has not. Am I right ? Do you 
 agree with me, my dear ?" 
 
 '' Yes, Sir.'' 
 
 It was gently, but it was calmly said, 
 and Sir Thomas was easy on the score 
 of the cousins. But the removal of his 
 alarm did his niece no service j as her 
 unaccountableness was confirmed, his 
 displeasure increased j and getting up 
 and walking about the room, with a 
 frown, which Fanny could picture to 
 herself, though she dared not lift up 
 her eyes, he shortly afterwards, and in 
 a voice of authority, said, " Have you 
 any reason, child, to think ill of Mr. 
 Crawford's temper ?*' 
 
 " No, Sir." 
 
 She longed to add, " but of his prin- 
 ciples I have 5" but her heart sunk 
 
 under 
 
( 16 > 
 
 under the appalling prospect of discus- 
 sion, explanation, and probably non- 
 conviction. Her ill opinion of kim was 
 founded chiefly on observations, which, 
 for her cousin's sake, she could scarcely 
 dare mention to their father. Maria 
 and Julia— and especially Maria,^ were 
 so closely implicated in Mr, Crawford's 
 misconduct, that she could not give hm 
 character, such as she believed it, with- 
 out betraying them. She had hoped 
 that to a man likelier uncle, so dis-; 
 eerning, so honourable, so good, the 
 simple acknowledgment of settled dislike. 
 on her side, would have been sufficient,^ 
 To her infinite grief she found it was 
 not. 
 
 Sir Thomas came towards the table 
 where she sat in trembling wretched- 
 ness, and with a good deal of cold stern- 
 ness, said, *^ It is of no use, I perceive^ 
 to talk to you. We had better put aa 
 end to this most mortifying conference 
 Mr. Crawford must not be kept longer 
 waiting. I will, therefoi^e, only add, as 
 
 thinking 
 
( 17 ) 
 
 thinking it my duty to mark my opi- 
 nion of your conduct — that you have 
 disappointed every expectation I had 
 formed, and proved yourself of a cha- 
 racter the very reverse of what I had 
 supposed. For I hady Fanny, as I think 
 my behaviour must have shewn, formed 
 a very favourable opinion of you from 
 the period of my return to England. I 
 had thought you peculiarly free from 
 wilfulness of temper, self-conceit, and 
 every tendency to that independence of 
 spirit, which prevails so much in modern 
 days, even in yosng ;vcKien, and which 
 in young women is offensive and dis- 
 gusting beyond all common offence. 
 But you have now shewn me that you 
 can be wilful and perverse, that you can 
 and will decide for yourself, without 
 any consideration or deference for those 
 who have surely some right to guide 
 you-^-rwithout even asking their advice. 
 You have shewn yourself very, very dif- 
 ferent from any thing that I had ima- 
 gined. The advantage or disadvantage 
 
 of 
 
( 18 ) 
 
 of your family — of your parents — yout* 
 brothers and sisters — never seems to 
 have had a moment's share in your 
 thoughts on this occasion. How they 
 might be benefited, how they must re- 
 joice in such an establishment for you 
 — is nothing to you. You think only 
 of yourself; and because you do not 
 feel. for Mr. Crawford exactly what a 
 young, heated fancy imagines to be ne- 
 cessary for happiness, you resolve to 
 refuse him- at once, without wishing 
 even for a little time to consider of it— 
 a little more time for cooi consideration, 
 and for really examining your own in- 
 clinations — -and are, in a wild fit of folly, 
 throwing away from you such an op- 
 portunity of being settled in life, eligi- 
 bly, honourably, nobly settled, as will, 
 probably, never occur to you again. 
 Here is a young man of sense, of cha- 
 racter, of temper, of manners, and of 
 fortune, exceedingly attached to you, 
 and seeking your hand in the most 
 handsome and disinterested way ; and 
 
 let 
 
( 19 ) 
 
 fet me tell you, Fanny, that you may 
 live eighteen years longer in the world, 
 without being addressed by a man of 
 half Mr^ Crawford's estate, or a tenth 
 part of his merits. Gladly would I 
 have bestowed either of my own daugh- 
 ters on him. Maria is nobly married — 
 but had Mr. Crawford sought Julia's 
 hand, I should have given it to him 
 with superior and more heartfelt satis- 
 faction than I gave Marians to Mr. 
 Rushworth," After half a moment's 
 pause — ^^ And I should have been very 
 much surprised had either of my 
 daughters, on receiving a proposal of 
 marriage at any time, which might 
 carry with it only half' the eligibility of 
 this, immediately and peremptorily, and 
 without paying my opinion or my 
 regard the compliment of any consulta- 
 tion, put a decided negative on it. I 
 should have been much surprised, and 
 much hurt, by such a proceeding. I 
 should have thought it a gross violation 
 of duty and respect. You are not to 
 
 be 
 
( £0 ^ 
 
 be judged by the same rule. You do 
 not owe me the duty of a child. But, 
 Fanny, if your heart can acquit you" of 
 ingratitude — '* 
 
 He ceased . Fanny was by this time 
 .prying so bitterly, that angry as he was, , 
 he would not press that article farther. 
 Her heart was almost broke by such a 
 picture of what she appeared to him; 
 by such accusations^^ so heavy, so multi- 
 plied, so rising in dreadful gradation ! 
 Self-willed,^ obstinate^ selfish, and un- 
 grateful. He thought her all this^ She 
 bad deceived his expectations ; sue had 
 lost his good opinion. What was to 
 become of her ? 
 
 " I am very sorry," said she inarticu- 
 lately through her tears, "I am very 
 sorry indeed." 
 
 '* Sorry 1 yes, I hope you are sorry; 
 and you will probably have reason to be 
 long sorry for this day's transactions.*' 
 
 " If it were possible for me to do 
 otherwise,'* said she with another strong 
 effort," but I am so perfectly convinced 
 
 that 
 
( 2J ) 
 
 that I could never make him happy, and 
 that I should be miserable myself." 
 
 Another burst of tears ; but in spite 
 of that burst, and in spite of that great 
 black word miserable, which served to 
 introduce it. Sir Thomas began to think 
 a little relenting, a little change of in- 
 clination, might have something to do 
 with it ; and to augiir favourably from 
 the personal intreaty of the young man 
 himself. He knew her to be very timid, 
 •and exceedingly nervous ; and thought 
 it not improbable that her mind might 
 be in such a state, as a little time, a little 
 pressing, a little patience, and a little 
 impatience, a judicious mixture of all 
 on the lover's side, might work their 
 usual effect on. If the gentleman would 
 but persevere, if he had but love enough 
 to persevere — Sir Thomas began to have 
 hopes; and these reflections having 
 passed across his mind and cheered it, 
 ** Well,'* said he, in a tone of becoming 
 gravity, but of less anger, " well, child> 
 
 dry 
 
( 2-2 ) 
 
 dry upyour tears. There is noiiseinthese 
 tears ; they can do no good. You must 
 now come down stairs with me. Mr. 
 Crawford has been kept waiting too 
 long already. You must give him your 
 own answer ; we cannot expect him to 
 be satisfied with less ; and you only can 
 explain to him the grounds of that mis- 
 conception of your sentiments, which, 
 unfortunately for himself, he certainly 
 has imbibed. I am totally unequal to it.*' 
 But Fanny shewed such reluctance, 
 such misery, at the idea of going down 
 to him, that Sir Thomas, after a little 
 consideration, judged it better to indulge 
 her. His hopes from both gentleman and 
 lady suffered a small depression in conse- 
 quence ^ but when helooked at his niece, 
 and saw the state of feature and com- 
 plexion which her crying had brought 
 her into, he thought there might be as 
 much lost as gained by animmediate in- 
 terview. With a few words, therefore, 
 of no particular meaning, he walked off 
 
 by 
 
( 23 ) 
 
 hy himself, leaving his poor niece to sit 
 and cry over what had passed, with very 
 wretched feelings. 
 
 Her mind was all disorder. The past, 
 present, future, every thing was terrible. 
 But her uncle's anger gave her the se- 
 verest pain of all. Selfish and ungrateful! 
 to have appeared so to hirn! She was mi- 
 serable for ever. She had no one to 
 take her part, to counsel, or speak for 
 her. Her only friend was absent. He 
 might have softened his father ; but all, 
 perhaps all, would think her selfish and 
 ungrateful. She might have to endure 
 the reproach again and again ; she might 
 hear it, or see it, or know it to exist for 
 ever in every connection about her. 
 She could not but feel some resentment 
 against Mr. Crawford ; yet, if he really 
 loved her, and were unhappy too !— it 
 was all wretchedness together. 
 
 In about a quarter of an hour her 
 uncle returned ; she was almost ready 
 to faint at the sight of him. He spoke 
 calmly^ however, without austerity, 
 
 without 
 
( 24 ) 
 
 without reproach^ and she revived a 
 little. There was comfort too in his 
 words, as well as his manner, for he be^ 
 gan with, " Mr. Crawford is gone ; he 
 has just left me, I need not repeat 
 what has passed. I do not want to add 
 to any thing you may now be feeling, by 
 an account of what he has felt. Suffice 
 it, that he has behaved in the most gen- 
 tleman-like and generous manner ; and 
 has confirmed me in a most favourable 
 opinion of his understanding, heart, and 
 temper. Upon my representation of 
 what you were suffering, he immedi- 
 ately, and with the greatest delicacy, 
 ceased to urge to see you for the present.'* 
 Here Fantiy, who had looked up, look- 
 ed down again. "Of course,'* continued 
 her uncle, " it cannot be supposed but 
 that he should request to speak with 
 you alone, be it only for five minutes; 
 a request too natural, a claim too just to 
 be denied. But there is no time fixed, per* 
 hapsto-morrowjorwheneveryourspirits 
 are composed enough. For the present 
 
 you 
 
(35 ) 
 
 jou have only to tranquillize yourself. 
 Check these tears ; they do but exhaust 
 you. If, as I am willing to suppose, you 
 wish to shew me any observance, you 
 will not give way to these emotions, 
 but endeavour to reason yourself into 
 a stronger frame of mind. I advise you 
 to go out, the air will do you good ; 
 go out for an hour on the gravel, 
 you will have the shrubbery to your- 
 sel and will be the better for air 
 and exercise. And, Fanny, (turning 
 back again for a moment) I shall make 
 no mention below of what has passed ; 
 I shall not even tell your aunt Bertram. 
 There is no occasion for spreading the 
 disappointment; say nothing about it 
 yourself," 
 
 This was an order to be most joy- 
 fully obeyed ; this was an act of kind- 
 ness which Fanny felt at her heart. To 
 be spared from her aunt Norris's inter- 
 minable reproaches ! — he left her in a 
 glow of [gratitude. Any thing might be 
 bearable rather than such reproaches, 
 VOL. III. c Even 
 
( 26 ) 
 
 Even to see Mr. Crawford would be 
 less overpowering. 
 
 She walked out directly as her uncle 
 recommended, and followed his adrice 
 throughout, as far as she could ; did check 
 hertearsjdidearnestly try to compose her 
 spirits, and strengthen her mind. She 
 wished to prove to him that she did de- 
 sire his comfort, and sought to regain his 
 favour ; and he had given her another 
 strong motive for exertion, in keeping 
 the whole affair from the knowledge of 
 her aunts. Not to excite suspicion by 
 ner look or manner was now an object 
 worth attaining ; and she felt equal to 
 almost any thing that might save her 
 from her aunt Norris. 
 
 She was struck, quite struck, when 
 on returning from her walk, and going 
 into the east room again, the first 
 thing which caught her eye was a fire 
 lighted and burning. A fire ! it seemed 
 too much j just at that time to be giving 
 her such an indulgence, was exciting 
 even painful gratitude. She wondered 
 
 that 
 
( 27 ) 
 
 that Sir Thomas could have leisure to 
 think of such a trifle again; but she 
 soon found, from the voluntary infor- 
 mation of the housemaid, who came in 
 to attend it, that so it was to be every- 
 day. Sir Thomas had given orders 
 for it. 
 
 " I must be a brute indeed, if I can 
 be really ungrateful!'* said she in solilo- 
 quy ; " Heaven defend me from being 
 ungrateful !" 
 
 She saw nothing more of her uncle, 
 nor of her aunt Norris, till they met at 
 dinner. Her uncle's behaviour to her 
 was then as nearly as possible what it 
 had been before j she was sure he did 
 not mean there should be any change, 
 and that it was only her own conscience 
 that could fancy any ; but her aunt was 
 soon quarrelling with her : and when 
 she found how much and how unplea- 
 santly her having only walked out with- 
 out her aunt's knowledge could be dwelt 
 on, she felt all the reason she had to 
 bless the kindness which saved her from 
 c 2 the 
 
( 28 ) 
 
 the same spirit of reproach, exerted on 
 a more momentous subject. 
 
 " If I had known you were going out, 
 I should have got you just to go as far 
 as my house with some orders for 
 Nanny/' said she, ^^ which I have sin-ce, 
 to my very great inconvenience, been 
 obliged to go and carry myself I could 
 very ill spare the time, and you might 
 have saved me the trouble, if you would 
 only have been so good as to let us know 
 you were going out. It would have made 
 no difference to you, I suppose, whether 
 you had walked in the shrubbery, or 
 gone to my house. *' 
 
 '^ I recommended the shrubbery to 
 Fanny as the dryest place," said Sir 
 Thomas. 
 
 *' Oh," said Mrs. Norris w^ith a mo- 
 ment's check, '* that was very kind of 
 you, Sir Thomas ; but you do not know 
 how dry the path is to my house. 
 Fanny would have had quite as good a 
 walk there, I assure you ; with the ad« 
 vantage of being of some use, and 
 
 obliging 
 
( 2J) ) 
 
 obliging her aunt: it is all her fault. 
 If she would but have let us know she 
 was going out — but there is a something 
 about Fanny, I have often observed it 
 before, — she likes to go her own way to 
 work J she does not like to be dictated 
 to; she takes her own independent 
 walk whenever she can; she cer- 
 tainly has a little spirit of secrecy, and 
 independence, and nonsense, about her, 
 which I would advise her to get the 
 better of." 
 
 As a general reflection on Fanny,. 
 Sir Thomas thought nothing could be 
 more unjust, though he had been so 
 lately expressing the same sentiments 
 himself, and he tried to turn the con- 
 versation ; tried repeatedly before he 
 could succeed ; for Mrs. Norris had not 
 discernment enough to perceive, either 
 now, or at any other time, to what de- 
 gree he thought well of his niece, or 
 how very far he was from wishing to 
 have his own children's merits set off by 
 the depreciation of hers. She was talk- 
 ing 
 
( so ) 
 
 ing ^^ Fanny , and resenting this private 
 walk half through the dinner. 
 
 It was over, however, at last ; and 
 the evening set in with more compo- 
 sure to Fanny, and more cheerfulness 
 of spirits than she could have hoped for 
 after so stormy a morning ; but she 
 trusted, in the first place, that she had 
 done right, that her judgment had not 
 misled her ; for the purity of her inten- 
 tions she. could answer ; and she was 
 willing to hope, secondly, that her un« 
 cle's displeasure was abating, and would 
 abate farther as he considered the mat- 
 ter with more impartiality, and felt, as a 
 good man must feel, how wretched, and 
 how unpardonable, how hopeless and 
 how wicked it was, to marry without af- 
 fection. 
 
 When the meeting with which she 
 was threatened for the morrow was 
 past, she could not but flatter herself 
 that the siibjecli would be finally con- 
 cluded, and Mr. Crawford once gone 
 from Mansfield, that every thing M^ould 
 
 soon 
 
( 31 ) 
 
 soon be as if no such subject had 
 existed. She would not, could not be- 
 lieve, that Mr. Crawford's affection for 
 her could distress him long ; his mind 
 was not of that sort. London would 
 soon bring its cure. In London he 
 would soon learn to wonder at his in- 
 fatuation, and be thankful for the right 
 reason in her, which had saved him 
 from its evil consequences. 
 
 While Fanny's mind was engaged in 
 these sort of hopes, her uncle was soon 
 after tea called out of the room; an oc- 
 currence too common to strike her, and 
 she thought nothing of it till the butler 
 re-appeared ten minutes afterwards, and 
 advancing decidedly towards herself, 
 said, '^ Sir Thomas wishes to speak with 
 you. Ma'am, in his own room,'* Then 
 it occurred to her what might be going 
 on ; a suspicion rushed over her mind 
 which drove the colour from her cheeks ; 
 but instantly rising, she was preparing 
 to obey, when Mrs. Norris called out, 
 " Stay, stay, Fanny ! what are you 
 
 about ? 
 
( 32 ) 
 
 about ? — where are you going ? — don'*t 
 be in such a hurry. Depend upon it, 
 it is not you that are wanted ; depend 
 upon it is me^ (looking at the but- 
 ler) but you are so very eager to put 
 yourself forward. What should Sir 
 Thomas want you for ? It is me, Badde- 
 ^^y> you mean ; I am coming this mo- 
 ment. You mean me, Baddeley, I am 
 sure ; Sir Thomas wants me, not Miss 
 Price." ' 
 
 But Baddeley was stout. " No, Ma'am, 
 it is Miss Price, I am certain of its being ' 
 Miss Price," And there was a half smile 
 with the words which meant, ** I do not 
 think 3/0 w would answer the purpose 
 at all.'' 
 
 Mrs.Norris, much discontented, was 
 oblige 1 to compose herself to work , 
 again ; and Fanny, walking off in agi- 
 tating consciousness, found herself, as 
 she anticipated, in another minute alone 
 with Mr. Crawford. 
 
 CHAP. 
 
( 53 ) 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The conference was neither so short, 
 nor so conclusive, as the lady had de- 
 signed. The gentleman was not so ea- 
 sily satisfied. He had all the disposition 
 to persevere that Sir Thomas could wish 
 him. He had vanity, which strongly in- 
 clined him, in the first place, to think 
 she did love him, though she might not 
 know it herself; and which, secondly, 
 when constrained at last to admit that 
 she did know her own present feelings, 
 convinced him that he should be able 
 in time to make those feelings what he 
 wished. 
 
 He was in love, very much in love;, 
 and it was a love which, operating on 
 an active, sanguine spirit, of more 
 warmth than delicacy, made her affec- 
 tion appear of greater consequence, 
 because it was withheld, and deter- 
 mined him to have the glory, as well as 
 the felicity, of forcing her to love him. 
 c 3 He 
 
( 34 ) 
 
 He would not despair : he would not 
 desist. He liad every well grounded 
 reason for solid attachment ; he knew 
 her to have all the worth that could 
 justify the warmest hopes of lasting 
 happiness with her 5 her conduct at this 
 very time, by speaking the disinterest- 
 edness and delicacy of her character 
 (qualities which he believed most rare 
 indeed)^ was of a sort to heighten all his 
 wishes, and confirm all his resolutions. 
 He knew not that he had a pre-engaged 
 heart to attack. Of that, he had no 
 suspicion. He considered her rather as 
 one who had never thought on the sub- 
 ject enough to be in danger ; who had 
 been guarded by youth, a youth of mind 
 as lovely as of person; whose modesty 
 had prevented her from understanding 
 his attentions, and who was still over- 
 powered by the suddenness of addresses 
 so wholly unexpected, and the novelty 
 of a situation which her fancy had never 
 taken into account. 
 
 Must it not follow of course, that 
 
 when 
 
( S5 ) 
 
 when he was understood, he should 
 succeed ? — he believed it fully. Love 
 such as his, in a man like himself, must 
 with perseverance secure a return, and 
 at no great distance; and he had so 
 much delight in the idea of obliging 
 her to love him in a very short time, 
 that her not loving him now was scarce- 
 ly regretted. A little difficulty to be 
 overcome, was no evil to Henry Craw- 
 ford. He rather derived spirits from it. 
 He had been apt to gain hearts too easi- 
 ly. .His|situation was new and animating. 
 To Fanny, however, who had known 
 too much opposition all her life, to find 
 any charm in it, all this was unintelligi- 
 ble. She found that he did mean to 
 persevere ; but how he could, after such 
 language from her as she felt herself 
 obliged to use, was not to be under- 
 stood. She told him, that she did not 
 love him, could not love him, was sure 
 she never should love him: that such a 
 change was quite impossible, that the 
 subject was most painful to her, that 
 
 she 
 
( 36 ) 
 
 she must intreat him never to mention 
 it again, to allow her to leave him at 
 once, and let it be considered as con- 
 cluded for ever. And when farther 
 pressed, had added, that in her opinion 
 their dispositions were so totally dis- 
 similar, as to make mutual affection in- 
 compatible ^ and that they were unfitted 
 for each other by nature, education, 
 and habit. All this she had said, and 
 with the earnestness of sincerity ; yet 
 this was not enough, for he immediately 
 denied there being anything unconge- 
 nial in their characters, or anything un- 
 friendly in their situations; and posi- 
 tively declared, that he would still love, 
 and still hope ! 
 
 Fanny knew her own meaning, but 
 was no judge of her own manner. Her 
 manner was incurably gentle, and she 
 was not aware how much it concealed 
 the sternness of her purpose. Her dif- 
 fidence, gratitude, and softness, made 
 every expression of indifference seem 
 almost an effort of self-denial 3 seem 
 
 at 
 
( 37 ) 
 
 at least, to be giving nearly as much 
 pain to herself as to him. Mr. Craw- 
 ford wks no longer the Mr. Crawford 
 who, as the clandestine, insidious, trea- 
 cherous admirer of Maria Bertram, had 
 been her abhorrence, whom she had 
 hated to see or to speak to, in whom 
 she could believe no good quality to 
 exist, and whose power, even of being 
 agreeable,she had barely acknowledged. 
 He was now the Mr. Crawford who 
 was addressing herself with ardent, dis- 
 interested, love; whose feelings were 
 apparently become all that was honour- 
 able and upright, whose views of hap- 
 piness were all fixed on a marriage of 
 attachment 5 who was pouring out his 
 sense of her merits, describing and de- 
 scribing again his affection, proving, as 
 far as words could prove it, and in the 
 language, tone, and spirit of a man of 
 talent too, that he sought her for her 
 gentleness, and her goodness; and to 
 complete the whole, he was now the 
 
 Mr. 
 
( 88 ) 
 
 Mr. Crawford who had procured Wil- 
 liam's promotion ! 
 
 Here was a change ! and here were 
 claims which could not but operate* 
 She might have disdained him in all the 
 dignity of angry virtue, in the grounds 
 of Sotherton, or the theatre at Mans- 
 field Park ; but he approached her now 
 with rights that demanded different 
 treatment. She must be courteous, and. 
 she must be compassionate. She must 
 have a sensation of being honoured, and 
 whether thinking of herself or her bro- 
 ther, she must have a strong feeling of 
 gratitude. The effect of the whole was 
 a manner so pitying and agitated, and 
 words intermingled with her refusal so 
 expressive of obligation and concern, 
 that to a temper of vanity and hope 
 like Crawford's, the truth, or at least 
 the strength of her indifference, might 
 well be questionable j and he was not 
 so irrational as Fanny considered him> 
 in the professions of persevering, as- 
 siduous^ 
 
( 39 ) 
 
 siduous,and not desponding attachment 
 which closed the interview. 
 
 It was with reluctance that he suffer- 
 ed her to go, but there was no look of 
 despair in parting to bely his words, or 
 give her hopes of his being less unrea- 
 sonable than he professed himself. 
 
 Now she was angry. Some resent- 
 ment did arise at a perseverance so self- 
 ish and ungenerous. Here was again a 
 want of delicacy and regard for others 
 which had formerly so struck and dis- 
 gusted her. Here was again a some- 
 thing of the same Mr. Crawford 
 whom she had so reprobated before. 
 How evidently was there a gross want 
 of feeling and humanity where his own 
 pleasure was concerned — And, alas 1 
 how(always known nojprinciple to sup- 
 ply as a duty what the heart was defi- 
 cient in. Had her own affections beeix 
 as free — as perhaps they ought to have 
 been — he never could have engaged 
 them. 
 
 So thought Fanny in good truth and 
 
 sober 
 
( 40 ) 
 
 sober sadness^ as she sat musing over^ 
 that too great indulgence and luxury of' 
 a fire upstairs — ^wondering at the past 
 and present^ wondering at what was* 
 yet to come, and in a nervous agitation 
 which made nothing clear to her but 
 the persuasion of her being never under^ 
 any circumstances able to love Mr. 
 Crawford, and the felicity of having a^ 
 fire to sit over and think of it. 
 
 Sir Thomas was obliged or obliged 
 himself to wait till the morrow for a 
 knowledge of what had passed between 
 the young people* He then saw Mrj 
 Crawford, and received his account.— 
 The first feeling was disappointment;: 
 he had hoped better things; he had 
 thought that an hour's intreaty from a 
 young man like Crawford could not 
 have worked so little change on a gentle 
 tempered girl like Fanny; but there was 
 speedy comfort in the determined views 
 and sanguine perseverance of the lover; 
 and when seeing such confidence of 
 success in the principal. Sir Thomas 
 
 was 
 
( 41 ) 
 
 was soon able to depend on it him- 
 self. 
 
 Nothing was omitted, on his side, of 
 civility, compliment, or kindness, that 
 might assist the plan. Mr. Crawford's 
 steadiness was honoured, and Fanny was 
 praised, and the connection was stillthe 
 most desirable in the world. At Mans- 
 field Park Mr. Crawford would always 
 be welcome ; he had only to consult 
 his own judgment and feelings as to the 
 frequency of his visits, at present or in 
 future. In all his niece's family and 
 friends there could be but one opinion, 
 one wish on the subject ; the influence of 
 all who loved her must incline one way. 
 Every thing w^as said that could en- 
 courage, every encouragement received 
 with grateful joy, and the gentlemen 
 parted the best of friends. 
 
 Satisfied that the cause was now on a 
 footing the most proper and hopeful. 
 Sir Thomas resolved to abstain from all 
 farther importunity with his niece^ and 
 to shew no open interference. Upon 
 
 her 
 
( 42 ) 
 
 her disposition he believed kindness 
 might be the best way of working. 
 Intreaty should be from one quarter 
 only. The forbearance of her family on. 
 a point, respecting which she could be 
 in no doubt of their wishes, might be 
 their surest means of forwarding it. 
 Accordingly, on this principle Sir Tho* 
 mas took the first opportunity of saying 
 to her, with a mild gravity, intended' 
 to be overcoming, " Well, Fanny, I 
 have seen Mr. Crawford again, and 
 learn from him exactly how matters 
 stand between you. He is a most ex- 
 traordinary young man, and whatever 
 be the event, you must feel that you 
 have created an attachment of no com- 
 mon character ^ though, young as you. 
 are, and little acquainted with the tran- 
 sient, varying, unsteady nature of love, 
 as it generally exists, you cannot be 
 struck as I am witli all that is wonder- 
 ful in a perseverance of this sort, against 
 discouragement. With him, it is en- 
 tirely a matter of feelings he claims no 
 
 merit 
 
( 43 ) 
 
 merit in it, perhaps is entitled to none. 
 Yet, having chosen so well, his con- 
 stancy has a respectable stamp. Had 
 his choice been less unexceptionable, 
 I should have condemned his perse- 
 vering/' 
 
 " Indeed, Sir," said Fanny, ** I am 
 very sorry that Mr. Crawford should 
 continue to— —I know that it is pay- 
 ing me a very great compliment, and I 
 feel most undeservedly honoured, but I 
 am so perfectly convinced, and I have 
 told him so, that it never will be in my 
 power — *' 
 
 *' My dear,'* interrupted Sir Thomas, 
 " there is no occasion for this. Your 
 feelings are as well known to me, as 
 my wishes and regrets must be to you. 
 There is nothing more to be said or 
 (lone. From this hour, the subject is 
 never to be revived between us. You 
 will have nothing to fear, or to be agi- 
 tated about. You cannot suppose me 
 capable of trying to persuade you to 
 marry against your inclinations. Your 
 
 hap- 
 
( 44 ) 
 
 happiness and advantage are all that I 
 have in view, and nothing is required 
 of you but to bear with Mr. Crawford's 
 endeavours to convince you, that they 
 may not be incompatible with his. He 
 proceeds at his own risk. You are on 
 safe ground. 1 have engaged for your 
 seeing him whenever he calls, as you 
 might have done, had nothing of this 
 sort occurred. You will see him with 
 the rest of us, ia the same maHner,.and. 
 as much as you can, dismissing the re- 
 collection of every thing unpleasant. 
 He leaves Northamptonshire so soon,, 
 that ev.en this slight sacrifice cannot be 
 of^en demanded: The future must be 
 very uncertain. And now, my dear 
 Fanny, this subject is closed betweea. 
 us." 
 
 The promised departure was all that 
 Fanny could think of with much satis- 
 faction. Her uncle's kind expressions, 
 however, and forbearing manner, were 
 sensibly felt ^ and when she considered 
 how much of the truth, was unknown to 
 
 him. 
 
( 45 ) 
 
 him, she believed she had no right to 
 wonder at the line of conduct he pur- 
 sued. He who had married a daughter 
 to Mr. Rushworth. Romantic delicacy 
 was certainly not to be expected from 
 him. She must do her duty, and trust 
 that time might make her duty easier 
 than it now was. 
 
 She could not, though only eighteen, 
 suppose Mr. Crawford's attachment 
 would hold out for ever; she could not 
 but imagine that steady, unceasing dis- 
 couragement from herself would put an 
 end to it in time. How much time 
 she might, in her own fancy, allot for 
 its dominion, is another concern. It 
 would not be fair to enquire into a 
 young lady's exact estimate of her own 
 perfections. 
 
 In spite of his intended silence, Sir 
 Thomas found himself once more 
 obliged to mention the subject to his 
 niece, to prepare her briefly for its 
 ,being imparted to her aunts; a measure 
 which he would still have avoided, if 
 
 possible, 
 
( 46 ) 
 
 possible, but which became necessary 
 from the totally opposite feelings of Mr. 
 Crawford, as to any secrecy of proceed- 
 ing. He had no idea of concealment. 
 It was all known at the parsonage, 
 where he loved to talk over the future 
 with both his sisters ; and it would be 
 rather gratifying to him to have enlight- 
 ened witnesses of the progress of his 
 success. When Sir Thomas understood 
 this, he felt, the necessity of making his 
 own wife and sister-in-law acquainted 
 with the business without delay; 
 though on Fanny's account, he almost 
 dreaded the effect of the communica- 
 tion to Mrs. Norris as much as Fanny 
 herself. He deprecated her mistaken, 
 but well-meaning zeal. Sir Thomas, 
 indeed, was, by this time, not very far 
 from classing Mrs. Norris as one of 
 those well-meaning people, who are 
 always doing mistaken and very dis- 
 agreeable things. 
 
 Mrs. Norris, however, relieved him. 
 He pressed for the strictest forbearance 
 
 and 
 
( 47 ) 
 
 and silence towards their niece ; she not 
 only promised, but did observe it. She 
 only looked her increased ill-will. An- 
 gry she was, bitterly angry; but she 
 was more angry with Fanny for having 
 i*€ceived such an offer, than for refusing 
 it. It was an injury and affront to Julia, 
 who ought to have been Mr. Crawford's 
 -choice ; and, independently of that, she 
 disliked Fanny5because she had neglect- 
 ed her; and she would have grudged 
 such an elevation to one whom she had 
 been always trying to depress. 
 
 Sir Thomas gave her more credit for 
 discretion on the occasion than she de- 
 served ; and Fanny could have blessed 
 her for allowing her only to see her dis- 
 pleasure, and not to hear it. 
 
 Lady Bertram took it differently. She 
 bad been a beauty, and a prosperous 
 beauty, all her life; and beauty and 
 wealth were all that excited her respect. 
 To know Fanny to be sought in mar- 
 riage by a man of fortune, raised her, 
 therefore, ye^ry much in her opinion . By 
 
 con 
 
( 4S ) 
 
 convincing her that Fanny was very 
 pretty, which she had been doubting 
 about befare, and that she v/ould be ad- 
 vantageously married, it made her feel a 
 sort of credit in calling her niece. 
 
 " Well, Fan ny,'V said she, as soon as 
 they were alone together afterwards, 
 — and she really had known something 
 like impatience, to be alone with her, 
 and her countenance, as she ^poke, had 
 extraordinary animation — "Well, Fan- 
 ny, I have had a very agreeable surprise 
 this morning. I must just speak of it 
 once, I told Sir Thomas I must once, 
 and then I shall have done. I give you 
 joy, my dear niece." — And looking at 
 her complacently, she added, *^ Humph 
 — We certainly are a handsomefamily." 
 Fanny coloured, and doubted at first 
 what to say; when hoping to assail her 
 on her vulnerable side, she presently an- 
 swered — 
 
 " My dear aunt, you cannot wish 
 me to do differently from what I have 
 done, I am sure. You cannot wish 
 
 me 
 
{ 49 ) 
 
 me to marry ; for you would miss me, 
 should not you ? — Yes, I am sure you 
 would miss me too much for that." 
 
 " No, my dear, I should not think of 
 missing you, when such an offer as this 
 comes in your way. I could do very 
 well without you, if you were married 
 to a man of such good estate as Mr. 
 Crawford. And you must be aware, 
 Fanny, that it is every young woman's 
 duty to accept such a very unexception- 
 able offer as this." 
 
 This was almost the only rule of con- 
 duct, the only piece of advice, which 
 Fanny had ever received from her aunt 
 in the course of eight years and a half. 
 — It silenced her. She felt how un- 
 profitable contention would be. If her 
 aunt's feelings were against her, nothing 
 could be hoped from attacking her un- 
 derstanding. Lady Bertram was quite 
 talkative. 
 
 '* I will tell you what, Fanny,'' said 
 she. — ^' 1 am sure he fell in love with 
 you at the ball, I am sure the mischief 
 
 VOL. III. D was 
 
( ^o ) 
 
 was done that evening. You did look 
 remarkably well. Every body said so. 
 Sir Thomas said so. And you know 
 you had Chapman to help you dress. 
 I am very glad I sent Chapman to you. 
 I shall tell Sir Thomas that I am sure 
 it was done that evening." — And still 
 pursuing the same cheerful thoughts, 
 she soon afterwards added,—" And I 
 will tell you what, Fanny — which is 
 more than I did for Maria — the next 
 time pug has a litter you shall have a 
 
 CHAP- 
 
( ^1 ) 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Edmund had great things to heai: on 
 his return. Many surprises vvere await- 
 ing him. The first that occurred was 
 not least in interest, — the appearance of 
 Henry Crawford and his sister walking 
 together through the village, as he rode 
 into it. — He had concluded, — he had 
 meant them to he far di<^tant. His ab- 
 sence had been extended beyond a fort- 
 night purposely to avoid Miss Crawford. 
 He was returning to Mansfield with 
 spirits ready to feed on melancholy re- 
 membrances, and tender associations, 
 when her own fair self was before him, 
 leaning on her brother's arm 3 and he 
 found himself receiving a welcome, un- 
 questionably friendly from the woman 
 whom, two moments before, he had 
 been thinking of as seventy miles off, 
 and as farther, much farther from him 
 in inclination than any distance could 
 express. 
 
 D 2 Her 
 
( 52 ) 
 
 Her reception of him was of a sort 
 which he could not have hoped for, had 
 he expected to see her. Coming as he 
 did from such a purport fulfilled as had 
 taken him away, he would have ex- 
 pected any thing rather than a look of 
 satisfaction, and words of simple, plea- 
 sant meaning. It was enough to set his 
 heart in a glow, and to bring him home 
 in the properest state for feeling the full 
 value oftheotherjoyful surprises at hand. 
 
 William's promotion, with all its par- 
 ticulars, he was soon master of ^ and 
 with such a secret provision of comfort 
 within his own breast to help the joy, 
 he found in it a source of most gratify- 
 ing sensation, and unvarying cheerful- 
 ness all dinner-time. 
 
 After dinner, when he and his father 
 were alone, he had Fanny's history; 
 and then all the great events of the last 
 fortnight, and the present situation of 
 mattersat Mansfield were known to him. 
 
 Fanny suspected what was going on* 
 They sat so much longer thaa usual in 
 
 the 
 
( 53 ) 
 
 the dining parlour, that she was sure 
 they must be talking of her ; and when 
 tea at last brought them away, and she 
 was to be seen by Edmund again, she 
 felt dreadfully guilty. He came to her, 
 sat down by her, took her hand, and 
 pressed it kindly; and at that moment 
 she thought that, but for the occupa- 
 tion and the scene which the tea-things 
 afforded, she must have betrayed her 
 emotion in some unpardonable excess. 
 He was not intending, however, by 
 such action, to be conveying to her that 
 unqualified approbation and encourage- 
 ment which her hopes drew from it. It 
 was designed only to express his parti- 
 cipation in all that interested her, and 
 to tell her that he had been hearing 
 what quickened every feeling of affec- 
 tion. He was, in fact, entirely on his 
 father's side of the question. His sur- 
 prise was not so great as his father's, at 
 her refusing Crawford^ because, so far 
 from supposing her to consider him 
 with anything like a preference, he had 
 
 always 
 
( 54 ) 
 
 always believed it to be rather *lbe 
 reverse, and could imagine her to be 
 taken perfectly unprepared, but Sir 
 Thomas could not regard the connec- 
 tion as more desirable than he did. It 
 had every recommendation to him, and 
 wliile honouring her for what she had 
 done under the influence of her present 
 indifference, honouring her in ratl)er 
 stronger terms than Sir Thomas could 
 quite 6cho, he was most earnest in 
 hoping, and sanguine in believing, that 
 it would be a match at last, and that, 
 united by mutual affection, it would 
 appear that their dispositions were as 
 exactly fitted to make them blessed in 
 each other, as he was now beginning 
 seriously to consider them. Crawford 
 had been too precipitate. He had not 
 given her time to attach herself. He 
 had begun at the wrong end. With 
 such powers as his, however, and such 
 a disposition as hers, Edmund trusted 
 that every thing would work out a 
 happy conclusion. Meanwhile, he saw 
 
 enough 
 
C 55 ) 
 
 enough of Fanny^s embarrassment to 
 make him scrupulously guard against 
 exciting it a second time, by any word, 
 or look, or movement. 
 
 Crawford called the next day, and on 
 the score of Edmund's return. Sir Tho- 
 mas felt himself more than licensed to 
 ask him to stay dinner; it was really a 
 necessary compliment. He staid of 
 course, and Edmund had then ample op- 
 portunity for observing how he sped 
 with Fanny, and what degree of immedi- 
 ate encouragement for him might be ex- 
 tracted from her manners 3 and it was so 
 little, so very very little, (every chance, 
 every possibility of it, resting upon her 
 embarrassment only, if there was not 
 hope in her confusion, there was hope 
 in nothing else,) that he was almost 
 ready to wonder at his friend's persever- 
 ance. — -Fanny was worth it all ; he held 
 her to be worth every effort of patience, 
 every exertion of mind — but he did not 
 think he could have gone on himself 
 with any woman breathing, without 
 
 some- 
 
( 56 ) 
 
 something more to warm his courage 
 than his eyes could discern in hers. He 
 \yas very willing to hope that Crawford 
 saw clearer ; and this was the most com- 
 fortable conclusion for his friend that he 
 could come to from all that he observed 
 to pass before, and at, and after dinner. 
 
 In the evening a few circumstances 
 occurred which he thought more pro- 
 mising. When he and Crawford walked 
 into the drawing-room, his mother and 
 Fanny were sitting as intently and si- 
 lently at work as if there were nothing 
 else to care for. Edmund could not 
 help noticing their apparently deep 
 tranquillity. 
 
 " We have not been so silent all the 
 time,'' replied his mother. "Fanny has 
 been reading to me, and only put the 
 book down upon hearing you coming." 
 —And sure enough there was a book 
 on the table which had the air of be- 
 ing very recently closed, a volume of 
 Shakespeare. — " She often reads to me 
 out of those books ; and she was in the 
 middle of a very fine speech of that 
 
( 57 ) 
 
 man's — What's his name, Fanny ? — 
 when we heard your footsteps." 
 
 Crawford took the volume. " Let 
 me have the pleasure of finishing that 
 speech to your ladyship," said he. " I 
 shall find it immediately." And by 
 carefully giving way to the inclination 
 of the leaves, he did find it, or within 
 a page or two, quite near enough to 
 satisfy Lady Bertram, who assured him, 
 as soon as he mentioned the name of 
 Cardinal Wolsey, that he had got the 
 very speech. — Not a look,, or an offer 
 of help had Fanny given ; not a sylla- 
 ble for or against. All her attention 
 was for her work. She seemed deter- 
 mined to be interested by nothing else. 
 But taste was too strong in her. She 
 could not abstract her mind five mi- 
 nutes; she was forced to listen; his 
 reading was capital, and her pleasure in 
 good reading extreme. To good read- 
 ing, however, she had been long used ; 
 her uncle read well — her cousins all — 
 Edmund very well ; but in Mr. Craw- 
 D 3 ford's 
 
( 53 ) 
 
 ford's reading there was a variety of 
 excellence beyond what she had ever 
 met with. The King, th© Qaeen, 
 Buckingham, Wolsey, Cromwell, all 
 were given in turn; for with the hap- 
 piest knack, the happiest power of 
 jumping and guessing, he could always 
 light, at will, on the best scene, or the 
 best speeches of each ; and whether it 
 were dignity or pride, or tenderness or 
 remorse, qr whatever were to be ex- 
 pressed, he could do it with equal beau- 
 ty.— It was truly dramatic— His act- 
 ing had first taught Fanny what plea- 
 sure a play might give, and his reading 
 brought all his acting before her again; 
 nay, perhaps with greater enjoyment, 
 for it came unexpectedly, and with no 
 such drawback as she had been used to 
 suffer in seeing him on the stage with 
 Miss Bertram. 
 
 Edmund watched the progress of her 
 attention, and was amused and gratified 
 by seeing how she gradually slackened 
 in the needle-W'Ork, which, attlie begin- 
 ning, 
 
{ 59 ) 
 
 ning, seemed to occupy her totally ; 
 how it fell from her hand while she sat 
 motionless over it — and at last, how the 
 eyes which had appeared so studiously 
 to avoid him throughout the day, were 
 turned and fixed on Crawford^ fixed on 
 him for minutes, fixed on him in short 
 till the attraction drew Crawford's 
 upon her, and the book was closed, 
 and the charm was broken. Then, 
 she was shrinking again into iierself, 
 and blushing and working as har;! as 
 ever; but it had been enough to give 
 Edmund encouragement for his friend, 
 and as he cordially thanked iilm, he 
 hoped to be expressing Fanny's secret 
 feelings too. 
 
 " That play must be a favourite w itli 
 you/' said he; *' You read as if you 
 knew it well." 
 
 " It will be a favourite I believe 
 from this hour," replied Crawford;—- 
 *' but I do not think I have had a vo- 
 lume of Shakespeare in my hand be- 
 fore, since I was fifteen. — I once saw 
 
 Henry 
 
( 60 ) 
 
 Henry the 8th acted. — Or I have heard 
 of it from somebody who did — I am not 
 certain which. But Shakespeare one 
 gets acquainted with without knowing 
 how. It is a part of an Englishman's 
 constitution. His thoughts and beau- 
 ties are so spread abroad that one touches 
 them every where, one is intimate with 
 him by instinct. — No man of any brain 
 can open at a good part of one of his 
 plays, without falling into the flow of his 
 meaning immediately.*'* 
 
 " No doubt, one is familiar with 
 Shakespeare in a degree,*' said Edmund, 
 ^^fromone'searliestyears.Hiscelebrated 
 passages are quoted by every body; 
 they are in half the books we open, 
 and we all talk Shakespeare, use his 
 similies, and describe with his de- 
 scriptions ; but this is totally distinct 
 from giving his sense as you gave it. 
 To know him in bits and scraps, is com- 
 mon enough; to kaow him pretty tho- 
 roughly, is, perhaps, not uncommon ; 
 
 but 
 
( 61 ) 
 
 but to read him well aloud, is no every- 
 day talent." 
 
 " Sir, you do me honour;" was 
 Crawford's answer, with a bow of mock 
 gravity. 
 
 Both gentlemen had a glance at Fanny, 
 to see if a word of accordant praise 
 could be extorted from her ; yet both 
 feeling that it could not be. Her praise 
 had been given in her attention ; that 
 must content them. 
 
 Lady Bertram's admiration was ex- 
 pressed, and strongly too. " It was 
 really'Uke being at a play,*' said she. — 
 " I wisb Sir Thomas had been here." 
 
 Crawford was excessively pleased. — 
 If Lady Bertram, with all her incompe- 
 tency and languor, could feel this, the 
 inference of what her niece, alive and 
 enlightened as she was, must feel, was 
 elevating. 
 
 " You have a great turn for acting, 
 lam sure,Mr. Crawford," said her Lady- 
 ship soon afterwards — " and I will tell 
 you what, I think you will have a 
 
 theatre. 
 
( 62 ) 
 
 theatre, some time or other, at your 
 house in Norfolk. I mean when you are 
 settled there. I do, indeed. I think you 
 will fit up a theatre at your house in 
 Norfolk." 
 
 " Do you, Ma'am?" cried he with 
 quickness. " No, no, that will never 
 be. Your Ladyship is quite mistaken. 
 No theatre at Everingham ! Oh ! no." 
 — And he looked at Fanny with an ex- 
 pressive smjle, which evidently meant,. 
 '^ that lady will never allow a theatre 
 at Everingham." 
 
 Edmund saw it all, and saw Fanny 
 ^o determined ?iot to see it, as to make 
 it clear that the voice was enough to con- 
 vey the full meaning of the protesta- 
 tion s and such a quick consciousness 
 of compliment, such a ready compre- 
 hension of a hint, he thought, W' as rather 
 favourable than not. 
 
 The subject of reading aloud was 
 farther discussed. The two young 
 men were the only talkers, but they, 
 standing by the fire, talked over the 
 
 too 
 
( 63 ) 
 
 too common neglect of the qualification, 
 the total inattention to it, in the 
 ordinary school-system for boys, the 
 con&eqnently natural — yet in some in- 
 stances almost unnatural degree of igno- 
 rance and uncouthness of men, of sen- 
 sible and well-informed men, when sud- 
 denly called to the necessity of reading 
 aloud, which had fallen within their 
 notice, giving instances of blunders, 
 and failures with their secondary causes, 
 the want of management of the voice, 
 of proper modulation and emphasis, 
 of foresight and judgment, all pro- 
 ceeding from the first cause, want of 
 early attention and habit ; and Fanny 
 was listening again with great entertain- 
 ment. 
 
 " Even in my profession" — said Ed- 
 mund with a smile — ^" how little the art 
 of reading has been studied ! how little 
 a clear manner, and good delivery, have 
 been attended to ! I speak rather of 
 the past, however, than the present.— 
 There is now a spirit of improvement 
 
 abroad ; 
 
( 64 ) 
 
 abroad j but among those who were 
 ordained twenty, thirty, forty years ago,, 
 the larger number, to judge by their per- 
 formance, must have thought reading- 
 was reading, and preaching was preach- 
 ing. It is different now. The subject is 
 morejustl}^ considered. It is felt that dis- 
 tinctness and energy may have weight 
 in recommending the most solid truths ; 
 and, besides, there is more general obser- 
 vation and taste, a more critical know- 
 ledge diffused, than formerly ; in every. 
 congregation,thereisalarger proportion, 
 who know a little of the matter, and 
 who can judge and criticize." 
 
 Edmund had already gone through 
 the service once since his ordination ; 
 and upon this being understood, he had. 
 a variety of questions from Crawford as 
 to his feelings and success ; questions, 
 which being made — though w^ith the. 
 vivacity of friendly interest and quick 
 taste — without any touch of that spirit 
 of banter or air of levity which Ed- 
 mund knew to be most offensive to 
 
 Fanny, 
 
( 65 ) 
 
 Fanny, he had true pleasure in satisfy- 
 ing 'y and when Crawford proceeded to 
 ask his opinion and give his own as to 
 the properest manner in which particu- 
 lar passages in the service should be de- 
 livered, shewing it to be a subject on 
 which he had thought before, and thought 
 with judgment, Edmund was still more 
 and more pleased. This would be the 
 way to Fanny's heart. She was not to 
 be won by all that gallantry and wit, 
 and good nature together, could do; 
 or at least, she would not be won by 
 them nearly so soon, without the as- 
 sistance of sentiment and feeling, and 
 seriousness on serious subjects. 
 
 *' Our liturgy," observed Crawford, 
 " has beauties, which not even a care- 
 less, slovenly style of reading can de- 
 stroy ; but it has also redundancies and 
 repetitions, which require good reading 
 not to be felt. For myself, at least, I 
 must confess being not always so atten- 
 tive as I ought to be — (here was a glance 
 at Fanny) that nineteen times out of 
 
 twenty 
 
( 66 ) 
 
 twenty I am thinking how such aprajer 
 ought to be read, and longing to 
 have it to read myself — Did you speak ?'' 
 stepping eagerly to Fanny, and address- 
 ing her in a softened voice; and upon 
 her saying, ^' No/ 'he added, " Are you 
 sure you did not speak ? I saw your lips 
 move. I fancied you might be going to 
 tell me I ought to be more attentive, and 
 not allozv my thoughts to Meander. Are 
 not you going to tell me so ?'* 
 
 ^^ No, iiideed, you know your duty 
 too well for me to — even supposing — '* 
 
 She stopt, felt herself getting into a 
 puzzle, and could not be prevailed on to 
 add another v^^ord, not by dint of seve- 
 ral minutes of supplication and v^aiting. 
 He then returned to his former station, 
 and went on as if there had been no 
 such tender interruption. 
 
 ^« A sermon, well delivered, is more 
 uncommon even than prayers well read. 
 A sermon, good in itself, is no rare 
 thing. It is more difficult to speak 
 well than to compose well ; that is, the 
 
 rules 
 
( «7 ) 
 
 rules and trick of composition are of- 
 tener an object of study, A thoroughly 
 good sermon, thoroughly well delivered, 
 is a capita] gratification. I can never 
 hear such a one without the greatest 
 admiration and respect, and more than 
 half a mind to take orders and preach 
 myself. There is something in the elo- 
 quence of the pulpit, when it is really 
 eloquence, which is entitled to the high- 
 est praise and honour. The preacher 
 who can touch and affect such an hete- 
 rogeneous mass of hearers, on subjects 
 limited, and longworn thread-bare in all 
 common hands ; who can say any thing 
 new or striking, any thing that rouses 
 the attention, without offending the 
 taste, or wearing out the feelings of his 
 bearers, is a man whom one could not 
 (in his pubHc capacity) honour enough. 
 I should like to be such a man." 
 Edmund laughed. 
 * I should indeed. I never listened to 
 a distinguished preacher in my life, 
 w^ithout asort of envy. But then, I must 
 
 have 
 
( 68 ) 
 
 have a London audience. I could not 
 preach, but to. the educated; to those 
 who were capable of estimating my 
 composition. And I do not know 
 that I should be fojid of preaching 
 often ; now and then, perhaps, once or 
 twice in the spring, after being anx- 
 iously expected forhalf a dozen Sundays 
 together; but not for a constancy; it 
 would not do for a constancy.'^ 
 
 Here Fanny, who could not but listen, 
 involuntarily shook her head, and Craw- 
 ford was instantly by her side again, in- 
 treating to know her meaning ; and as 
 Edmund perceived, by his drawing in a 
 chair, and sitting down close by her, 
 that it was to be a very thorough at- 
 tack, that looks and undertones were to 
 be well tried, he sank as quietly as pos- 
 sible into a corner, turned his back, and 
 took up a newspaper, very sincerely 
 wishing that dear little Fanny might be 
 persuaded into explaining away that 
 shake of the head to the satisfaction of 
 her ardent lover ; and as earnestly try- 
 ing 
 
( 69 ) 
 
 ing to bury every sound of the business 
 from himself in murmurs of his own, over 
 the various advertisements of " a most 
 desirable estate in South Wales" — " To 
 Parents and Guardians" — and a " Ca- 
 pital season'd Hunter." 
 
 Fanny, meanwhile, vexed with her- 
 self for not having been as motionless as 
 she was speechless, and grieved to the 
 heart to see Edmund's arrangements, 
 was trying, by every thing in the power 
 of her modest gentle nature, to repulse 
 Mr. Crawford, and avoid both his looks 
 and enquiries; and heunrepulsable was 
 persisting in both. 
 
 " What did that shake of the head 
 mean ?^' said he. " What was it meant 
 to express ? Disapprobation, I fear. 
 iBut of what ? — What had I been saying 
 to displease you ? — Did you think me 
 speaking improperly ? — lightly, irreve- 
 rently on the subject? — Only tell me if 
 I was. Only tell me if I was wrong. 
 I want to be set right. Nay, nay, 1 
 entreat you ; for one moment put down 
 
 your 
 
( 10 ) 
 
 your work. What did that shake of 
 the head mean r" 
 
 In vain was her " Pray, Sir, don't — 
 pray, Mr. Crawford," repeated twice 
 over ; and in vain did she try to move 
 away — In the same low eager voice, and 
 the same close neighbourhood, he went 
 on, re-urging the same questions as be- 
 fore. She grew more agitated and dis- 
 pleased. 
 
 *' How can you, Sir? You quite as- 
 tonish me — I wonder how you cun" — 
 
 " Do I astonish you?'* — said he. "Do 
 you wonder ? Is there any thing in my 
 present intreaty that you do not under- 
 stand ? I will explain to you instantly 
 all that makes me urge you in this man- 
 ner, all that gives me an interest in 
 what you look and do, and excites 
 my present curiosity. I will not leave 
 you to wonder long." 
 
 In spite of herself, she could not help 
 half a smile, but she said nothing, 
 
 " You shook your head at my ac- 
 knowledging that I should not like to 
 
 engage 
 
( 71 ) 
 
 engage in the duties of a clergyman al- 
 ways for a constancy. Yes, that was the 
 word. Constancy, I am not afraid of 
 the word. I would spell it, read it, write 
 it with any body. I see nothing alarm- 
 ing in the word. Did you think I ought.?" 
 
 " Perhaps, Sir," said Fanny, wearied 
 at last into speaking — '^ perhaps, Sir, I 
 thought it was a pity you did not always 
 know yourself as well as you seemed to 
 do at that moment." 
 
 Crawford, delighted to get her to 
 speak at any rate, was determined to 
 keep it up ; and poor Fanny, who had 
 hoped to silence him by such an extre- 
 mity of reproof, found herself sadly 
 mistaken, and that it was only a change 
 from one objecft of curiosity and one set 
 of words to another. He had always 
 something to intreat the explanation of. 
 The opportunity was too fair. None 
 such had occurred since his seeing her 
 in her uncle's room, none such might 
 occur again before his leaving Mansfield. 
 Lady Bertram's being just on the other 
 
 side 
 
( 72 ) 
 
 side of the table was a trifle, for she 
 might always be considered as only half 
 awake, and Edmund's advertisements 
 were still of the first utility. 
 
 " Well," said Crawford, after a 
 course of rapid questions and reluctant 
 answers — " I am happier than I was, 
 because I now understand more clearly 
 your opinion of me. You think me 
 unsteady — easily swayed by the whim 
 of the moment — easily tempted — easily 
 put aside. With such an opinion, no 
 
 wonder that But we shall see. — It 
 
 is not by protestations that I shall en- 
 deavour to convince you I am wronged, 
 it is not by telling you that my affections 
 are steady. My conduct shall speak 
 for me — absence, distance, time shall 
 speak for me. — They shall prove, that 
 as far as you can be deserved by any 
 body, I do deserve you. — You are infi- 
 nitely my superior in merit; all that I 
 know. — You have qualities which I had 
 not before supposed to exist in such a 
 degree in any human creature. You 
 
 have 
 
( 73 ) 
 
 have some touches of the angel in you, 
 beyond what — not merely beyond what 
 one sees, because one never sees any 
 thing like it — but beyond what one fan- 
 cies might be. But still I am not frigh- 
 tened. It is not by equality of merit 
 that you can be won. That is out of 
 the question. It is he who sees and 
 worships your merit the strongest, who 
 loves you most devotedly, that has the 
 best right to a return. There I build 
 my confidence. By that right I do and 
 will deserve you ; and when once con- 
 vinced that my attachment is what I 
 declare it, I know you too well not to en- 
 tertain the warmest hopes — Yes, dear- 
 est, sweetest Fanny — Nay — (seeing her 
 draw back displeased) forgive me. Per- 
 haps I have as yet no right — but by what 
 other name can I call you ? Do you 
 suppose you are ever present to my 
 imagination under any other ? No, it 
 is ^ Fanny' that I think of all day, and 
 dream of all night. — You have given the 
 name such reality of swee.tness, that no- 
 voL, III. E thing 
 
( 74 ) 
 
 thing else can now be descriptive of 
 you." 
 
 Fanny could hardly have kept her 
 seat any longer, or have refrained from 
 at least try mg to get away in spite of all 
 the too public opposition she foresaw to 
 it, had ii not been for the sound of ap- 
 proaching relief, the very sound which 
 she had been long watching for, and 
 long thinking strangely delayed. 
 
 The solemn procession, headed by 
 Baddely, of tea*board, urn, and cake- 
 bearers, made its appearance, and deli- 
 vered her from a grievous imprisonment 
 of body and mind. Mr. Crawford was 
 obliged to move. She was at liberty, 
 she was busy, she was protected. 
 
 Edmund was not sorry to be admit- 
 ted again among the number of those 
 who m ight speak and hear. But though 
 the conference had seemed full long to 
 him, and though on looking at Fanny 
 he saw rather a fli>sh of vexation, he 
 inclined to hope that so much could not 
 have been said and listened to, without 
 some profit to the speaker. 
 
 CHAP. 
 
( 7i ) 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Edmund had determined that it be- 
 longed entirely to Fanny to chuse whe- 
 ther her situation with regard to Craw^- 
 ford should be mentioned between them 
 or not; and that if she did not lead 
 the way, it should never be touched on 
 by him ; but after a day or two of mu- 
 tual reserve, he was induced by his 
 father to change his mind, and try 
 what his influence njight do for his 
 friend. 
 
 A day, and a very early day, was ac- 
 tually fixed for the Crawfords' depar- 
 ture j and Sir Thomas thought it might 
 be as well to make one more effort for 
 the young man before he left Mansfield, 
 that all his professions and vows of un- 
 shaken attachment might have as much 
 hope to sustain them as possible. 
 
 Sir Thomas was most cordially anxious 
 
 for the perfection of Mr. Crawford's 
 
 character in that point. He wished him 
 
 E 2 to 
 
( 76 ) 
 
 to be a model of constancy; and fancied 
 the best means of effecting it would be 
 by not trying him too long. 
 
 Edmund was not unwilling to be 
 persuaded to engage in the business ; he 
 wanted to know Fanny's feelings. She 
 had been used to consult him in every 
 difficulty, and he loved her too well to 
 bear to be deoied her confidence now; 
 he hoped to be of service to her, he 
 thought he must be of service to her, 
 whom else had she to open her heart 
 to? If she did not need counsel, she 
 must need the comfort of communica- 
 tion. Fanny estranged from him, si- 
 lent and reserved, was an unnatural 
 state of things; a state which he must 
 break through, and which he could ea- 
 sily learn to think she was wanting 
 him to break through. 
 
 " I will speak to her. Sir; I will take 
 the first opportunity of speaking to her 
 alone/' was the result of such thoughts 
 as these ; and upon Sir Thomas's infor- 
 mation of her being at that very time 
 
 walking 
 
( 77 ) 
 
 walking alone in the shrubbery, he in- 
 stantly joined her. 
 
 " I am come to walk with you, 
 Fanny/' said he. " Shall I?" — (drawing 
 her arm within his,) " it is a long while 
 since we have had a comfortable walk 
 together." 
 
 She assented to it all rather by look 
 than word. Her spirits were low. 
 
 *^ But, Fanny,'' he presently added, 
 " in order to have a comfortable walk, 
 something more is necessary than mere- 
 ly pacing this gravel together. You must 
 talk to me. I know you have some- 
 thing on your mind. I know what 
 you are thinking of. You cannot sup- 
 pose me uninformed. Am I to hear of 
 it from every body but Fanny herself?'* 
 
 Fanny, at once agitated and dejected, 
 replied, " If you hear of it from every 
 body, cousin, there can be nothing for 
 me to tell.'* 
 
 *' Not of facts, perhaps ; but of feel- 
 iugs, Fanny. No one but you can tell 
 me them. I do not mean to press you, 
 
 however. 
 
( 78 ) 
 
 however. If it is not what you wish 
 yourself, I have done. I had thought it 
 might be a relief/' 
 
 *^ I am afraid we think too differently, 
 for me to find any relief in talking of 
 what I feel/' 
 
 " Do you suppose that we think dif- 
 ferently ? I have no idea of it. I dare 
 say, that on a comparison of our 
 opinions, they would be found as much 
 alike as they have been used to be : to 
 the point-^I consider Crawford's propo- 
 sals as most advantageous and desirable, 
 if you could return his affection. I con^ 
 sider it as most natural that all your 
 family should wish you could return 
 it ; but that as you cannot, you have 
 done exactly as yon ought in refusing 
 him. Can there be any disagreement 
 between us here ?" 
 
 *^ Oh no! But I thought you blamed 
 me. I thought you were against me. 
 This is such a comfort !'* 
 
 ** This comfort you might have had 
 sooner, Fanny, had you sought it. But 
 
 how 
 
( 79 ) 
 
 how could you possibly suppose me 
 against you ? How could you imagine 
 me an advocate for marriage without 
 love ? Were I even careless in general 
 on such matters, how could you ima- 
 gine me so where i/owr happiness was 
 at stake ?'^ 
 
 " My uncle thought me wrong, and 
 1 knew he had been talking to you." 
 
 *^ As far as you have gone, Fanny, 
 I think you perfectly right. I may 
 be sorry, I may be surprised — though 
 hardly thai, for you had not had time 
 to attach yourself; but I think you per- 
 fectly right. Can it admit of a ques- 
 tion ? It is disgraceful to us it it does. 
 You did not love him — nothing could 
 have justified your accepting him.*' 
 
 Fanpy had not felt so comfortable for 
 days and days. 
 
 *' So far your conduct has been fault- 
 less, and they were quite mistaken who 
 wished you to do otherwise. But the 
 matter does not end here. Crawford's 
 is no common attachment ; he perse- 
 veres. 
 
( 80 ) 
 
 veres, with the hope of creating that 
 regard which had not been created be- 
 fore. This, we know, must be a work 
 of time. But (with an affectionate 
 smile), let him succeed at last, Fanny, 
 let him succeed at last. You have 
 proved yourself upright and disinter- 
 ested, prove yourself grateful and ten- 
 der-hearted ; and then you will be the 
 perfect model of a woman, which I have 
 always believed you born for.'* 
 
 " Oh! never, never, never; he never 
 will succeed with me.'* And she spoke 
 with a warmth which quite astonished 
 Edmund, and which she blushed at the 
 recollection of herself, when she saw his 
 look, and heard him reply, '^ Never, 
 Fanny, so very determined and posi- 
 tive ! This is not like yourself, your 
 rational self." 
 
 " I mean,'' she cried, sorrowfully, 
 correcting herself, " that I think, I never 
 shall, asfar as the future can be answered 
 for — I think I never shall return his re- 
 gard/' 
 
 *' I must 
 
( 81 ) 
 
 " I must hope better things. I am 
 aware, more aware than Crawford can 
 be, that the man who means to make 
 you love him (you having due notice of 
 his intentions), must have very up-hill 
 work, for there are all your early at- 
 tachments, and habits, in battle array; 
 and before he can get your heart for 
 his own use, he ha^ to unfasten it from 
 all the holds upon things animate and 
 inanimate, which so many years growth 
 have confirmed, and which are con- 
 siderably tightened for the moment 
 by the very idea of separation. I know 
 that the apprehension of being forced 
 to quit Mansfield will for a time be 
 arming you against him. I wish he 
 had not been obliged to tell you what 
 he was trying for. I wish he had 
 known you as well as I do, Fanny. Be- 
 tween us, 1 think we should have won 
 you. My theoretical and his practical 
 knowledge together, could not have 
 failed. He should have worked upon 
 my plans. I must hope, however, that 
 E 3 time 
 
( 82 ) 
 
 time proving him (as I firmly believe it 
 will), to deserve you by bis steady af- 
 fection, will give him bis reward. I 
 cannot suppose that you have not the 
 wish to love him — the natural wish of 
 gratitude. You must have some feeling 
 of that sort. You must be sorry for 
 your own indifference.** 
 
 "We are so totally unlike/' said 
 Fanny, avoiding a direct answer, *^ we 
 are so very, very different in all our in- 
 clinations and ways, that I consider it 
 as quite impossible we should ever be 
 tolerably happy together, even if I could 
 like him. There never were two people 
 more dissimilar. We have not one 
 taiste in common. We should be mi- 
 . serable.** 
 
 ^* You are mistaken, Fanny. The 
 dissimilarity^ is not so strong. You are 
 quite enough alike. You have tastes in 
 common. You have moral and literary 
 tastes in common. You have both 
 warm hearts and benevolent feelings ^ 
 and Fanny, who that heard him read, 
 
 and 
 
f 83 ) 
 
 and saw you listen to Shakespeare the 
 other night, will think you unfitted as 
 companions? You forget yourself: there 
 is a decided difference in your tempers, 
 I allow. He is lively, you are serious ; 
 but so much the better j his spirits will 
 support yours. It is your disposition to 
 be easily dejected, and to fancy difficul- 
 ties greater than they are. His cheerful- 
 ness will counteract this. He sees diffi- 
 culties no where; and his pleasantness 
 and gaiety will be a constant support to 
 you. Your being so far unlike, Fanny, 
 does not in the smallest degree make 
 against the probability of your happi- 
 ness together : do not imagine it. I 
 am myself convinced that it is rather a 
 favourable circumstance. I am per- 
 fectly persuaded that the tempers had 
 better be unHke; I mean unlike in the 
 flow of the spirits, in the manners, in 
 the inclination for much or little com- 
 pany, in the propensity to talk or to be 
 silent, to be grave or to be gay. Some 
 opposition here is> I am thoroughly 
 
 convinced^ 
 
( 84 ) 
 
 convinced, friendly to matrimonial hap- 
 piness. I exclude extremes of course ; 
 and a very close resemblance in all those 
 points would be the likeliest way to 
 produce an extreme. A counteraction, 
 gentle and continual, is the best safe- 
 guard of manners and conduct/' 
 
 Full well could Fanny guess where 
 his thoughts were now. Miss Craw- 
 ford's power was all returning. He had 
 been speaking of her cheerfully from the 
 hour of his coming home. His avoiding 
 her was quite at an end. He had dined 
 at the parsonage only the preceding day. 
 
 After leaving him to his happier 
 thoughts for some minutes, Fanny feel- 
 ing it due to herself, returned to Mr. 
 Crawford, and said, *' It is not merely in 
 temper that I consider him as totally 
 unsuited to myself; though in that 
 respect, I think the difference between 
 us too great, infinitely too great; his 
 spirits often oppress me — but there is 
 something in him which I object to still 
 more. I must say, cousin, that I cannot 
 
 approve 
 
( »s ) 
 
 approvehis character. I have not thought 
 well of him from the time of the play. 
 I then saw him behaving, as it appeared 
 to me, so very improperly and unfeel- 
 ingly, I may speak of it now because it 
 is all over — .so improperly by poor Mr. 
 Rushworth, not seeming to care how 
 he exposed or hurt him, and paying at- 
 tentions to my cousin Maria, which — in 
 short, at the time of the play, I received 
 an impression which will never be got 
 over." 
 
 " My dear Fanny," repjied Edmund, 
 scarcely hearing her to the end, " let 
 us not, any of us, be judged by what 
 we appeared at that period of general 
 folly. The time of the play, is a time 
 which I hate to recollect. Maria was 
 wrong, Crawford was wrong, we were 
 all wrong together ; but none so wrong 
 as myself. Compared with me, all the 
 rest were blameless. I wasplajing the 
 fool with my eyes open." 
 
 *^As a by-stander,*' said Fanny, *^per- 
 haps I saw more than you did ; and 
 
 I do 
 
( 86 ) 
 
 I do think that Mr. Rushwoith was 
 sometimes very jealous/* 
 
 " Very possibly. No wonder. No- 
 thing could be more improper than the 
 whole business. I am shocked when- 
 ever I think that Maria could be capa- 
 ble of it ; but if she could undertake the 
 part, we must not be surprised at the 
 rest*' 
 
 " Before the play, I am much mis- 
 taken, if Julia did not think he was 
 paying her' attentions.'* 
 
 " Julia ! — I have heard before from 
 someone of his being in love with Julia,, 
 but I could never see any thin g of it. And 
 Fanny, though I hope 1 do justice to my 
 sisters' good qualities, I think it very 
 possible that they might, one or both, 
 be more desirous of being admired by 
 Crawford, and might shew that desire 
 rather more unguardedly than was per- 
 fectly prudent. I can remember that 
 they were evidently fond of his society ; 
 and with such encouragement, a man 
 like Crawford, lively, and it may be a 
 
 little 
 
( 87 ) 
 
 little unthinking, might be led on to-— 
 There could be nothing very striking, 
 because it is clear that he had no preten- 
 sions ; his heart was reserved for you. 
 And I must say, that its being for you, 
 has raised him inconceivably in my 
 opinion. It does him the highest honour; 
 it shews his proper estimation of the 
 blessing ofdomestic happiness, and pure 
 attachment. It proves him unspoilt by 
 his uncle. It proves him, in short, every 
 thing that I had been used to wish to 
 believe him, and feared he was not." 
 
 " I am persuaded that he does not 
 think as he ought, on serious subjects/' 
 
 " Say rather, that he has not thought 
 at all upon serious subjects, which I be- 
 lieve to be a good deal the case. How 
 could it be otherwise, with such an edu- 
 cation and adviser ? Under the disadvan- 
 tages, indeed, which both have had, is it 
 not wonderful that they should be what 
 they are ? Crawford's feelings, I am 
 ready to acknowledge, have hitherto 
 been too much his guides. Happily, 
 
 those 
 
C 88 ) 
 
 those feelings have generally been good,. 
 You will supply the rest; and a most 
 fortunate man he is to attach himself to 
 such a creature — toawoman^ who firm 
 as a rock in her own principles, has a 
 gentleness of character so well adapted 
 to recommend them. He has chosen 
 his partner, indeed^ with rare felicity. 
 He will make you happy, Fanny, I 
 know he will make you happy ; but you 
 will make him every thing." 
 
 " I would riot engage in such a charge," 
 cried Fanny in ashrinkingaccent — ^^ in 
 such an ofTice of high responsibility!'* 
 "As usual, believing yourself unequal 
 to anything ! — fancying every thing too 
 much for you ! Well, though I may 
 not be able to persuade you into diffe- 
 rent feelings, you will be persuaded into 
 them I trust. I confess myself sincerely 
 anxious that you may. I have no com- 
 mon interest in Crawford's well doing. 
 Next to your happiness, F'anny, his has 
 the first claim on me. You are aware 
 
 of 
 
( 89 ) 
 
 of my having no common interest jn 
 Crawford.** 
 
 Fanny was too well aware of it, to 
 have anything to say ; and they walked 
 on together some fifty yards in mutual 
 silence and abstraction. Edmund first 
 began again :— 
 
 " I was very much pleased by her man- 
 ner of speaking of it yesterday, particu- 
 larly pleased^becauselhadnotdepended 
 upon her seeing every thing in so just 
 a light. I knew she was very fond of 
 you, but yet I was afraid of her not 
 estimating your worth to her brother, 
 quite as it deserved, and of her regret- 
 ting that he had not rather fixed on 
 some woman of distinction, or fortune. 
 I was afraid of the bias of those worldly 
 maxims, which she has been too much 
 used to hear. But it was very different. 
 She spoke of you, Fanny, just as she 
 ought. She desires the connection as 
 warmly as your uncle or myself. We 
 had a long talk about it. I should not 
 have mentioned the subject, though very 
 
 anxious 
 
( 90 ) 
 
 anxious to know her sentiments — but 
 I had not been in the room five minutes, 
 before she began, introducing it with 
 all that openness of heart, and sweet pe- 
 culiarity of manner, that spirit and in- 
 genuousness, which are so much a part 
 of herself. Mrs. Grant laughed at her 
 for her rapidity." 
 
 '^ WasMrs. Grant in the room, then r" 
 
 ** Yes, when I reached the house 
 I found the two sisters together by 
 themselves.; and when once we had fee-, 
 gun,, we had not done^th you, Fanny, 
 till Crawford and Dr. Grant came in." 
 
 " It is above a wee^ since I saw Miss 
 Crawford." 
 
 '' Yes, she laments it ; yet owns it 
 may have been best. You will see 
 her, however, before she goes. She is 
 very angry with you, Fanny ; you must 
 be prepared for that. She calls herself 
 very angry, but you can imagine her 
 anger. It is the regret and disappoint- 
 ment of a sister, who thinks her brother 
 has a right to every thing he may wish 
 
 for. 
 
( 91 ) 
 
 for, at the first moment. She is hurt, 
 as you wo-uld be for William ; but she 
 loves and esteems you with all her 
 heart.** 
 
 *' I knew she would be very angry 
 with me." 
 
 " My dearest Fanny," cried Edmund, 
 pressing her arm closer to him, ^' do 
 not let the idea of her anger distress 
 you. It is anger to be talked of, rather 
 than felt. Her heart is made for love 
 and kindness, not for resentment. I 
 wish you could have overheard her 
 tribute of praise; I wish you could 
 have seen her countenance, when she 
 said that you should be Henry's wife. 
 And I observed, that she always spoke 
 of you as ^ Fanny,' which she was never 
 used to do ; and it had a sound of most 
 sisterly cordiality.'* 
 
 " And Mrs. Grant, did she say — did 
 she speak-^was she there all the time ?" 
 " Yes, she was agreeing exactly with 
 her sister. The surprise of your refu- 
 sal, Fanny, seems to have been un- 
 bounded. 
 
( 9S ) 
 
 bounded. That you could refuse such 
 a man as Henry Crawford, seems more 
 than they can understand. I said what 
 I could for you ; but in good truth, as 
 they stated the case — you must prove 
 yourself to be in your senses as soon as 
 yau can, by a different conduct ; no- 
 thing else will satisfy them. But this 
 is teazing you. I have done. Do not 
 turn away from me.'* 
 
 ** 1 should \i^.Ye thought," said Fanny, 
 after a pause of recollection and exer- 
 tion, '^ that every woman must have 
 felt the possibility of a man's not being 
 approved, not being loved by some one 
 of her sex, at kast, let him be ever so 
 generally agreeable. Let him have all 
 the perfections in- the world, I think it 
 ought not to be set down as certain, 
 that a man must be acceptable to every 
 woman he may happen to like himself. 
 But even supposing it is so, allowing 
 Mr.. Crawford to have all the claims 
 which his sisters think he has, how was 
 I to be prepai'ed to meet him with any 
 
 feeling 
 
( 93 ) 
 
 feeling answerable to his own ? He took 
 me wholly by surprise. I had not an idea 
 that his behaviour to me before had any 
 meaning ; and surely I was not to be 
 teaching myself to like him only be- 
 cause he was taking, what seemed, very 
 idle notice of me. In my situation, it 
 would have been the extreme of vanity 
 to be forming expectations on Mr. 
 Crawford. I am sure his sisters, rating 
 him as they do, must have thought it 
 so, supposing he had meant nothing. 
 How then was I to be — to be in love 
 with him the moment he said he was 
 with me ? How was I to have an at- 
 tachment at his service, as soon as it 
 was asked for ? His sisters should con- 
 sider me as well as him. The higher 
 his deserts, the more improper for me 
 ever to have thought of him. And, 
 and — we think very differently of the 
 nature of women, if they can imagine 
 a woman so very soon capable of re- 
 turning an affection as this seems to 
 imply.'* 
 
 " My 
 
( 94 ) 
 
 " My dear, dear Fanny, now I have 
 the truth. I know this to be the truth ; 
 and most worthy of you are such feel- 
 ings. I had attributed them to you 
 before. I thought I could understand 
 you. You have now given exactly the 
 explanation which I ventured to make 
 for you to your friend and Mrs. Grant, 
 and they were both better satisfied, 
 though your warm-hearted friend was 
 still run avyay with a little, by the en-, 
 thusiasm of her fondness for Henry. I 
 told them, that you were of all human 
 creatures the one, over whom habit had 
 most power, and novelty least : and that 
 the very circumstance of the novelty 
 of Crawford's addresses was against 
 him. Their being so new and so recent 
 was all in their disfavour j that you 
 could tolerate nothing that you were 
 not used to ; and a great deal more to 
 the same purpose, to give them a know- 
 ledge of your character. Miss Crawford 
 made us laugh by her plans of encou- 
 ragement for her brother. She meant 
 
 to 
 
{ 95 ) 
 
 to urge him to persevere in the hope of 
 being loved in time, and of having his 
 addresses most kindly received at the 
 end of about ten years' happy marriage.** 
 
 Fanny could with difficulty give the 
 smile that was here asked for. Her 
 feelings were all in revolt. She feared 
 she had been doing wrong, saying too 
 much, overacting the caution which she 
 had been fancying necessary, in guard- 
 ing against ong evil, laying herself open 
 to another, and to have Miss Crawford's 
 liveliness repeated to her at such a mo- 
 ment, and on such a subject, was a bitter 
 aggravation. 
 
 Edmund saw weariness and distress 
 in her face, and immediately resolved 
 to forbear all farther discussion ; and 
 not even to mention the name of Craw- 
 ford again, except as it might be con- 
 nected mth what must be agreeable to 
 her. On this principle, he soon after- 
 wards observed, " They go on Monday. 
 You are sure therefore of seeing your 
 friend either to-morrow or Sunday. 
 
 They 
 
( 96 ) 
 
 They really go on Monday ! and I was 
 within a trifle of being persuaded to 
 stay at Lessingby till that very day ! 
 I had almost promised it. What a dif- 
 ference it might have made! Those 
 five or six days more at Lessingby 
 might have been felt all my life!" 
 " You v^ere near staying there ?" 
 <j Very. I was most kindly pressed^ 
 and had nearly consented. Had I re- 
 ceived any letter from Mansfield, to tell 
 me how you were all going on, I believe 
 I should certainly have stayed ,* but I 
 knew nothing that had happened here 
 for a fortnight, and felt that I had been 
 away long enough." 
 
 '' You spent your time pleasantly 
 there." 
 
 "Yes; that is, it was the fault of 
 my own mind if I did not. They were 
 all very pleasant. I doubt their finding 
 me so. I took uneasiness with me, and 
 there was no getting rid of it till I was 
 in Mansfield again." 
 
 " The Miss Owens— you liked them, 
 did not you ?" 
 
 " Yes, 
 
C 97 ) 
 
 *' Yes, very well. Pleasant, good-hu- 
 moured, unaffected girls. But I am 
 spoilt, Fanny, for common female so- 
 ciety. Good-humoured, unaffected girls, 
 will not do for a man who has been 
 used to sensible women. They are two 
 distinct orders of being. You and Miss 
 Crawford have made me too nice." 
 
 Still, however, Fanny was oppressed 
 and wearied 3 he saw it in her looks, it 
 could not be talked away, and attempt- 
 ing it no more, he led her directly with 
 the kiifld authority of a privileged guar- 
 dian into the house. 
 
 vol. Ill, F CHAP, 
 
( 98 ) 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Edmund nowbelieved himself perfectly 
 acquainted with all that Fanny could 
 tell, or could Jeave to be conjectured of 
 her sentiments, and he was satisfied.— 
 It had been, as he before presumed, too 
 hasty a measure on Crawford's side, and 
 time must be given to make the idea 
 first familiar, and then agreeable to her. 
 She must be used to the consideration 
 of his being in love with her, and then 
 a return of affection might not be very 
 distant. 
 
 He gave this opinion as the result of 
 the conversation, to his father ; and 
 recommended there being nothing more 
 said to her, no farther attempts to influ- 
 ence or persuade ; but that every thing 
 should be left to Crawford's assiduities, 
 and the natural workings of her own 
 mind. 
 
 SirThomas promised that it should be 
 so. Edmund's account of Fanny's dis- 
 
 posi« 
 
.( 99 ) 
 
 position he could believe to be just, he 
 supposed she had all those feelings, but 
 he must consider it as very unfortunate 
 that she had; for, less willing than his 
 son to trust to the future, he could not 
 help fearing that if such very leng allow- 
 ances of time and habit were necessary, 
 for her, she might not have persuaded 
 herself into receiving his addresses pro- 
 perly, before the young man's inclina- 
 tion for paying them were over. There 
 was nothing to be done, however, but to 
 submit quietly, and hope the best. 
 
 The promised visit from her *' friend," 
 as Edmund called Miss Crawford, was 
 a formidable threat to Fanny, and she 
 lived in continual terror of it. As a 
 sister, so partial and so angry, and 
 so little scrupulous of what she said; 
 and in another light, so triumphant 
 and secure, she was in every way an 
 object of painful alarm. Her dis- 
 pleasure, her penetration, and her hap=. 
 piness were all fearfulto encounter ; and 
 the dependenceof having others present 
 F 2 when 
 
( 100 ) 
 
 when they met, was Fanny's only sup- 
 port in looking forward to it. She ab- 
 sented herself as httle as possible from 
 Lady Bertram, kept away from the 
 east room, and took no sohtary walk in 
 the shrubbery, in her caution to avoid 
 any sudden attack. 
 
 She succeeded. She was safe in the 
 breakfast-room, with her aunt, when 
 Miss Crawford did come ; and the first 
 misery over, and Miss Crawford looking 
 and speaking with n)uch less particula- 
 rity of expression than she had antici- 
 pated, Fanny began to hope there would 
 be nothing worse to be endured than 
 an half-hour of moderate agitation. 
 But here she hoped too much, Miss 
 Crawford was not the slave of opportu- 
 nity. She was determined to see Fanny 
 alone, and therefore said to her to- 
 lerably soon, in a low voice, " I must 
 speak to you for a few minutes some- 
 where ;" words that Fanny felt all over 
 her, in all her pulses, and all her nerves. 
 Denial was impossible. Her habits of 
 
 ready 
 
(.101 ) 
 
 ready submission, on the contrary, made 
 her almost instantly rise and lead the 
 way out of the room. She did it with 
 wretched feelings, but it was inevitable* 
 They were no sooner in the hall than 
 all restraint of countenance was over 
 on Miss Crawford's side. She immedi- 
 ately shook her head at Fanny with arch, 
 yet affectionate reproach, and taking 
 her hand, seemed hardly able to help 
 beginning directly. She said nothing, 
 however, but,'* Sad, sad girl ! Tdo not 
 know when I shall have done scolding 
 you," and had discretion enough to 
 reserve the rest till they might be se- 
 cure of having four walls to themselves. 
 Fanny naturally turned up stairs, ancl 
 took her guest to the apartment which 
 was now always fit for comfortable use ; 
 opening the door, however, with a 
 most aching heart, and feeling that she 
 had a more distressing scene before her 
 than ever that spot had yet witnessed. 
 But the evil ready to burst on her, was. 
 at least delayed by the sudden change in 
 
 Miss 
 
'( 102 ) 
 
 Miss Crawford's ideas; by the strong 
 effect on her mind which the finding 
 herself in the east room again produced. 
 
 ** Ha !*' she cried, with instant anima- 
 tion/* am I here again ? Theeastrooni. 
 Once only was I in this room before !" — 
 and after stopping to look about her, 
 and seemingly t(x retrace all that had 
 then passed, she added," Once only be- 
 fore. Do you remember it ? I came to 
 rehearse. Your cousin came too ; and 
 we had a rehearsal. You were our au- 
 dience and prompter. A delightful re- 
 hearsal. I shall never forget it. Here 
 we were, just in this part of the room ; 
 here was your cousin, here was I, here 
 were the chairs. — Oh ! why will such 
 things ever pass away P" 
 
 Happily for bercompaoion, she want- 
 ed no answer. Her mind was entirely 
 self-engrossed. She was in a reverie of 
 sweet remembrances. 
 
 ** The scene we were rehearsing was 
 so ver}^ remarkable ! The subject of it 
 so very — very — what shall I say ? He 
 
 Was 
 
{ 103 ) 
 
 was to be describing and recommending 
 matrimony tome. IthinkI see him now, 
 trying to be as demure and composed 
 as AnhaU ought, through the two long 
 speeches. ' When two sympathetic 
 hearts meet in the marriage state, ma- 
 trimony may be called a happy life.* I 
 suppose no time can ever wear out the 
 impression I have of his looks and voice, 
 as he said those words. It was curious, 
 very curious, that we should have such 
 a scene to play ! If I had t^^^ power of 
 recalling any one week of my existence, 
 it should be that week, tliat acting 
 week. Say what you would, Faniiy, it 
 should he that ; for 1 never knew such 
 exquisite happiness in any other. His 
 sturdy spirit to bend as it did ! Oh! it 
 was sweet beyond expression. But 
 alas! that very evening destroyed it all. 
 That very evening brought your most 
 unwelcome uncle. Poor Sir Ti omas, 
 who was glad to see you ? Yet, Fanny, 
 do not imagine I would now speak dis- 
 respectfully of Sir Thooias, though I 
 
 cer- 
 
( 1(H- 
 
 certainly did hate him for many a week. 
 No, I do him justice now. He is just 
 what the head of such a family should 
 be. Nay, in sober sadness, I believe I 
 now love you all." And having said so, 
 with a degree of tenderness and con- 
 sciousness which Fanny had never seen 
 in her before, and now thought only too 
 becoming, she turned away for a mo- 
 ment to recover herself. " I have had 
 a little fit since I came into this room, 
 asyouniay perceive," said she presently, 
 with a playful smile, '* but it is over 
 now ; so let us sit down and be comfort, 
 able ; for as to scolding you, Fanny, 
 which I came fully intending to do, I 
 have not the heart for it when it comes 
 to the point." And embracing her very 
 affectionately, — " Good, gentle Fanny ! 
 when I think of this being the last time 
 erf seeing you; for I do not know how 
 long — I feel it quite impossible to do any 
 thing but love you."' 
 
 Fanny was affected. She had not 
 foreseen anything of this, and her feel- 
 ings 
 
C 105 ) 
 
 ings could seldom withstand the melan- 
 choly influence of the word " last.'' 
 She cried as if she had loved Miss Craw- 
 ford more than she possibly could ; and 
 Miss Crawford, yet farther softened by 
 the sight of such emotion, hung about 
 her with fondness, and said, " I hate to 
 leave you. I shall see no one half so 
 amiable where I am going. Who says 
 we shall not be sisters? I know we 
 shall. 1 feel that we are born to be 
 connected ; and those tears convince me 
 that you feel it too, dear Fanny/* 
 
 Fanny roused herself, and replying 
 only in part, said, '* But you are only 
 going from one set of friends to an- 
 other. You are going to a very par- 
 ticular friend." 
 
 "Yes, very true. Mrs. Fraser has 
 been my intimate friend for years. But 
 I, have not the least inclination to go 
 near her. I can think only of- the 
 friends I am leaving ; my excellent sis- 
 ter, yourself, and the Bertrams in gene- 
 ral. You have all so much more heart 
 F 3 among 
 
( 106 ) 
 
 among you^ than one finds in the world 
 at large. You all give me a feeling of 
 being able to trust and confide in you ; 
 which, in common intercourse, one 
 knows nothing of. I wish I had settled 
 with Mrs, Fraser not to go to her till 
 after Easter, a much better tim^ for the 
 visit — ^but now I cannot put her off. 
 And when I have done witb her, I must 
 go to her sister. Lady Stornaway, be- 
 cause she was rather my most particu- 
 lar friend of the two ; but I have not 
 cared much for her these three years/* 
 
 After this speech, the two girls sat 
 many minutes silent, each thoughtful; 
 Fanny meditating on the different sorts 
 of friendship in the world, Mary on 
 something of less philosophic tendency. 
 She first spoke again. 
 
 "How perfectly I remember my re- 
 solving to look for you up stairs ; and 
 setting off to find my way to the 
 east room, without having an idea 
 ' whereabouts it was ! How well I re- 
 member what I was thinking of as I 
 
 came 
 
( 107 ) 
 
 came along; and my looking in and 
 seeing you here, sitting at this table at 
 work ; and then your cousin's astonish- 
 ment when he opened the door at 
 seeing me here ! To be sure, your 
 uncle's returning that very evening! 
 There never was anything quite hke it.'* 
 
 Another short fit of abstraction fol- 
 lowed — when, shaking it off, she thus 
 attacked her companion. 
 
 " Why, Fanny, you are absolutely in 
 a reverie! Thinking, I hope, of one who 
 is always thinking of you. Oh ! that 
 I could transport you for a short time 
 into our circle in town, that you Kiight 
 understand how your power over Henry 
 is thought of there ! Oh ! the envyings 
 aud heart-burnings of dozens and do- 
 zens! the wonder, the increduhty that 
 will be felt at hearing what you have 
 done! For as to secrecy, Henry is 
 quite the hero of an old romance, and 
 glories in his chains. You should come 
 to London, to know how to estimate 
 your conquest. If you were to see 
 
 how 
 
( 108 ) 
 
 Low he is courted, and howl am courted 
 for his sake ! Now I am well aware, 
 that I shall not be half so welcome to 
 Mrs. Fraser in consequence of his situa- 
 tion with you. When she comes to 
 know the truth, she will very likely 
 wish me in Northamptonshire again ; 
 for there is a daughter of Mr. Fraser by 
 a first wife^ whom she is wild to get 
 married, and wants Henry to take. 
 Oh 1 she has been trying for him to 
 such a degree 1 Innocent and quiet as 
 you sit here, you cannot have an idea 
 of the sensation ihsit you will, be occa- 
 sionuig, of the curiosity there will be 
 to see you, of the endless questions 
 I shall have to answer ! Poor Margaret 
 Fraser will be at me for ever about 
 your eyes and your teeth, and how you 
 do your hair, and who makes your 
 shoes. I wish Margaret were married, 
 for my poor friend's sake, for I look 
 tipon the Frasers to be about as un- 
 happy as most other married people. 
 And yet it was a most desirable match 
 
 for 
 
( 109 ) 
 
 for Janet at the time. We were all de- 
 lighted. She could not do otherwise 
 than accept him, for he was rich, and 
 she had nothing; but he turns out ill- 
 tempered, and ejcigeant y and wants a 
 youngwoman, a beautiful young woman 
 of five-and-twenty, to be as steady as 
 himself. And my friend does not ma- 
 nage him well ; she does not seem to 
 know how to make the best of it. 
 There is a spirit of irritation, which, to 
 say nothing worse, is certainly very ill- 
 bred. In their house I shall call to mind 
 the conjugal manners of Mansfield Par- 
 sonage with respect. Even Dr. Grant 
 does shew a thorough confidence in my 
 sister, and a certain consideration for 
 her judgment, which makes one feel 
 there is attachment; but of that, I 
 shall see nothing with the Frasers. I 
 shall be at Mansfield for ever, Fanny. 
 My own sister as a wife. Sir Thomas 
 Bfertram as a husband, are my standards 
 of perfection. Poor Janet has been 
 sadly taken in; and yet there was no- 
 thing 
 
( 110 ) 
 
 tiling improper on her side ; she did not 
 run into the match inconsiderately, there 
 was no want of foresight. She took 
 three days to consider of his proposals; 
 and during those three days asked the 
 advice of every body connected with 
 her, whose opinion was worth having ; 
 and especially applied to my late dear 
 aunt, whose knowledge of the world 
 made her judgment very generally and 
 deservedly looked up to by all the young 
 people of her acquaintance; and she; was 
 decidedly in favour of Mr. Fraser, This 
 seems as if nothing were a security for 
 matrimonial comfort! I have net so 
 much to say for my friend Flora, who 
 jilted a very nice young man in the 
 Blues, for the sake of that horrid Lord 
 Stornaway, who has about as much 
 sense, Fanny, as Mr. Rushworth, but 
 much worse looking, and with a black- 
 guard character. I had my doubts at 
 the time about her being right, for lie 
 has not even the air of a gentleman, 
 and now, I am sure, she was Wrong. 
 
 By 
 
( 111 ) 
 
 By the b}', Flora Ross was dying for 
 Henry the first winter she came out. 
 But were I to attempt to tell you of all 
 the women whom I have known to be in 
 love with him, I should never have done. 
 It isyouonly,you, insensible Fanny,who 
 can think of him withanythinglikeindif- 
 ference. But arey ou so insensible as you 
 professyourseIf?No,no,Iseeyouarenot." 
 
 There was indeed so deep a blush 
 over Fanny's face at that moment, as 
 might warrant strong suspicion in a 
 pre-disposed mind. 
 
 " Excellent creature ! I will not teaze 
 you. Every thing shall take its course. 
 But dear Fanny, you must allow that 
 you were not so absolutely unprepared 
 to have the question asked as your 
 cousin fancies. It is not possible, but 
 that you must have had some thoughts 
 ou the subject, some surmises as to 
 what might be. You must have seen 
 that he was trying to please you, by 
 every attention in his power. Was 
 . not he devoted to you at the baU ? And 
 
 then 
 
( 112 ) 
 
 then before the ball, the necklace ! Oh f 
 you received it just as it was meant. 
 You were as conscious as heart could 
 desire. I remeniber it perfectly." 
 
 ** Do you mean then that your bro- 
 ther knew of the necklace beforehand ? 
 ph! Miss Crawford;, that was not fair." 
 
 " Knew of it! it was his own doing 
 entirely, his own thought. lam ashamed 
 to say, that it had never entered my 
 head ; but I was delighted to act on hi^ 
 proposal, for both your sakes." 
 
 " I will not say,'* replied Fanny, 
 *' that I was not half afraid at the time 
 of its being so ; for there was something 
 in your look that frightened me— »but 
 not at first— I was as unsuspicious of it 
 at first! — indeed, indeed I was. It.is 
 as true as that I sit here. And had I 
 had an idea of it, nothing should have 
 induced me to accept the necklace. As 
 to your brother's behaviour, certainly 
 I was sensible of a particularity, I had 
 heen sensible of it some little time, 
 perhaps two or three weeks ; but then I 
 
 considered 
 
( 113 ) 
 
 considered it as meaning nothing, I put 
 it down as simply being his way, and 
 was as far from supposing as from wish- 
 ing him to have any serious thoughts of 
 me. I had not, Miss Crawford, been an 
 inattentive observer of what was passing 
 between him and some part of this fa- 
 mily in the summer and autumn. I 
 Was quiet, but I was not blind. I could 
 not but see that Mr. Crawford allowed 
 himself in gallantries which did mean 
 nothing.'* 
 
 "Ah! I cannot deny it. He^has now 
 and then been a sad flirt, and cared very 
 little for the havock he might be mak- 
 ing in young ladies' affections. I have 
 often scolded him for it, but it is his 
 only fault; and there is this to be said, 
 that very few young ladies have any 
 affections worth caring for. And then, 
 Fanny, the glory of fixing one who has 
 been shot at by so many ; of having it 
 in one's power to pay off the debts of 
 one's sex I Oh, I am sure it is not in 
 
 woman's 
 
( "4 ) 
 
 woman*s nature to refuse such a trVr 
 umph.*' 
 
 Fanny shook her head. " I cannot 
 think well of a man who sports with 
 any woman's feelings; and there may 
 often be a great deal more suffered than 
 a stander-by can judge of.'' 
 
 '' I do not defend him. I leave himi 
 entirely to your merty; and when he 
 has got you at Everingham, I do not 
 care how much you lecture him. But 
 this I will say, that his fault, the liking 
 to make girls a little in love with him, 
 is not half so dangerous to a wife's hap- 
 piness, as a tendency to fall in love him- 
 self, which he has never been addicted 
 to. And I do seriously and truly be- 
 lieve that he is attached to you in a way 
 that he never was to any woman be- 
 fore; that he loves you with all his 
 heart, and will love you as nearly for 
 ever as possible. If any man ever loved 
 a woman for ever, I think Henry will 
 do as much for you,'* 
 
 Fanny 
 
( 115 ) 
 
 Fanny could not avoid a faint smile, 
 but had nothing to say. 
 
 ** I cannot imagine Henry ever to 
 have been happier/' continued Mary, 
 presently/Hhanwhenhe had succeeded 
 in getting jom brother's commission.'* 
 
 She had made a sure push at Fanny's 
 feelings here. 
 
 " Oh ! yes. How very, very kind of 
 him!" 
 
 " I know he must have exerted him- 
 self very much, for I know the parties 
 he had to move. The Admiral hates 
 trouble, and scorns asking favours ; and 
 there are so many young men's claims to 
 be attended to in the same way, that a 
 friendship and energy, not very deter- 
 mined, is easily put by. What a happy 
 creature William must be ! I wish we 
 could see him." 
 
 Poor Fanny's mind was thrown into 
 the most distressing of all its varieties. 
 The recollection of what had been done 
 for William was always the most power- 
 ful disturber of every decision against 
 
 Mr, 
 
( 116 ) 
 
 Mr. Crawford; and she sat thinking 
 deeply of it till Mary, who had been 
 first watching her complacently, and 
 then musing on something else, suddei)- 
 ]y called her attention, by saying,/* I 
 should like to sit talking with you here 
 all day, but we must not forget the la- 
 dies below, and so good bye, my dear, 
 my amiable, my excellent Fanny, for 
 though we shall nominally part in the 
 breakfast parlour, I must take leave of 
 you here. And I do take leave, longing 
 for a happy re-union, and trusting, that 
 when we meet again, it will be under 
 circumstances which may open our 
 hearts to each other without any rem^ 
 nant or shadow of reserve." 
 
 A very, very kind embrace, and some 
 agitation of manner, accompanied these 
 words. 
 
 '' I shall see your cousin in town 
 soon j he talks of being there tolerably 
 soon; and Sir Thomas, I dare say, in the 
 course of the spring ; and your eldest 
 cousin and the Rushworths and Julia I 
 
 am 
 
( 117 ^ 
 
 am sure of mee^jting again and again, and 
 all but you. I have two favours to ask, 
 Fanny; one is your correspondence. 
 You must write to me. And the other, 
 that you will often call on Mrs. Grant 
 and make her amends for my being 
 gone." 
 
 The first, at least, of these favours 
 Fanny would rather not have been 
 asked; but it was impossible for her to 
 refuse the correspondence ; it was im- 
 possible for her eveii not to accede to 
 it more readily than her own judgment 
 authorised. There was no resisting so 
 much apparent affection. Her disposi- 
 tion was peculiarly calculated to value 
 a fond treatment, and from having hi- 
 therto Tcnowu so little of it, she was 
 the more overcome by Miss Crawford's. 
 Besides, there was gratitude towards 
 her, for having made their t^te k t^te so 
 much less painful than her fears had pre- 
 dicted. 
 
 It was over, and she had escaped 
 without reproaches and without detec- 
 tion. 
 
( lis ) 
 
 tioii. Her secret was still her own ; and 
 while that was the case, she thought she 
 could resign herself to almost every 
 thing. 
 
 In the evening there was another 
 parting. Henry Crawford came and 
 sat some time with them ; and her 
 spirits not being previously in the 
 strongest state, her heart was softened 
 for a while towards him — because he 
 really seemed to feel. — Quite unlike his 
 usual self, he scarcely said any thing. 
 He was evidently oppressed, and Fanny 
 must grieve for him, though hoping 
 she might never see him again till he 
 were the husband of some other woman. 
 
 When it came to the moment of 
 parting, he would take her hand, he 
 would not be denied it ; he said no- 
 thing, however, or nothing that she 
 heard, and when he had left the room, 
 she was better pleased that such a 
 token of friendship had passed. 
 
 On the morrow the Crawfords were 
 
 gone. 
 
 CHAP. 
 
( 119 ) 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Mr. Crawford gone, Sir Thomases 
 next object was, that he should be 
 missed, and he entertained great hope 
 that his niece would find a blank in the 
 loss of those attentions which at the 
 time she had felt, or fancied an evil. 
 She had tasted of consequence in 
 its most flattering form; and he did 
 hope that the loss of it, the sinking 
 again into nothing, would awaken very 
 wholesome regrets in her mind. — He 
 watched her with this idea — but he 
 could hardly tell with what success. He 
 hardly knew whether there were any 
 difference in her spirits or not. She 
 was always so gentle and retiring, that 
 her emotions were beyond his discrimi- 
 nation. He did not understand her; 
 he felt that he did not; and therefore 
 applied to Edmund to tell him how she 
 stood affected on the present occasion, 
 and whether she were more or Jess 
 happy than she had been. 
 
 Edmund 
 
( 120 ) 
 
 Edmund did not discefn any symp- 
 tom of regret, and thought his father 
 a little unreasonable in supposing the 
 first three or four days could produce 
 any. 
 
 What chiefly surprised Edmund was, 
 that Crawford's sister, the friend and 
 companion, who had been so much 
 to her, should not be more visibly 
 regretted. He wondered that Fanny 
 spoke so seldom of her, and had so 
 little voluntarily to say of her concern 
 at this separation, 
 
 Alas ! it was this sister, this friend 
 and companion, who was now the chief 
 bane of Fanny*s comfort.- — If she could 
 have believed Mary's future fate as un- 
 connected with Mansfield, as she was 
 determined the brother's should be, if 
 she could have hoped her return thither, 
 to be as distant as she was much in- 
 clined to think his, she would have 
 been light of heart indeed; but the 
 more she recollected and observed, the 
 more deeply was she convinced that 
 
 every 
 
( 121 ) 
 
 *every thing was now in a fairer train 
 for Miss Crawford's marryin*g Edmund 
 than it had ever been before.— On his 
 side, the inclination was stronger, on 
 hers less equivocal. His objections, the 
 scruples of his integrity, seemed all done 
 away — nobody could tell how ; and 
 the doubts and hesitations of her am- 
 bition were equally got over — and 
 equally without apparent reason. It 
 could only be imputed to increasing 
 attachment. His good and her bad 
 feelings yielded to love, and such love 
 must unite them; He was to go to 
 town, as soon as some business relative 
 to Thornton Lacey were completed — 
 perhaps, within a fortnight, he talked 
 of going, he loved to talk of it; and 
 when once with her again, Fanny could 
 not doubt the rest. — Her acceptance 
 must be as certain as his offer ; and yet, 
 there were bad feelings still remaining 
 which made the prospect of it most 
 sorrowful to her, independently— -she 
 believed independently of self. 
 
 VOL. HI. G la 
 
( lf2 ) 
 
 In their very last conversation, Miss 
 Crawford, in spite of some amiable sen- 
 sations, and much personal kindness, 
 had still been Miss Craw ford, still shewn 
 a mind led astray and bewildered, and 
 without any suspicion of being soj 
 darkened, yet fancying itself light. She 
 might love, but she did not deserve 
 Edmund by any pther sentiment. 
 Fanny believed there w2ls scarcely a 
 second feeling in common between 
 them; and she may be forgiven by 
 older sages, for looking on the chancy 
 of Miss Crawford *s future improve- 
 ment as nearly desperate, for thinking 
 that if Edmund's influence in this sea- 
 son of love, had already done so little 
 inclearing her judgment, and regulating 
 her notions, his worth would be finally 
 wasted on her even in years of matrimony. 
 
 Experience might have hoped more 
 for any young people, so circumstanced, 
 and impartiality would not have denied 
 to Miss Crawford*s nature, that partici- , 
 pation of the general nature of women, 
 
 which 
 
( 123 ) 
 
 which would lead her to adopt the opi- 
 fiioRS of the man she loved and respect- 
 ed, as her own, — But as such were 
 Fannj*s persuasions, she suffered very 
 much from them, and could never speak 
 of Miss Crawford without pain. 
 
 Sir Thomas, meanwhile, went on with 
 his own hopes, and his own observations, 
 still feeling a right, by all his knowledge 
 of human jiature, to expect to see the 
 effect of the loss of power and conse- 
 quence,onhis niece's spirits, and the past 
 attentions of the lover producing a crar*- 
 ing for their return; and he was soon af- 
 terwards able to account for his not yet 
 completely and indubitably seeing all 
 this, by the prospect of another visitor, 
 whose approach he could allow to be 
 quite enough to support the spirits he 
 was watching. — William had obtained 
 a ten days' leave of absence to be given 
 to Northamptonshire, and was coming, 
 the happiest of lieutenants, because 
 the latest made, to shew his happiness 
 and describe his uniform. 
 
 g2 He 
 
( 1^4 ) 
 
 He came ; and he would have been 
 delighted to shew his uniform there 
 too, had not cruel custom prohibited 
 its appeanjnce except on duty. So 
 the uniform remained at Portsmouth, 
 and Edmund conjectured that before 
 Fanny had any chance of seeing it, all 
 its own freshness, and all the freshness 
 ©f its wearer's feelings, must be worn 
 away. It would be sunk into a badge 
 of disgrace; for what can be more un- 
 becoming, or more worthless, than the 
 uniform of a lieutenant, who has been 
 a lieutenant a year or two, and sees 
 others made commanders before him? 
 So reasoned Edmund, till his father 
 made him the confident of a scheme 
 which placed Fanny's chance of seeing 
 4he 2d lieutenant of H. M. S. Thrush, 
 in all his glory in another light. 
 
 This scheme was that she should ac- 
 company her brother back to Ports- 
 mouth, and spend a little time with her 
 own family. It had occurred to Sir 
 Thomas, in one of his dignified musings, 
 
 as 
 
( m5 ) 
 
 siS iEt right and desirable measure ;. but 
 before he fibsolutelj made up his mind^ 
 he consulted his san. Edmund consi- 
 dered it every way, and saw nothing 
 but what was right. The thing was 
 good in itself, and could not be done 
 at a better time ; and he had no doubt 
 of it being highly agreeable to Fanny. 
 This was enough to determine Sir Tho- 
 mas; and a decisive "then so it shall be/ 
 closed that stage of the business; Sir 
 Thomas retiring from it with some 
 feelings of satisfe-ction, and views of 
 good over and above what he had 
 communicated to his son, for his 
 prime motive in sending her away, 
 had very little to do with the propriety 
 of her seeing her parents again, and 
 nothing at all with any idea of making 
 her happy. He certainly wished her 
 to go willingly, but he as certainly wish- 
 ed her to be heartily sick of home 
 before her visit ended ; and that a littk 
 abstinence from the elegancies and lux- 
 uries of Mansfield Park, would bring 
 
 ber 
 
( 1^6 ) 
 
 her mind into a sober state, and incline 
 her to a juster estimate of the value of 
 that home of greater permanence, and 
 equal comfort, of which she had the 
 offer. .: 
 
 It was a medicinal project upon his 
 niece's understanding, which he must 
 consider as at present diseased. A re- 
 sidence of eight or nine years in the 
 abode of wealth and plenty had a little 
 disordered her powers of comparing 
 and judging. Her Father's house 
 would, in all probability, teach her the 
 value of a good income ; and he trusted 
 that she would be the wiser and happier 
 v/oman, all her life, for the experiment 
 he had devised. 
 
 Had Fanny been at all addicted to 
 raptures, she must have had a strong 
 attack of them, when she first under- 
 stood what was intended, when hef 
 vincle first made her the offer of visiting 
 the parents and brothers, and sisters, 
 from whom she had been divided, al- 
 most half her life, of returning for a 
 
 couple 
 
( 127 ) 
 
 ©ouple of months to the scenes of her 
 infancy, with William for the protector 
 and ; companion of her journey j an4 
 the certainty of continuing to see Wil- 
 liam to the last hour of his remaining 
 on land; Had she ever given way to 
 bursts of delight, it must have been 
 then, for she was delighted, but her hap- 
 piness was of aquiet,deep,heart-sweUing 
 sort; and though never a great talker, 
 she was always more inclined to silence 
 when feeling most strongly. At the 
 moment she could only thank and ac- 
 cept. Afterwards, when familiarized 
 with the visions of enjoyment so sud- 
 denly opened, she could speak more 
 largely to William and Edmund of what 
 she felt J but still there were emotions 
 of tenderness that could not be clothed 
 in words — The remembrance of all 
 her earliest pleasures, and of what 
 she had suffered in being torn from 
 them, came over her with renewed 
 strength, and it seemed as if to be 
 at home again, would heal every pain 
 
 that 
 
X ^28 ) 
 
 "that had since grown out of the separa- 
 tion. To be in the centre of such a 
 circle, loved by so many, and more 
 loved by all than she had ever been be- 
 fore, to feel affection without fear or re« 
 straint,to feel herself the equal of th6s6 
 who surrounded her> to be at peace 
 from all mention of the Crawfords, safe 
 from every look which could be fancied 
 a reproach on their account ! — ^Thi$ 
 was a prospect to be dwelt on with a 
 fondness that could be but half acknow-* 
 ledged. 
 
 Edmund too — to be two months 
 from him^ (and perhaps, she might be 
 allowed to make her absence three) 
 must do her good. At a distance un- 
 assailed by his looks or his kindness,, 
 and safe from the perpetual irritation of 
 knowing his heart, and striving to avoid 
 his confiHence, she should be able to 
 reason hf rselt into a properer state ; she 
 should be able to think of him as in Lon- 
 don, and arranging every thing there^ 
 
 without wretchedness. What might 
 
 have 
 
( 129 ) 
 
 Iiave been hard to bear at Mansfield, was 
 to become a slight evil at Portsmouth. 
 
 The only drawback was the doubt of 
 her Aunt Bertram's being comfortable 
 without her. She was of use to no 
 ane else ; but there she might be missed 
 to a degree that she did not like to 
 think of; and that part of the arrange- 
 ment was^ indeed, the hardest for Sir 
 Thomas to accomplish, and what only 
 he could have accomplished at all. 
 
 But he was master at Mansfield Park. 
 When he had really resolved on any 
 measure, he could always carry it 
 through ; and now by dint of long 
 talking on the subject, explaining and 
 dwelling on the duty of Fanny's some* 
 times seeing her family, he did induce 
 his wife to let her go; obtaining it ra- 
 ther from submission,however,than con- 
 viction, for Lady Bertram was convin- 
 ced of very little more than that Sic:. 
 Thomas thought Fanny ought to go, 
 and therefore that she must. In the 
 calmness of her own dressing-room, in 
 ©3 . the 
 
( ISO ) 
 
 the impartial flow of her own medita- 
 tions^ unbiassed by his bewildering state- 
 ments, she could not acknowledge any 
 necessity for Fanny's ever going Hear at 
 Father and Mother who had done with- 
 out her so long, while she was so useful 
 to herself. —And as to the not missing 
 her, which under Mrs. Norris's discus- 
 sion was the point attempted to be> 
 proved, she set herself very steadily 
 against admitting any such thing. 
 
 Sir Thomas had appealed to her rea- 
 soa, conscience, and dignity. He call- 
 ed it a sacrifice, and demanded it of her 
 goodness and self-command as such. 
 But Mrs. Norris wanted to persuade her 
 that Fanny could be very well spared — - 
 (S/ie hem g ready to give up all her owa 
 time to her as requested) and in short 
 could not really be wanted or missed. 
 
 *^ That maybe, sister, " — was all Lady 
 Bertram's re ply-^'' I dare say you are 
 very right, but I am sure I shall miss 
 her very much." 
 
 The next step was to communicate 
 
 with 
 
( 131 ) 
 
 with Portsmouth. Fanny wrote to 
 offer herself; and her mother's answer, 
 though short, was so kind, a few sim- 
 ple lines expressed so natural and mo- 
 therly a joy in the prospect of seeing her 
 child again, as ta confirm all the daugh^ 
 ter's views of happiness ia being with 
 her — convincing her that she should 
 now find a warm and affectionate friend 
 in the " Mamma*' who had certainly 
 shewn no remarkable fondness for her 
 formerly; but this she could easily sup- 
 pose to have been her own fault, or her 
 own fancy. She had probably alienated 
 Love by the helplessness and fretfulness 
 of a fearful temper, or been unreason^ 
 able in wanting a larger share than any 
 one among somany could deserve. Now, . 
 when she knew better how to be useful 
 and how to forbear, and when her mo- 
 ther could be no longer occupied by^the 
 incessant demands of a house full of 
 little children, there would be leisure 
 and iTiclination for eyery comfort,^ and . 
 
 thejf. 
 
( i3i ) 
 
 they should soon be what mother aRc!' 
 daughter ought to be to each other. 
 
 WilHam was ahnost as happy in the 
 plan as his si&ter. It would be the greatest 
 pleasure to him to have her there to the 
 last moment before he sailed, and per- 
 liaps find her there still when he came 
 in, from his first cruise ! And besides, 
 he wanted her so very much to see the 
 Thrush before she went out of har- 
 bour (the Thrush was certainly the finest 
 sloop in the service). And there were 
 several improvements in the dock-yard, 
 too, which he quite longed to shew her,. 
 
 He did not scruple to add, that her 
 being at home for a while would be a 
 great advantage to every body,. 
 
 ** I do not know how it is," said he, 
 " but we seem to want some of your 
 nice ways and orderliness at my father's.. 
 The house is always in confusion. You 
 will set things going in a better way, I 
 am sure. You will tell my mother how 
 it alt ought to be, and you will be so 
 useful to Susan^andyou will teachBetsey^ 
 
 and 
 
( 133 ) 
 
 and riiake the boys love and mind you*. 
 How right andcomfortable it will all be!'* 
 By the time Mrs. Price's answer ar- 
 rived, there remained but a very few 
 days more to be spent at Mansfield ; 
 and for part of one of those days the 
 young travellers were in a good deal of 
 alarm on the subject of their journey, 
 for when the mode of it came to be 
 talked of, and Mrs. Norris found that 
 all her anxiety to save her Brother-in- 
 law's money was vain, and that in spite 
 of her wishes and hints for a less expen- 
 sive conveyance of Fanny, they were 
 to travel post, when she saw Sir Tho- 
 mas actually give William notes for the 
 purpose, she was struck with the idea 
 of there being room for a third in the 
 carriage, and suddenly seized with a 
 strong inclination to go with them— to 
 go and see her poor dear sister Price. 
 She proclaimed her thoughts. She must 
 say that she had more than half a mind 
 to go with the young people -, it would 
 be such aa indulgence to her ^ she had 
 
 not 
 
(' 154 > 
 
 not sjeen her poor dear sister Price 
 for more than twenty years ; and it 
 would be a help to the young people 
 in their journey to have her older head 
 to manage for them ; and she could not 
 help thinking her poor dear sister Price 
 "would feel it very uiAind of her not ta 
 come by such an opportunity. 
 
 William and Fanny were horror-t 
 struck at the idea.„ 
 
 All the comfort of their comfortable 
 journey would be destroyed at oncCi 
 With woeful countenances they looked 
 at each other. Their suspense lasted 
 an hour or two. No one interfered to 
 encourage or dissuade. Mrs. Norris 
 was left to settle the matter by herself ; 
 and it ended to the infeiite joy of heu 
 nephew and niece, in the recollection 
 that she could not possibly be spared from 
 Mansfield Park at present > that she was 
 a great deal too . accessary to Sic 
 Thomas and Lady Bertram for her to 
 be able to answer it to herself to leave 
 them even for a week^ and therefore 
 
 must 
 
( 135 ) 
 
 must certainly sacrifice every other plea- 
 sure to that of being useful to them. 
 
 It had, in fact, occurred to her, that, 
 though taken to Portsmouth for no- 
 thing, it would be hardly possible for her 
 to avoid paying her ovirn expenses back 
 again. So, her poor dear sister Price 
 was left to all the disappointment of her 
 missing such an opportunity ; and an- 
 other twenty years' absence, 'perhaps, 
 begun. 
 
 Edmund's plans were affected by this 
 Portsmouth journey, this absence cf 
 Fanny's. He too had a. sacrifice to 
 make to Mansfield Park, as well as his 
 aunt. He had intended, about this time> 
 to be going to= London, but he oould 
 not leave his father and mother just 
 when every body else of most import- 
 ance to their comfort, was leaving 
 them; and with an eifort, felt but not 
 boasted of, he delayed for a week or two 
 longer a journt^y which he was looking 
 forward to, with the hope of its fixing 
 his happiness for ever. 
 
 He 
 
( 136 I 
 
 - He told Fanny of it She knew so 
 much already, that she must know 
 every thing. It made the substance of 
 one other confidential discourse about 
 Miss Crawford; and Fanny was th6 
 more affeited from feeling it to be the 
 last time in which Miss Crawford*^ 
 name would everbe mentioned between, 
 them with any remains of liberty. Once 
 afterwards, she was alluded to by him» 
 Lady Bertram had been telling her 
 niece in the evening to write to her soon 
 and often, and promising to be a good 
 correspondent herself; and Edmund, 
 at a convenient moment^ then added, in . 
 a whisper, " And /shall write to you, . 
 Fanny, when I have any tiling worth 
 writing about ; any thing to say, that 
 I think you will like to hear, and thafe 
 you will not hear so soon from any 
 other quarter." Had she doubted his 
 meaning while. she listened, the glow ia 
 his face, when she looked up at hiniy , 
 would have been decisive. 
 
 For this letter- she must try to arnx . 
 
 herself,: 
 
( 137 > 
 
 -^herself. That a letter from Edmund 
 should be a subject of terror! She 
 began to feel that she had not yet gone 
 through all the changes of opinion and 
 sentiment, which the progress of time 
 and variation of circumstances occasion 
 in this world of changes. The vicissi* 
 tudes of the human mind had not yet 
 been exhausted by her.^ 
 
 Poor Fanny [ though going, as she 
 did, willingly and eagerly, the last even- 
 ing at Mansfield Park must still be 
 wretchedness. Her heart was com- 
 pletely sad at parting. She had tears 
 for every room in the house, much 
 more for every beloved inhabitant* 
 She clung to her aunt, because she 
 would miss her; she kissed the hand of 
 her uncle with struggling sobs, because 
 she had displeased him; and as for Ed- 
 mund, she could ^leither speak, nor 
 look, nor think, when the last moment 
 came with him^ and it was not till it was 
 over that she knew he was giving her 
 the atlectionate farewell of a brother. 
 
 All 
 
( 13S ) 
 
 All this passed over night, for the 
 journey was to begin very early in 
 the morning ; and when the small, 
 diminished party met at ^breakfast, 
 William and Fanny were talked of as 
 already advanced one stage,^ 
 
( 139 ) 
 
 CHAPTER VII. . 
 
 The novelty of travelling, and th« 
 happiness of being with William, soon 
 produced their natural effect on Fanny's 
 spirits, when Mansfield Park was fairly 
 left behind, and by the time their tirst 
 stage was ended, and they were to 
 quit Sir Thomas's carriage, she was 
 able to take leave of the old coachman, 
 and send back proper messages, with 
 cheerful looks. 
 
 Of pleasant talk between the bro- 
 ther and sister, there was bo end. 
 Every thing supplied an amusement 
 to the high glee of William's mind, 
 and he was full of frolic and joke, in 
 the intervals of their higher-toned sub- 
 jects, all of which ended, if they did 
 not begin, in praise of the Thrush, con- 
 jectures how she would be employed, 
 schemes for an action with some su- 
 perior force, which (supposing the firs^t 
 lieutenant out of the way — and William 
 
 was 
 
f( 140 ) 
 
 was not very merciful to the first lieu- 
 tenant) w^s to give himself the next 
 step as soon as possible, or speculations^ 
 m^on prize money, which was to be 
 generously distributed at home, witiv 
 only the reservation of enough to make 
 the little cottage comfortable, in whicli 
 he and Fanny were to pass all their mid^ 
 die and latter life together. 
 
 Fanny's immediate concerns, as^ 
 far as they involved Mr. Crawford, 
 made no part of their conversation* 
 William knew what had passed, and> 
 from his heart lamented that his sister's 
 feelings should be so cold towards a man 
 whom he must consider as the first of 
 human characters; but he was of an 
 age to be all for love, and therefore 
 unable to blame; and knowing her 
 wish on the subject, he would not dis*» 
 tress her by the slightest allusion. 
 
 She had reason to suppose herself not 
 yet forgotten by Mr. Ci afford. — She 
 had heard repeatedly from his sister 
 within the three weeks which had passed 
 
 since 
 
( 141 ) 
 
 since their leaving Mansfield, and in 
 each letter there had been a few lines 
 from himself, warm and determined like 
 his speeches. It was a correspondence 
 which Fanny found quite as unpleasant 
 as she had feared. Miss Crawford^s 
 'Style of writing, lively and affectionate, 
 was itself an evil, independent of what 
 she was thus forced into reading 
 from the brother's pen, for Edmund 
 would never rest till she had read the 
 chief of the letter to him, and then 
 she had to listen to his admiration 
 of her language, and the warmth 
 of her attachments. — There had, in 
 fact, been so much of message, of 
 allusion, of recollection, so much of 
 Mansfield in every letter, that Faniiy 
 could not but suppose it meant for 
 him to hear; and to find herself 
 forced into a purpose of that kind, 
 compelled into a correspondence which 
 was bringing her the addresses of the 
 man she did not love, and obliging her 
 to administer to the adverse passion of 
 
 the 
 
( 142 ) 
 
 the man she did, was cruelly mortifying. 
 Here, too, her present removal pro- 
 mised advantage. When no longer 
 under the same roof w^ith Edmund, 
 she trusted that Miss Crawford would 
 have no motive for writing, strong 
 enough to overcome the trouble, and 
 that at Portsmouth their correspond- 
 ence would dwindle into nothing. 
 
 With such thoughts as these among 
 ten hundred others, Fanny proceeded 
 in her journey, safely and cheerfully, 
 and as expeditiously as could rationally 
 behopedin the dirty month of February. 
 They entered Oxford, but she could 
 take only a hasty glimpse of Edmund's 
 College as they passed along, and made 
 no stop any where, till they reached 
 Newbury, where a comfortable meal, 
 uniting dinner and supper, wound up 
 the enjoyments and fatigues of the day^ 
 
 The next morning saw them off again 
 at an early hour ; and with no events 
 and no delays they regularly advanced, 
 and were in the environs of Portsmouth 
 
 while 
 
( 1*3 ) 
 
 while there was yet daylight for Fanny 
 to look around her, and wonder at the 
 n€w buildings. — They passed the Draw- 
 bridge, and entered the town ; and the 
 light was only beginning to fail, as^ 
 guided by William's powerful voice, 
 they were rattled into a narrow street, 
 leading from the high street, and drawn 
 up before the door of a small house 
 now inhabited by Mr. Price. 
 
 Fanny was all agitation and flutter- 
 all hope and apprehension. The mo- 
 ment they stopt, a trollopy-looking 
 maid-servant, seemingly in waiting for 
 them at the door, stept forward, and 
 more intent on telling the news, than 
 giving them any help, immediately be- 
 gan with " the Thrush is gone out of 
 harbour, please Sir, and one of the 
 
 officers has been here to'* She was 
 
 interrupted by a fine tall boy of eleven 
 years old, who rushing out of the 
 house, pushed the maid aside, and 
 while William was opening the chaise 
 door himself, called out, ^' you are 
 
 just 
 
( 144 ) 
 
 just in time. We have been looking for 
 you this half hpur. The Thrush went 
 out of harbour this jnorning. I saw 
 her. It was a beautiful sight. And 
 they think she will have her orders in 
 a day or two. And Mr. Campbell was 
 here at four o'clock, to ask for you ; 
 l^e has got one of the Thrush'sboats,and 
 is going off to her at six, and hoped you 
 would be here in time to go with him." 
 A stare or two at Fanny, as William 
 helpedher out of the carriage, was all the 
 voluntary notice which this brother be- 
 stowed ; — but he made no objection to 
 her kissing him, though still entirely 
 engaged in detailing farther particulars 
 of the Thrush's going out of harbour, 
 in which he had a strong right of in- 
 terest, being to commence his career of 
 s,eamanship in her at this very time. 
 . Another moment, and Fanny was in 
 the narrow entrance-passage of the 
 house, and in her mother's arms, who 
 met her there with looks of true kind- 
 ness, and with features which Fanny 
 
 loved 
 
( 145 ) 
 
 loved the more, because they brought 
 her aunt Bertram's before her j and 
 there were her two sisters, Susan, a 
 well-grown fine girl of fourteen, aad 
 Betsey, the youngest of the family, 
 about five — ^both glad to see her in their 
 way, though with no advantage of man- 
 ner in receiving her. But manner Pan- 
 ny did not want. Would they but love 
 her, she should be satisfied. 
 
 She was then taken into a parlour, so 
 small that her first conviction was of its 
 being only a passage-roomto something 
 better, and she stood for a moment ex- 
 pecting tt) be invited on ; but when she 
 saw there was no other door, and that 
 there were signs of habitation before 
 her, she «alled back her thoughts, re- 
 proved herself, and grieved lest they 
 should have been suspected. Her mo- 
 ther, however, could not stay long 
 enough to suspect any thing. She was 
 gone again to the street door, to wel- 
 come William. ** Oh ! my dear Wil- 
 liam, how glad I am to see you. But 
 VOL. III. H have 
 
( 146 ) 
 
 have yod heard about the Thrush? She 
 is gone out of ha- hour already, three 
 days before we had auy thought of it ; 
 and 1 do not know what I am to do 
 about Sam\s things, they will never be 
 ready in time; for she may have her. 
 orders to-morrow, perhaps. It takes 
 me quite unawares. And nc»w you, 
 must be otf for Spithead too. Campbell 
 has been here, quite in a worry about 
 you; and now, wi»at shall we do? I 
 thought to have had siich a comfortable 
 evening with you, and here every thing 
 comes upon me at once.'* 
 
 Her son answered cheerfully, telling 
 her that every thing was always for the 
 best; and maKing light of his own in- 
 convenience, in being obliged to hurry 
 away so soon, 
 
 *' To be sure, I had much rather she. 
 had stayed in harbour,that 1 might have 
 sat a few hours with you in comfort; 
 but as there is a boat ashore, I had bet- 
 ter go off at once, and there is no help 
 for it. Whereabouts does the Thrush ^ 
 
 lay 
 
( 147' ) 
 
 lay at Spithead ? Near the Canopus ? 
 But no matter-— here's Fanny in the 
 parlour, and why should we stay in the 
 passage? — Come, mother, you have 
 hardly looked at your own dear Fanny 
 yet-'' 
 
 In they both came, and Mrs, Price 
 havingkindly kissed her daughter again, 
 and commented a little on her growth, 
 began with very natural solicitude to 
 feel for their fatigues and wants as tra- 
 vellers. 
 
 "Poor dears! how tired you must 
 both be ! — and now what will you have? 
 I began to think you would never come. 
 Betsey and I have beenw^atching for you 
 this half hour. And when did you get 
 anything to eat ? And what would you 
 like to have now ? I could not tell whe- 
 ther you would be for some meat, or 
 only a dish of tea after your journey, or 
 else I would have got something ready. 
 And now I am afraid Campbell will be 
 here, before there is time to dress a 
 steak, and we have no butcher at hand. 
 H 2 It 
 
( 148 ) 
 
 It is very inconvenient to have no 
 butcher in the street. We were better 
 oiF in our last house. Perhaps you 
 M^ould like some tea, as soon as it can 
 be got." 
 
 They both declared they should pre- 
 fer it to anything. *' Tlien, Bt-tsey, my 
 dear, run into the kitchen, and see if 
 Rebecca has put the water on ; and tell 
 her to bring in the tea-things as sooa 
 as she can. I wish we could get the 
 bell mended — but Betsey is a very handy 
 little messenger." 
 
 Betsey went with alacrity ; proud to 
 shew her abilities before her fine new 
 sister* 
 
 "Dear me!" continued the anxious 
 mother, " what a sad fire we have got, 
 and I dare say you are both starved 
 with cold. Draw your chair nearer, 
 my dear. I cannot think what Re- 
 becca has been about. I am sure I told 
 her to bring some coals half an hour 
 ago. Susan, ^ow should have taken care 
 of the fire." 
 
 *^ I was 
 
( 1^9 ) 
 
 '* Iwas up stairs, mamma, moving my 
 things ;*' said Susan, in a fearless, self- 
 defending tone, which startled Fanny. 
 ** You know you had but just settled 
 that my sister Fanny and I should have 
 the other room ; and I could not get 
 Rebecca to give me any help." 
 
 Farther discussion was prevented by 
 various bustles; first, the driver came 
 to be paid — then there was a squabble 
 between Sam and Rebecca, about th^ 
 manner of carrying up his sister's tfun^^ 
 which he would manage all his own 
 way; and lastly in walked Mr. Price 
 himself, his own loud voice preceding 
 him, as with something of the oath 
 kind he kicked away hts^sbn's portman- 
 teau, and his daughter's band-box in- 
 the passage, and called out for a candle; 
 no candle was brought, however^and he 
 walked into the room, 
 
 Fanny, with doubting /eelings, had! 
 risen to meet him, but sank down again 
 on finding herself undistinguisned in 
 tbe dusk, and unthought of. With a, 
 
 friendly 
 
( 150 ) 
 
 friendly shake of his son's hand, and an 
 eager voice, he instantly began— " Ha I 
 >velconie back, my boy. Glad to see 
 you. Have you heard the news ? The 
 Thrush went out of harbour this morn- 
 ing. Sharp is the word, you see. ByG — -^ 
 you are just in time. The doctor has 
 been here enquiring for you; he has got 
 one of the boats, and is to be off for Spit- 
 head by six, so you had better go with 
 him. I have been to Turner*s about 
 your mess ; it is all in a way to b© 
 done. I should npt wonder if you had 
 your orders to-morrow; but.you cannot 
 sail with this wind, if you are to cruize 
 to the westward; and Captain Walsh 
 thmks you will certainly have a cruize 
 to the westward, with the Elephant. 
 By G^ — , I wish you may. But old 
 Scholey was saying just now, that he 
 thought you would be sent first to the 
 ^^'exel. Well, well, we are ready, what- 
 ever happens. But by G — , you lost a 
 fine sight by not being here in the 
 moTning to see the Thrush go out of 
 
 harbour. 
 
( 151 ) 
 
 harbour. I would not have been out of 
 the way for a thousand pounds. *OM 
 Scholey ran in at breakfast time, ta say 
 she had slipped her moorings and was 
 coming out. I jumped up, and made 
 but two steps to the platform. If ever 
 there was a perfect beauty afloat, she is 
 one^ and there .«he lays at Spithead^and 
 anybody in England would take her for 
 an eight^and-twenty. 1 was upon the 
 platform two hours this afternoon, look- 
 ing at her. She lays close to the En- 
 dymion, between her and t he Cleopatra, 
 just to the eastward of the sht^er hulk." 
 
 " HaT cried William, " that's just 
 "where 1 should have put her myself. 
 Jt's the bebt birth at Spiihc-aH. But 
 here is my sistei% Sir, here is Fanny ^^ 
 tnrning and leadnig her forward , — '* it 
 is so dark you do not see her.** 
 
 Witlian acknowledgment that he had 
 quite foruot her, Mr. Price now received 
 his daughter; aud, having given lier a 
 cordial hug, and observed tUat she was 
 grown into a woman, and he supposed 
 
 would 
 
( 132 ) 
 
 would bewanting a husband soon,seem- 
 edverymuchinclinedtoforget her again. 
 
 Fanny shrunk back to her seat, with 
 feelings sadly pained by his language 
 and his smell of spirits 3 and he talked 
 on only to his son, and only of the 
 Thrush^ though William, warmly inter- 
 ested, as he was, in that subject, more 
 than once tried to make his father think 
 of Fanny, and her long absence and 
 long journey. 
 
 After sitting some time longer, a 
 candle was obtained ; but, as there was 
 still no appearance of tea, nor, from 
 Betsey's reports from the kitchen, much 
 hope of any under a considerable pe- 
 riod, William determined to go and 
 change his dress, and make the necessary 
 preparations for his removal on board 
 directly, that he might have his tea in 
 comfort afterwards. 
 
 As he left the room, two rosy-faced 
 boys, ragged and dirty, about eight and 
 nine years old, rushed into it just re- 
 leased from school, and coming eagerly 
 
 to 
 
( 153 ) 
 
 to see their sister, and tell that theThrusli 
 was gone out of harbour; Tom and 
 Charles: Charles had been born since 
 Fanny *s ^oing away, but Tom she had 
 often helped to nurse, and now felt a 
 particular pleasure in seeing again* 
 Both were kissed very tenderly^ but 
 Tom she wanted to keep by her, to try 
 to trace the features of the baby she had- 
 loved, and talked to, of his infant pre- 
 ference of lierself. Tom, however, had 
 no mind for such treatment : became 
 home, not to stand and be talked to^ 
 but to run about and make a noise; and 
 both boys had soon burst away fromher^ 
 and slammed the parlour door till her 
 temples ached. 
 
 She had now seen all that were at 
 home; there remained only two bro- 
 thers between herself and Susan, one 
 of whom was a clerk in a public office 
 in London, and the other midshipman 
 on board an Indiaman. But though she 
 had seen all the members of the family^ 
 she had not yet A^^r^ all the noise they 
 n3 could 
 
( IH ) 
 
 >GOuM^ make. Another quarter of ati 
 lioitr brought her a great deal more, 
 William was soon calling out from the 
 landing-place of the second story, for 
 his mother and for Rebecca, He was 
 in dis%fess for something that he had left 
 there, and did not find again. A key 
 was mislaid, Betsey accused of haying 
 got at his new hat, and some slight, but 
 essential alteration of his uniform waist- 
 coat,, which he had been promised ta 
 have done for him, entirely neglected. 
 
 Mrs. Price, Rebecca, and Betsey, all 
 went up to defend themselves, all talk- 
 ing together,, but Rebecca loudest, and 
 the job was to be done, as well as it 
 could, in a great hurry j William try- 
 ing in vain to send Betsey down 
 again, or keep her from bemg trouble- 
 some where she was ; the whole of 
 which, as almost every door in the 
 house was open, could be plainly distin- 
 guished in the parlour, except when 
 drowned at intervals by the superior 
 jioise of Sam, Tom, and Charles chasing 
 
 each. 
 
( 155 ) 
 
 each other up and down stairs, and 
 tumbling about and hallooing. 
 
 Fanny was almost stunned. The 
 small ness of the house, and thinness of 
 the walls, brought every thing so close 
 to her, that, added to the fatigue of her. 
 journey, and aH her recent agitation^ 
 she hardly knew how to bear it. 
 WithintheroomM was tranquil enough, 
 for Susan having disappeared with the 
 others, there were soon only \wr father 
 and herself remaining; and he taking 
 out a newspaper — the accustomary loan, 
 of a neighbour, applied himself to stu- 
 dying it, without seeming to recollect 
 her existence. The solitary candle was 
 held between himself and the paper, 
 without any reference to her possible 
 convenience ; but she had nothing to 
 do, and was j>lad to have the light 
 screened from her aching head, as she 
 sat in bewildered, broken, sorrowful 
 contemplation. 
 
 She was at home. But alas ! it was 
 3i0t such a home, she had not such a 
 
 welcome^ . 
 
( 156 ) 
 
 welcome, as she checked herself; 
 
 she was unreasonable. What right had 
 she to be of importance to her family F 
 She could have none, so long lost 
 s.ight of! William's concerns must be 
 clearest— they always had been— and he 
 had every right. Yet to have so little 
 said or asked about herself — to have 
 scarcely an enquiry made after Mans* 
 field 1 It did pain her to have Mansfteld 
 forgotten^ the friends who had done so» 
 much— the dear, dear friends! But 
 here, one subject swallowed up all the 
 rest^ Perhaps it must be so. The des- 
 tination of the Thrush must be now 
 pre-eminently interesting. A day or 
 two might shew the difference. Sko 
 only was to blame. Yet she thought it 
 would not have been so at Mansfield* 
 No, in her uncle's house there would 
 have been a consideration of times and 
 seasons, a regulation of subject, a pro- 
 priety, an attention towards every bodp 
 which there was not here. 
 The only interruption which thoughts 
 
 like 
 
( 15Y ) 
 
 like these received for nearly half an 
 hour, was from a sudden burst of her 
 father's, not at all calculated to compose 
 them. At a more than ordinary pitch 
 of thumping and hallooing in the pas- 
 sage, he exclaimed, " Devil take those 
 young dogs! How they are singing 
 out ! Ay, Sam's voice louder than all 
 the rest ! That boy is fit for a boat- 
 swain. Holla — ^you there — Sam — stop 
 your confounded pipe, or I shall be after 
 you.'* 
 
 This threat was so palpably disre-. 
 garded, that though within fi\e minutes 
 afterwards the three boys all burst into 
 the room together and sat down, Fanny 
 could not consider it as a proof of any 
 thing more than their being for the 
 time thoroughly fagged, which their 
 hot faces and panting breaths seemed 
 to prove — especially as they were still 
 kicking each other's shins, and hallooing 
 out at sudden starts immediately under 
 their father's eye. 
 
 The next opening of the door brought 
 
 something 
 
( J 5g ) 
 
 something more welcorne^ it was for 
 the tea-thingSj which she had begua 
 almost to despair of seeing that evening; 
 Susan and an attendant girl,, whose in- 
 ferior appearance informed Fanny, to 
 her great surprise, that she had previ- 
 ously seen the upper servant brought 
 in every thing necessary for the meal; 
 Susan looking as she put the kettle on 
 the fire and glanced at her sister, as if 
 divided betweenr the asyreeable triumph 
 of shewing her activity and usefulness^ 
 and the (head of being thought' to 
 demean herself by such an office. " She 
 kad been into the kitchen,'' she said^^ 
 ''to hurry Sally and help make the 
 toast, and spread the bread and butter 
 —or she did not know when they 
 should have got tea— and she was sure 
 her sister must want something after 
 her journey '* 
 
 Fanny was very thankfuK She could 
 not but own that she should be very 
 glad of a little tea, and Susan imme- 
 diately set about making it^ as if pleased 
 
 ta 
 
( lo^ ) 
 
 to have the employment all to herself; 
 and with only a little unnecessary 
 bustle, and some few injudicious 
 attempts at keeping her brothers iii 
 better order than she could, acquitted 
 herself very well. Fanny's spirit was 
 as much refreshed as her body ; her 
 head and heart were soon the better for 
 such well-timed kindness. Susan had 
 an open, sensible countenance; she was 
 like William — and Fanny hoped to find 
 her like him in disposition and good 
 will towards herself. 
 
 In this more placid state of things 
 William re-entered, followed not far 
 behind by his mother and Betsey. He, 
 complete in his Lieutenant's uniform, 
 looking and moving all the taller, 
 firmer, and more graceful for it, and 
 with the happiest smile over his face, 
 walked up directly to Fanny— who, 
 rising from her seat, looked at him 
 for a moment in speechless admiration, 
 and then threw her arms round his 
 
 neck 
 
( 160 ) 
 
 neck to sob out her various emotions of 
 pain and pleasure. 
 
 Anxious not to appear unhappy, she 
 soon recovered herself: and. wiping 
 away her rears, was able to notice and 
 admire all the striking parts of his dress 
 -—listening with reviving spirits to his 
 cheerful hopes of being on shore some 
 part of every day before they sailed^ 
 itnd even of getting her to Spithead to 
 see the sloop. 
 
 The next bustle brought in Mr. 
 Campbell, the Surgeon of the Thrush^ 
 a very well behaved young man, who 
 came to call for his friend, and for 
 vi'hom there was with some contrivance 
 found a chair, and with some hasty 
 washing of the young tea-maker's, a 
 cup and saucer; and after another quar- 
 ter of an hour of earnest talk between 
 the gentlemen, noise rising upon noise, 
 and bustle upon bustle, men and boys 
 at last all in motion together, the mo- 
 ment came for setting off; every thing 
 was ready, William took leave, and all 
 
 of 
 
( 161 ) 
 
 of them were gone— for the three boys, 
 in spite of their mother's intreaty, de- 
 termined to see their brother and Mr. 
 Campbell to the sally-port; and Mr* 
 Price walked off at the same time ta 
 carry back his neighbour's newspaper. 
 
 Something like tranquillity might 
 now be hoped for, and accord in gly> 
 when Rebecca had been prevailed on 
 to carry away the tea-things, and Mrs* 
 Price had walked about the room some 
 time looking for a shirt sleeve, which 
 Betsey at last hunted out from a drawer 
 in the kitchen, the small party of fe- 
 males were pretty well composed, and 
 the mother having lamented again over 
 the impossibility of getting Sam ready 
 in time, was at leisure to think of her 
 eldest daughter and the friends she had 
 come from. 
 
 A few enquiries began ; but one of 
 the earliest — " How did her sister Ber- 
 tram manage about her servants ? Was 
 she as much plagued as herself to get 
 tolerable servants?**— soon led her mind 
 
 away 
 
( 162 ) 
 
 .away from Northamptonshire, and fixed 
 -iton her own domestic grievances; and 
 the shocking character of all the Ports- 
 mouth servants, of whom she believed 
 her own two were the very worst, en- 
 grossed her completely. The Bertrams 
 M^ere all forgotten in detailing the faults 
 of Rebecca, against whom Susan had 
 also much, to depose, and little Betsey a 
 great deal more, and who did seem so 
 thoroughly witlioyt a single recommen- 
 dation, that Fanny cou-ld not help mo- 
 destly presuming lijat her mothei- meant 
 to part will) tier when her year was up, 
 « Her year !" cned Mrs. Price; "I 
 am sure I hope F shall be rid ol" her be- 
 fore she has staid a year, tor that will not 
 be up till November. Servants are 
 come to such a pass, my dear, in Ports- 
 mouth, that it is quite a mnacle if one 
 keeps them more than halt'-a-year; I 
 have no hope of ever being settled; 
 and if 1 was to part with Rebecca, I 
 should only get something worse. And 
 yet I do not think I am a verydifficidt 
 
 mistress, 
 
( 163 ) 
 
 mistress to please — and I am sure tMe 
 place is easy enough, for there is always 
 a girl under her, and I often do half the 
 work myself.'' 
 
 Fanny was silent; but not from being 
 convinced that there might not be a 
 remedy found for some of these evils. 
 As she now sat looking at Betsey, she 
 could not but think particularly of ano- 
 ther sister, a very pretty little girl, whom 
 she had left there not much younger 
 when she went into Northamptonshire^ 
 who had died a few years afterwards* 
 There had been something remarkably 
 amiable about her. Fanny, in those 
 early days, had preferred her to Susan;- 
 and when the news of her death had 
 at last reached Mansfield, had for a short 
 time been quite afflicted. — -The sight of 
 Betsey brought the image of little Mary 
 back again, but she would not have 
 pained her mother by alluding to her, 
 for the world. ^ — While considering her 
 wt^ these ideas, Betsey, at a small dis- 
 tance was holding out something to- 
 
 catch 
 
( ^^4. ) 
 
 catch her eyes, meaning to screen it at 
 the same time from Susan's. 
 
 " What have you got there, my 
 love?" said Fanny, " come and shew it 
 to me.'* 
 
 It was a silver knife. Up jumped 
 Susan, claiming it as her own, and trying, 
 to get it away ; but the child ran to her 
 mother's protection, and Susan could: 
 only reproach, which she did \erj 
 warmly, and evidently hoping to inte- 
 rest Fanny on her side. ** It was very 
 hard that she was not to have her oivm 
 knife; it was her own knife; little 
 sister Mary had left it to her upon her 
 death-bedj and she ought to have had 
 it to keep herself long ago. But mamma 
 kept it from her, and was alwaj's letting 
 Betsey get hold of it ; and the end of 
 it would be that Betsey would spoil it, 
 and get it for her own, though mamma 
 had promised her that Betsey should not 
 have it in her own hands." 
 
 Fanny was quite shocked. Em^J 
 feeling of duty, honour, su»d teOTer- 
 
 ness 
 
( 165 ) 
 
 Bess was wounded by her sister's speech 
 and her mother's reply. 
 
 ** Now, Susan,*' cried Mrs* Price in a 
 complaining voice, *' now, how can 
 you be so cross? You are always quar- 
 relling about that knife. 1 whh you 
 would not be so quarrelsome. Poor 
 little Betsey ; how cross Susan is to you! 
 But you should not have taken it out, 
 my dear, when I sent you to the drawer. 
 You know I told you not to touch it, 
 because Susan is so cross about it. I 
 must hide it another time, Betsey. Poor 
 Mary little thought it would be such a 
 bone of contention when she gave it me 
 to keep, only two hours before she died. 
 Poor little soul! she could but just 
 speak to be heard, and she said so pret^ 
 tily, * Let sister Susan heive my knife, 
 mamma, when I am dead and buried.' 
 —Poor little d^ar ' she was so fond of it, 
 Fanny, that she would have it lay by 
 her in bed, all through her illness. It 
 was the gift of her good godmother, 
 old Mrs. Admiral Maxwell, only six 
 
 weeks 
 
{ 166 ) 
 
 weeks before she was taken for death* 
 Poor little sweet creature ! Well, she 
 was taken away from evil to come. My 
 own Betsey, (fondling her), i/ow have not 
 the luck of such a good godmother. 
 Aunt Norris lives too far off, to think 
 of such little people as you." 
 
 Fanny had indeed nothing to convey 
 from aunt Norris, but a message to say 
 she hoped her god-daughter was a good 
 girl, and learnt her book. There had 
 been at one moment a slight murmur 
 in the drawing-room at Mansfield Park^ 
 about sending her a Prayer-book; but 
 no second sound had been heard of 
 such a purpose. Mrs. Norris, however, 
 had gone home and taken down two 
 ©Id Prayer-books of her husband, with 
 that idea, but upon examination, the 
 ardour of generosity went off. One 
 was found to have too small a print for 
 a child's eyes, and the other to be too' 
 cumbersome for her to carry about. 
 
 , Fanny fatigued and fatigued ajgain, 
 was thankful to accept the first imitsL- 
 
 tion 
 
( 167 ) 
 
 tion of going to bed ; and before Betsey 
 had finisher] her cry at being allowed to 
 jsit up only one hour extraordinary in 
 honour of sister, she was off, leaving all 
 below HI confusion and noise again, the 
 boys begging for toasted cheese, her 
 father calling out for his rum and 
 water, and Rebecca never where she 
 ought to be. 
 
 There was nothing to raise her spirits 
 in the confined and scantily-furnished 
 chamber that she was to share with 
 Susan. The smallness of the rooms 
 above and below indeed, and the nar- 
 rowness of the passage and staircase, 
 j^ruck her beyond her imagination. She 
 soon learnt to think with respect of her 
 own little attic at Mansfield Park, in 
 that house reckoned too small for any- 
 l)ody*s comfort. 
 
 CHAP, 
 
( 168 ) 
 
 CHAPTER VIIL 
 
 Could Sir Thomas have seen all his 
 niece's feelings, when she wrote her 
 first letter to her aunt, he would not 
 have despaired ; for though a good 
 night's rest, a pleasant morning, the 
 hope of soon seeing William again, and 
 the comparatively quiet state of the 
 house, from Tom and Charles being 
 gone to school, Sam on some project of 
 his own, and her father on his usual 
 lounges, enabled her to express herself 
 cheerfully on the subject of home, there 
 were still to her own perfect conscious- 
 iiess,many drawbackssuppressed. Could 
 he have seen only half that she felt be- 
 fore the end of a week, he would have 
 thought Mr. Crawford sure of her, and 
 been delighted with his own sagacity. 
 Before the week ended, it was all 
 disappointment. In the first place, 
 William was gone. The Thrush had 
 bad her orders, the wind had changed, 
 
 and 
 
( 169 ) 
 
 and he was sailed within four days from 
 their reaching Portsmouth ; and during 
 those days, she had seen him only twice, 
 in a short and hurried way, when he 
 had come ashore on duty. There had 
 been no free conversation, no walk on 
 the ramparts, no visit to the dock-yard, 
 no acquaintance with the Thrush — no- 
 thing of all that they had planned and* 
 depended on. Every thing in that 
 quarter failed her, except William's af- 
 fection. His last thought on leaving 
 home was for her. He stepped back 
 again to the door to say, '' Take care of 
 Fanny, mother. She is tender, and not 
 used to rough it like the rest of us. I 
 charge you, take care of Fanny." 
 
 William was gone ; — and the home 
 he had left her in was — Fanny could 
 not conceal it from herself — in almost 
 every respect, the very reverse of what 
 she could have wished. It was the 
 abode of noise, disorder, and impro- 
 priety. Nobody was in their right place, 
 nothing was done as it ought to be. She 
 Hi vol. III. I could 
 
( 170 ) 
 
 could not respect her parents, as she had 
 hoped. On her father, her confidence 
 had not been sanguine, but he was more 
 negligent of his family, his habits were 
 worse, and his manners coarser, than 
 she had been prepared for. He did not 
 want abilities; but he had no curio&ity, 
 and no information beyond his profes- 
 sion; he read only the newspaper and 
 the navy-list; he talked only of the 
 dockyard,, the harbour, Spithead, and 
 the Motherbank; he swore and he 
 drank, he was dirty and gross. She had 
 never been able to recal anything ap- 
 proaching to tenderness in his former 
 treatment of herself There had re- 
 mained only a general impression of 
 roughness and loudness; and now he 
 scarcely ever noticed her, but to make 
 her the object of a coarse joke. 
 
 Her disappointment in her mother 
 was greater ; there she had hoped 
 much, and found almost nothing. Every 
 flattering scheme of being of conse- 
 quence to her soon fell to the ground. 
 
 Mrs. 
 
( 171 ) 
 
 Mrs. Price was not unkind— but^ in- 
 stead of gaining on her aflfection and 
 confidence, and becoming more and 
 more dear, her daughter never met 
 with greater kindness from her, than on 
 the first day of her arrival. The in- 
 stinct of nature was soon satisfied, and 
 Mrs. Price's attachment had no other 
 source. Her heart and her time were 
 already quite full ; she had neither lei- 
 sure nor affection to bestow on Fanny. 
 Her daughters never had been much 
 to her. She was fond of her sons, espe- 
 cially of William, but Betsey was the first 
 of her girls whom she had ever much 
 regarded. To her she was most inju- 
 diciously indulgent. William was her 
 pride; Betsey, her darling; and John, 
 Richard, Sam, Tom, and Charles, occu- 
 pied all the rest of her material solici- 
 tude, alternately her worries and her 
 comforts. These shared her heart ; her 
 time was given chiefly to her house and 
 her servants. Her days were spent in 
 I 2 a kind 
 
( 172 ) 
 
 cU^^r^uY^ a kind of slow bustle ; - all wao ' busy with- 
 K- ^ out getting on, always behindhand and 
 lamenting it, without altering her ways ; 
 wishing to be an economist, without 
 contrivance or regularity; dissatisfied 
 with her servants, without skill to make 
 them better, and whether helping, or 
 reprimanding, or indulging them, witl> 
 out any power of engaging their re- 
 spect. 
 
 Of her two sisters, Mrs. Price very 
 much more resembled Lady Bertram 
 than Mrs. Norris. She was a manager 
 by necessity, without any of Mrs. Nor^ 
 ris's inclination for it, or any of her ac- 
 tivity. Her disposition was naturally 
 easy and indolent, like Lady Bertram's; 
 and a situation of similar affluence and 
 do-nothing-ness would have been much 
 more suited to her capacity, than the 
 exertions and self-denials of the one, 
 which her imprudent marriage had 
 placed her in. She might have made 
 
 just as good a woman of consequence as 
 
 Lady 
 
( 173 ) 
 
 Ladj^ Bertram, but Mrs. Norris would 
 hcive been a more respectable mother of 
 nine children, on a small income. 
 
 Much of all this, Fanny could not but 
 be sensible of. She might scruple to 
 make use of the words, but she must 
 and did feel that her mother was a par- 
 tial, ill-judging parent, a dawdle, a slat- 
 tern, who neither taught nor restrained 
 her children, whose house was the 
 scene of mismanagement and discom- 
 fort from beginning to end, and who 
 had no talent, no conversation, no af*- 
 fection towards herself; no curiosity to 
 know her better, no desire of her friend- 
 ship, and no inclination for her com- 
 pany that could lessen her sense of such 
 feelings. 
 
 Fanny was very anxious to be useful, 
 and not to appear above her home, or 
 in any v\ay Jisqualified or disinclined, 
 by her foreign education, from contri- 
 buting hei Help to its comtorts, and 
 therefore set about working for Sam 
 immediately, and by working early and 
 
 late. 
 
( 174 ) 
 
 late, with perseverance and great dis- 
 patch, did so much, that the boy was 
 shipped off at last, with more than half 
 his linen ready. She had great pleasure 
 in feeling her usefulness, but could not 
 conceive how they would have managed 
 without her. 
 
 Sam, loud and overbearing as he was, 
 she rather regretted when he went, for 
 he was clever and intelligent, and glad 
 to be employed in any errand in the 
 town ; and though spurning the remon- 
 strances of Susan, given as they were — 
 though very reasonable in themselves, 
 with ill-timed and powerless warnith, 
 was beginning to be influenced ife^- 
 Fanny's services,and gentle persuasion!; 
 and she found that the best of the three 
 younger ones was gone in him; Tom 
 and Charles being at least as many years 
 as they were his juniors distant from 
 that age of feeling and reason, which 
 mightsuggest the expediency of making 
 friends, and of endeavouring to be less 
 disagreeable. Their sister soon despair- 
 ed 
 
( 175 ) 
 
 ed of making the smallest impression 
 on them-, they were quite untameable 
 hj any means of address which she had 
 spirits or time to attempt. Every after- 
 noon brouglit a return of their riotous 
 games all over the house ; and she very 
 early learnt to sigh at the approach of 
 Saturday's constant half holiday. 
 
 Betsey too, a spoilt child, trained 
 up to think the alphabet her greatest 
 enemy, left to be with the servants 
 at her pleasure, and then encouraged to 
 report any evil of them, she was al- 
 most as ready to despair of being able 
 to love or assist; and of Susan's temper, 
 s\j.e had many doubts. Her continual 
 .disagreements with her mother, her 
 rash squabbles with Tom and Charles, 
 and petulance with Betsey, were at least 
 so distressing to Fanny, that though 
 admitting they w^ere by no means with- 
 out provocation, she feared the dispo- 
 sition that could push them to sMch 
 length must be far from amiable^ and 
 from affording any repose to herself. 
 
 Such 
 
{ 176 ) 
 
 Such was the home which was to put 
 Mansfield out of her head, and teach 
 her to think of her cousin Edmund 
 witli moderated feelings. On the con- 
 trary, she could think of nothing but 
 Mansfield^ its beloved inmates, its hap- 
 py ways. Every thing where she now 
 was was in full contrast to it. The 
 elegance, propriety, regularity, har- 
 mony — and perhaps, above all, the 
 peace and tranquillity of Mansfield, were 
 brought to her remembrance every 
 hour of the day, by the prevalence of 
 every thing opposite to theni here. 
 
 The living in incessant noise was to a 
 frame and temper, delicate and nervous 
 like Fanny's, an evil which no super- 
 added elegance or harmony could have 
 entirely atoned for. It was the greatest 
 misery of all. At Mansfield, no sounds 
 of contention, no raised voice, no ab- 
 rupt bursts, no tread of violence was 
 ever heard; all proceeded in a regular 
 coufse of cheerful orderliness; every 
 
 body 
 
{ 177 ) 
 
 body had their due importance ; every 
 .body's feelings were considted. If ten- 
 derness could be ever supposed wanting, 
 good sense and good breeding supplied 
 its place ; and as to the little irritations, 
 sometimes introduced by aunt Norris, 
 they were short, they were trifling, they 
 %vere as a drop of water to the ocean, 
 compared with the ceaseless tumult 
 of her present abode. Here, every 
 body \?as noisy, every voice was loud, 
 (except ing,perhaps, her mother's, which 
 resembled the soft monotony of Lady 
 Bertram's, only worn into fretfulness.) 
 — Whatever was wanted, was hallooM 
 for, and the servants halloo'd out their 
 excuses from the kitchen. The doors 
 were in constant banging, the stairs 
 were never at rest, nothing was done 
 without a clatter, nobody sat still, and 
 nobody could command attention when 
 they spoke. 
 
 In a review of the two houses, as 
 
 they appeared to her before the end 
 
 i3 of 
 
( 178 ) 
 
 of a week, Fanny was tempted to apply 
 to them Dr. Johnson's celebrated judg- 
 ment as to matrhnony and celibacy, 
 and say, that though Mansfield Park 
 might have some pains, Portsmouth 
 could have no pleasures* 
 
 CHAP. 
 
( m ) 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Fanny was right enough in not ex- 
 pecting to hear from Miss Crawford 
 now, at the rapid rate in which their 
 correspondencehad begun; Mary's next 
 letter was after a decidedly longer inter- 
 val than the last, but she was not right 
 in supposing that such an interval 
 would be felt a great relief to herself. 
 —Here was another strange revolution 
 of mind ! — She was really glad to re- 
 ceive the letter when it did come. In 
 her present exile from good society, 
 and distance from every thing that 
 had been wont to interest her, a letter 
 from one belonging to the set where 
 her heart lived, written with affection, 
 and some degree of elegance, was tho- 
 roughly acceptable, — The usual plea 
 of increasing engagements was made 
 in excuse for not having written to her 
 earlier, ** and now that I have begun," 
 she continued, mv letter will not be 
 
 worth 
 
( 180 ) 
 
 worth your reading, for there will be 
 no little offering of love at the end, 
 no three or four lines passion6es from 
 the most devoted H. C. in the world, 
 for Henry is in Norfolk ; business called 
 him to Everingham ten days ago, or 
 perhaps he only pretended the call, for 
 the sake of being travelling at the 
 same time that you were. But there 
 he is, and, by the by, his absence may 
 sufficiently account for any remissness 
 of his .^ister^s in writing, for there has 
 been no ^ well, Mary, when do you 
 write to Fanny ? — is not it time for you 
 to write to Fanny V to spur me on» 
 At last, after various attempts at meet- 
 ing, I have seen your cousins, ^ dear 
 Julia and dearest Mrs. Rush worth;* they 
 found me at home yesterday, and we 
 were glad to see each other again. 
 We seemed veri/ glad to see each other, 
 and I do really think we were a little. 
 —We had a vast deal to say.— Shall I 
 tell you how Mrs. Rushworth looked 
 ^hea your name was mentioned ? I 
 
 did 
 
( 181 ) ^ 
 
 did not use to think her wanting in 
 self-possession, but she had not quite 
 enough for the demands of yesterday. 
 Upon the whole Julia was in the best 
 looks of the two, at least after you 
 were spoken of There was no recover- 
 ing the complexion from the moment 
 that I spoke of ' Fanny,' and spoke of 
 her as a sister should. — But Mrs. Rush- 
 worth's day of good looks will come; 
 we have cards for her first party on the 
 28th.— Then she will be in beauty, for 
 she will open one of the best houses in 
 Wimpole Street. I was in it two years 
 ago, when it was Lady Lascelles's, and 
 prefer it to almost any I know in Lon- 
 don, and certainly she will then feel — 
 to use a vulgar phrase — that she has got 
 her pennyworth for her penny. Henry 
 could not have afforded her such a house. 
 I hope she will recollect it, and be satis- 
 fied, as well she may, with moving 
 the queen of a palace, though the king 
 may appear best in the back ground ; 
 and as I feave no desire to tease her, I 
 
 shall 
 
( 182 ) 
 
 shall nevev force your name upon her 
 again. She will grow sober by degrees. 
 — From all that I hear and guess. Baron 
 Wildenhaim's attentions to Julia conti- 
 nue, but I do not know that he has 
 any serious encouragement. She ought 
 to do better. A poor honourable is no 
 catch, and I cannot imagine any liking 
 in the case, for, take away his rants, 
 and the poor Baron has nothing. What 
 a difference a vowel makes! — if his 
 rents were but equal to his rants! — 
 Your cousin Edmund moves slowly; de- 
 tained, perchance, by parish duties. 
 There may be some old woman at 
 Thornton Lacey to be converted. I am 
 unwilling to fancy myself neglected for 
 a young one. Adieu, my dear sweet 
 Fanny, this is a long letter from Lon. 
 don; write me a pretty one in reply to 
 gladden Henry's eyes, when he comes 
 back — and send me aii account of all 
 the dashing young captains whom you 
 disdain for his sake." 
 
 There was great food for meditation 
 
 ill 
 
( 183 ) 
 
 in this letter, and chiefly for unpleasant 
 meditation ; and yet, with all the un- 
 easiness it supplied, it connected her 
 with the ahsent, it told her of people 
 and things about whom shehadneverfelt 
 so much curiosity as now,and she would 
 have been glad to have been sure of 
 such a letter every week. Her corre- 
 spondence with her aunt Bertram was 
 her only concern of higher interest. 
 
 As for any society in Portsmouth, that 
 could at all make amends for deficient 
 cies at home, there were none within 
 the circle of her father's and mother's 
 acquaintance to afford her the smallest 
 satisfaction ; she saw nobody in whose 
 favour she could wish to overcome her 
 own shyness and reserve. The men 
 appeared to her all coarse, the women 
 all pert, every body under-bred ; and she 
 gaveaslittlecontentmentas she received 
 from introductions either to old or new 
 acquaintance. The young ladies who 
 approached her at first with some re- 
 spect, in consideration of her coming 
 
 from 
 
( 184 ) 
 
 from a Baronet's family, were soon of- 
 fended by what they termed '^ airs**— 
 for as she neither played on the piano- 
 forte nor wore fine pehsses, they could, 
 on farther observation, admit no right 
 of superiority. 
 
 The first solid consolation which 
 Fannv received for the evils of home, 
 the first which her judgment could en- 
 tirely appro\ e, and which gave any pro- 
 mise of durability, was in a better know- 
 ledge of Susan, and a hope of being of 
 service to her. Susan had always behav- 
 ed pleasantly to herself, but the deter- 
 mined character of her general manners 
 hiid astonished and alarmed her, and it 
 was at least a fortnight before she began 
 to understand a disposition so totally 
 different from her own. Susan saw 
 that much was wrong at home, and 
 wanted to set it right. That a girl of 
 fourteen, acting only on her own unas- 
 sisted reason, should err in the method 
 of reform was not wonderful; and 
 Fanny soon became more disposed to 
 
 admire 
 
( 1«5 ) 
 
 admire the natural light of the mind 
 which could so early distinguish Justly, 
 than to censure severely the faults of 
 conduct to which it led. Susan was 
 only acting on the same truths, and pur- 
 suing the same system^ which her own 
 judgment acknowledged, but which her 
 more supine and yielding temper would 
 have shrunk from asserting. Susan 
 tried to be useful, where she could only 
 have gone away and cried 5 and that 
 Susan was useful she could perceiv^; 
 that things, bad as they were, would 
 have been worse but for such interposi- 
 tion, and that both her mother and 
 Betsey were restrained from some ex- 
 cesses of very offensive indulgence and 
 vulgarity. 
 
 In every argument with her mother, 
 Susan had in point of reason the ad- 
 vantage, and never was there any ma- 
 ternal tenderness to buy her off. The 
 blind fondness which was for ever pro- 
 ducing evil around her, she had never 
 known. There was no gratitude for 
 
 affection 
 
( 186 ) 
 
 atfection past or present, to make her 
 better bear with its excesses to the 
 others. 
 
 All this became gradually evident, 
 and gradually placed Susan before her 
 sister as an object of mingled compas- 
 sion and respect. That her manner 
 was- wrong, however, at times very 
 wrong — -her measures often ili-chosen 
 and ill-timed, and her looks and lan- 
 guage very often indefensible, Fanny 
 could not cease to feel ; but she began 
 to hope they might be rectified. Susan, 
 she found, looked up to her and wished 
 for her good opinion ; and new as any 
 thing like an office of authority was to 
 Fanny, new as it was to imagine herself 
 capable of guiding or informing any 
 one, she did resolve to give occasional 
 hints to Susan, and endeavour to exer- 
 cise for her advantage the juster notions 
 of what was due to eyefy body, and 
 what would be wisest for herself, which 
 her own more favoured education had 
 fixed in hep? 
 
 Her 
 
( 187 ) 
 
 Her ioflaence, or at least the consci- 
 ousness and use of it, originated in an 
 act of kindness by Susan, which after 
 many hesitations of delicacy, she at last 
 worked herself up to. It had very 
 early occurred to her, that a small sum 
 of money might, perhaps, restore peace 
 forever on the sore subject of the silver 
 knife, canvassed as it now was continu- 
 ally, and the riches which she was in 
 possession of herself, her uncle having 
 given her 10/. at parting, made her as 
 able as she wq^s willing to be generous. 
 But she was so wholly unused to confer 
 favours, except on the very poor, so 
 unpractised in removing evils, or be- 
 stowing kindnesses among her equals, 
 and so fearful of appearing to elevate 
 herself as a great lady at home, that it 
 took some time to determine that it 
 would not be iinbecoming in her to 
 make such a present. It was made, 
 however, at last; a silver knife was 
 bought for Betsey, and accepted with 
 great delight, its newness giving it 
 
 every 
 
( 188 ) 
 
 every advantage over the other that 
 could be desired ; Susan was established 
 in the full possession of her own. Betsey 
 handsomely declaring that now she had 
 got one so much prettier herself, she 
 should never want that again — and 
 no reproach seemed conveyed to the 
 equailj^ satisfied mother, which Fanny 
 had almost feared to be impossible. 
 The deed thoroughly answered ; a. 
 source of domestic altercation was en- 
 tirely done' aw ay^ and it was the means 
 of opening Susan's heart to her, and 
 giving her something more to love and 
 be interested in. Susan shevved that 
 she had delicacy -, pleased as she was to 
 be mistress of property which she had 
 been struggling for at least two years, 
 she yet feared that her sister's judgment 
 had been against her, and that a reproof 
 was designed her for having so strug- 
 gled, as to make the purclm>e necessary 
 for the tranquillity of the house. 
 
 Her temper was open. She acknow- 
 ledged her fears, blamed herself for 
 
 having 
 
• ( 189 ) 
 
 (having contended so warnily, and from 
 that hour Fanny understanding the 
 worth of her disposition, and perceiving 
 how fully she was inclined to seek her 
 good opinion and refer to her judg- 
 ment, began to feel again the blessing 
 of affection, and to entertain the hope 
 of being useful to a mind so much in 
 need of help, and so much deserving it. 
 She gave advice ; advice too sound to 
 be resisted by a good understanding, 
 and given so mildly and considerately 
 as not to irritate an imperfect temper; 
 and she had the happiness of observing 
 its good effects not unfrequently ; more 
 was not expected by one, who, while 
 seeing all the obligation and expediency 
 of submission and forbearance, saw also 
 with sj^mpathetic acuteness of feeling, 
 all that must be hourly grating to a girl 
 like Susan. Her greatest wonder on 
 the subject soon became — notthatSusan 
 should have been provoked into disre- 
 spect and impatience against her better 
 knowledge — but that so much better 
 
 knowledge. 
 
( 190 ) 
 
 knowledge, so many good notions, 
 should have been hers at all; and that, 
 brought up in the midst of negligence 
 and error, she should have formed such 
 proper opinions of what ought to he — 
 she, who had had no cousin Edmund to 
 direct her thoughts or fix her princi- 
 ples. 
 
 The intimacy thus begun between 
 them was a material advantage to each. 
 By sitting together up stairs, they avoid- 
 ed a great deal of the disturbance of the 
 house; Fanny had peace, and Susan 
 learnt to think it no misfortune to be 
 quietly employed. They sat without a 
 fire; but that was a privation familiar 
 even to Fanny, and she suffered the 
 less because reminded by it of the east- 
 room. It was the only point of resem- 
 blance. In space, light, furniture, and 
 prospect, there was nothing alike in the 
 two apartments; and she often heaved 
 a sigh at the remembrance of all her 
 books and boxes, and various comforts 
 there. By degrees the girls came to 
 
 spend 
 
( 191 ) 
 
 Spend the ebief of the morn hig up stairs, 
 at first only in working and talking; 
 but after a few days, the remembrance 
 of the said books grew so potent and 
 stimulative, that Fanny found it impos- 
 sible 4iot to try for books again. There 
 were none in her father's house; but 
 wealth is luxurious and daring — -and 
 some of hers found its way to a circu- 
 lating library. She became a sub- 
 scriber — amazed at being any thing in 
 propria persona^ amazed at her own 
 doings in every way ; to be a renter, a 
 chuser of books! And to be having 
 any one's improvement in view in her 
 choice 1 But so it was. Susan had 
 read nothing, and Fanny longed to give 
 her a share in her own first pleasures, 
 and inspire a taste for the biography 
 and poetry which she delighted in her- 
 self. 
 
 In this occupation she hoped, more- 
 over, to bury some of the recollections 
 of Mansfield which were too aplf to 
 seize her mind if her fingers only were 
 
 busy; 
 
( 392 ) 
 
 busy ; and especially at this time, hoped 
 it might be useful in diverting her 
 thoughts from pursuing Edmund to 
 London, whither, on the authority of 
 her aunt's last letter, she knew he was 
 gone. She had no doubt of what 
 would ensue. The promised notifica- 
 tion was hanging over her head. The 
 postman's knock within the neighbour- 
 hood was beginning to bring its daily 
 terrors — and if reading could banish 
 the idea for even half an hour, it was 
 something gained. 
 
 CHAP. 
 
< 193 ) 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A WEEK was 3;one since Edmund 
 might be supposed in town, and Fanny- 
 had heard nothing of him. There 
 were three different conclusions to be 
 drawn from his silence, between which 
 her mind was in fluctuation; each of 
 them at times being held the most pro- 
 bable. Either his going had been again 
 delayed, or he had yet procured no 
 opportunity of seeing Miss Crawford 
 alone — or, he was too happy for letter 
 writing! 
 
 One morning about this time, Fanny 
 having now been nearly four weeks 
 from Mansfield — a point which she 
 never failed to think over and calculate 
 every day — as she and Susan were pre- 
 paring to remove as usual up stairs, they 
 were stopt by the knock of a visitor, 
 whom they felt they could not avoid, 
 from Rebecca's alertness in going to 
 
 VOL. III. K the 
 
( 194 ) 
 
 the door, a duty which always interested 
 her t)eyond any other. 
 
 It was a gentleman's voice; it was a 
 voice that Fanny was just turning pale 
 about, when Mr. Crawford walked into 
 the room. 
 
 Good sense, like hers, will always act 
 when really called upon ; and she found 
 that she had been able to name him to 
 her mother, and recal her remembrance 
 of the name, as that of " William*s 
 friend," tbough she could not previously 
 have believed herself capable of uttering 
 a syllable at such a moment. The con-- 
 sciousness of his being known there only 
 as William*s friend, was some support. 
 Having introduced him, however, and 
 being all re-seated, the terrors that oc- 
 curred of what this visit might lead to 
 were overpowering, and she fancied 
 herself on the point of fainting away. 
 
 While trying to keep herself alive, 
 their visitor^ who had at first approach- 
 ed her with as animated a countenance 
 as ever, was wisely and kindly keeping 
 
 his 
 
( 195 ) 
 
 his eyes away, and giving her time to 
 recover, while he devoted himself en- 
 tirely to her mother, addressing her, and 
 attending to her with the utmost po- 
 liteness and propriety, at the same time 
 with a degree of friendliness — of interest 
 at least — which was making his manner 
 perfect. 
 
 Mrs. Price's manners were also at 
 their best. Warmed by the sight of 
 such a friend to her son, and regulated 
 by the wish of appearing to advantage 
 before him, she was overflowing with 
 gratitude, artless, maternal gratitude, 
 which could not be unpleasing. Mr. 
 Price was out, w^hich she regretted very 
 much. Fanny was just recovered enough 
 to feel that she could not regret it ; for 
 to her many other sources of uneasiness 
 was added the severe one of shame for 
 the home in which he found her. She 
 might scold herself for the weakness, 
 but there was no scolding it away. She 
 was ashamed, and she would have been 
 K 2 yet 
 
( I9S ) 
 
 yet more ashamed of her father, than of 
 all the rest. 
 
 They talked of William, a subject on 
 which Mrs. Price could never tire ; and 
 Mr. Crawford was as warm in his com- 
 mendation, as even her heart could wish. 
 She felt that she had never seen so 
 agreeable a man in her life 3 and was 
 qnly astonished to find, that so great 
 and so agreeable as he was, he should 
 be come down to Portsmouth neither 
 on a visit to the port-admiral, nor the 
 commissioner, nor yet with the inten- 
 tion of going over to the island, nor of 
 seeing the Dock-yard. Nothing of all 
 that she had been used to think bf as 
 the proof of importance, or the employ- 
 ment of wealth, had brought him to 
 Portsmouth. He had reached it late 
 the night before, was come for a day or 
 two, was staying at the Crown, had ac- 
 cidentally met with a navy officer or 
 two of his acquaintance, since his arrival, 
 but had no object of that kind in coming. 
 
 By 
 
( 197 ) 
 
 By the time he had given all this in- 
 formation, it was not unreasonable to 
 suppose, that Fanny might be looked at 
 and spoken to j and she was tolerably 
 able to bear his eye, and hear that he 
 had spent half an hour with his sister, 
 the evening before his leaving London ; 
 that she had sent her best and kindest 
 love, but had had no time for writing; 
 that he thought himself lucky in seeing 
 Mary for even half an hour, having 
 spent scarcely twenty- four hours in Lon- 
 don after his return from Norfolk, be- 
 fore he set off again ; that her cousin 
 Edmund was in town, had been in town, 
 he understood, a few days; that he had 
 not seen him, himself, but that he was 
 well, had left them all well at Mansfield, 
 and was to dine, as yesterday, with the 
 Frasers. 
 
 Fanny listened collectedly even to the 
 last-mentioned circumstance^ nay, it 
 seemed a relief to her worn mind to be 
 at any certainty; and the words, *' then 
 by this time it is all settled," passed in- 
 ternally. 
 
( m } 
 
 tern ally, without more evidence of emo- 
 tion than a faint blush. 
 
 After talking a little more about 
 Mansfield, a subject in which her in- 
 terest was most apparent, Crawford 
 began to hint at the expediency of an^ 
 early walk ; — '* It was a lovely morning, 
 and at that season of the year a fine 
 morning sO often turned ofi", that it 
 was wisest for everybody not to delay 
 their exercise 3" and such hints pro- 
 ducing nothing, he soon proceeded to a 
 positive recommendation to Mrs. Price 
 and her daughters, to take their walk 
 without loss of time. Now they came 
 to an understanding. Mrs..Price, it ap- 
 peared, scarcely ever stirred out of 
 doors, except of a Sunday ; she owned 
 she could seldom, with her large family,, 
 find time for a walk. — *^ Would she not 
 then persuade her daughters to take ad* 
 vantage of such weather, and allow him 
 the pleasure of attending them?" — Mrs. 
 Price was greatly obliged, and very com- 
 plying, ^' Her daughters were very mucli 
 
 confined — 
 
( 199 ) 
 
 confined— Portsmouth was a sad place — 
 they did not often get out — and she 
 knew they had some errands in the 
 town, which they would be very glad to 
 do." — And the consequence was, that 
 Fanny, strange as it was — strange, awk- 
 ward, and distressing — found herself 
 and Susan, within ten minutes, walking 
 towards the High Street, with Mr. Craw- 
 ford. 
 
 It was soon pain upon pain, confusion 
 upon confusion ; for they were hardly 
 in the High Street, before they met her 
 , father, whose appearance was not the 
 hetter from its being Saturday. He 
 stopt ; and, ungentlemanlike as he look- 
 ed, Fanny was obliged to introduce 
 him to Mr. Crawford. She could not 
 have a doubt of the manner in which 
 Mr. Crawford must be struck. He 
 must be ashamed and disgusted altoge- 
 ther. He must soon give her up, and 
 cease to have the smallest inclination for 
 the match ; an3 yet, though she had 
 been so much wanting his affection to 
 
 be 
 
( 20O ) 
 
 be cured, this was a sort of cure that 
 would be almost as bad as the complaint; 
 and I believe, there is scarcely a young 
 lady in the united kingdoms, who would 
 not rather put up with the misfortune 
 of being sought by a clever, agreeable 
 man, than have him driven away by 
 the vulgarity of her nearest relations. 
 Mr. Crawford probably could not 
 regard his future father-in-law with any 
 idea of taking him for a model in dress ; 
 but (as Fanny instantly, and to her great 
 relief discerned), her father was a \ery 
 different man, a very different Mr. Price 
 in his behaviour to this most highly- re- 
 spected stranger, from what he was in his 
 own family at home. His manners now, 
 though not polished, were more than 
 passable ; they were grateful, animated,, 
 manly ; his expressions were those of an 
 attached father, and a sensible man ; — 
 his loud tones did very well in the open 
 air, and there was not a single oath to 
 be heard. Such was his instinctive com- 
 pliment to the good manners of Mr. 
 
 Crawford ; 
 
( 201 ) 
 
 Crawford; and be the consequence what 
 it might, Fanny's immediate feelings 
 were infinitely soothed. 
 
 Theconchision of the two gentlemen's 
 civilities was an offer of Mr. Price's to 
 take Mr. Crawford into the dock-yard, 
 which Mr. Crawford, desirous of accept- 
 ing as a favour, what was intended as 
 such, though he had seen tlie dock- 
 yard again and again; and hoping to be 
 so much the longer with Fanny, was 
 very gratefully disposed to avail him- 
 self of, if the Miss Prices were not afraid 
 of the fatigue ; and as it was somehow 
 or other ascertained, or inferred, or at 
 least acted upon, that they were not at 
 all afraid, to the dock-yard they were all 
 to go ; and, but for Mr. Crawford, Mr. 
 Price would haveturned thither directly, 
 without the smallest consideration for 
 his daughter's errands iu the High 
 Street. He took care, however, that 
 they should be allowed to go to the 
 shops they came out expressly to visit ; 
 and it did not delay them long, for 
 K 3 Fanny 
 
( 202 ) 
 
 Fanny could so Iktle bear to excite im- 
 patience, or be waited for, that before- 
 the gentlemen, as they stood at the 
 door, could do more than begin upon 
 the last naval regulations, or setfle the 
 number of three deckers now in com- 
 mission^ their companions were ready 
 to proceed. 
 
 They were then to set forward for 
 the dock-yard at once, and the walk 
 would have been conducted (according 
 to Mr. Crawford^s opinion) in a sin- 
 gular manner,had Mr. Price been allow- 
 ed the entire regulation of it, as the two 
 girls, he found, would have been left ta 
 follow, and keep up with them, or not, 
 as they could, while they walked on^ 
 together at their own hasty pace. He' 
 was able to introduce some improve- 
 ment occasionally, though by no means 
 to the extent he wished 5 he absolutely 
 would not walk away from them ; and, 
 at any crossing, or any crowd, when 
 Mr. Price was only calling out, " Come, 
 girls — come, Fan— come. Sue— take 
 
 care 
 
( 203 ) 
 
 care of yourselves — keep a sharp look 
 out/* he would give them his particular 
 attendance. 
 
 Once fairly in the dock-yard, he be- 
 gan to reckon upon some happy inter- 
 course with Fanny, as they were very 
 soon joined by a brother lounger of 
 Mr, Price's, who was come to take his 
 daily survey of how tilings went on, and 
 who must prove a far more worthy 
 companion than himself; and after a 
 time the two officers seemed very well 
 satisfied in going about together and 
 discussing matters of equal and never- 
 failing interest, while the young people 
 sat down upon some timbers in the yard, 
 or found a seat on board a vessel in the 
 stocks which they all went to look at, 
 Fanny was most conveniently in want 
 of rest. Crawford could not have 
 wished her more fatigued or more 
 ready to sit down ; but he could have 
 wished her sister away. A quick look- 
 ing girl of Susan^s age was the very 
 worst third in the world — totally differ- 
 ent 
 
( 204 ) 
 
 ent from Lady Bertram — all eyes and 
 ears ; and there was no introducing the 
 main point before her. He must con- 
 tent himself with being only generally 
 agreeable, and letting Susan have her 
 share of entertainment, with the indul- 
 gence, now and then, of a look or hint 
 for the better informed and conscious 
 Fanny. Norfolk was what he had 
 mostly to talk of; there he had been 
 some time, and every thing there was 
 rising in Trnportance from his present 
 schemes. Such a man could come from 
 tio place, no society, without importing 
 something to amuse; his journeys and 
 his acquaintance were all of use, and 
 Susan was entertained in a way quite 
 new to her. For Fanny, somewhat 
 more was related than the accidental 
 agreeableness of the parties he had been 
 in. For her approbation, the particular 
 reason of his going into Norfolk at all, 
 at this unusual time of year, was given. 
 It had been real business, relative to the 
 renewal of a lease in which the welfare 
 
 of 
 
( 205 ) 
 
 of a large and (he believed) industrious 
 family was at stake. He had suspected 
 his agent of some underhand dealing — 
 of meaning to bias him against the de- 
 serving — and he had determined to go 
 himself, and thoroughly investigate the 
 merits of the case. He had gone, had 
 done even more good than he had fore- 
 seen, had been useful to more than his 
 first plan had comprehended, and was 
 nowable to congratulate himself upon it, 
 and to feel, that in performing a duty, 
 he had secured agreeable recollections 
 for his own mind. He had introduced 
 himself to some tenants, whom he had 
 never seen before; he had begun making 
 acquaintance with cottages whose very 
 existence, though on his own estate, had 
 been hitherto unknown to him. This 
 was aimed, and well aimed, at Fanny. 
 It was pleasing to hear him speak so 
 properly; here, he had been acting as he 
 ought to do. To be the friend of the 
 poor and oppressed ! Nothing could 
 be more grateful to her, and she was on 
 
 the 
 
( 206 ) 
 
 the point of giving him an approving 
 look when it was all frightened off, by 
 his adding a something too pointed of 
 his hoping soon to have an assistant, a 
 friend, a guide in every plan of utihty 
 or charity for Everingham, a somebody 
 that would make Everingham and all 
 about it, a dearer object than it had; 
 ever been yet. 
 
 She turned away, and wished he 
 would not say such things. She was 
 willing to -allow he might have more 
 good qualities than she had been wont 
 to suppose. She began to feel the pos^ 
 sibility of his turning out well at last;, 
 but he was and must ever be completely 
 unsuited to her, and ought not to think 
 of her. 
 
 He perceived that enough. had been 
 &aid of Everingham, and that it would 
 be as well to talk of something else, and-' 
 turned to Mansfieldr He could not have 
 chosen blotter ; that was a topic to bring 
 back her attention and her looks almost 
 instantly. It was a real indulgence to 
 
 her 
 
C 207 } 
 
 her to hear or to speak of Mansfield.. 
 Now so long divided from every body 
 who knew the place, she felt it quite the 
 voice of a friend when he mentioned it, 
 and. led the way to her fond exclama-^ 
 tions in praise of its beauties and com- 
 forts, and by his honourable tribute to 
 its inhabitants allowed iier to gratify 
 her own heart in the warmest eulogium,, 
 in speaking of her uncle as all that was 
 clever and good, and her annt as having 
 the sweetest of all sweet tempers* 
 
 He had a great attachment to Mans- 
 field himself; he said so ; he looked 
 forward with the hope of spending much^ 
 very much of his time there — always 
 there, or in the neighbourhood.. Me 
 particularly built upon a very happy 
 summer and autumn there this year ; he 
 felt that it would be so 5 he depended^ 
 upon it ; a summer and autumn infi- 
 nitely superior to the last. As ani- 
 mated, as diversified, as social- — but 
 with circumstances of superiority unde- 
 scribable. 
 
 " Man&- 
 
( 20:8 > 
 
 '^ Mansfield, Sotherton, Thornton La- 
 cey,'^ he continued, " what a society 
 will be comprised in those houses L 
 And at Michaelmas, perhaps, a fourth 
 may be added, some small hunting-box 
 in the vicinity of every thing so dear — 
 for as to any partnership in Thornton 
 Lacey, as Edmund Bertram once good- 
 humouredly proposed, I hope I foresee 
 two objections, two fair, excellent, irre- 
 sistible objections to that plan." 
 
 Fanny w^as doubly silenced here ;: 
 though When the moment was passed, 
 could regret that she had not forced 
 herself into the acknowledged compre- 
 hension of one half of his meaning, 
 and encouraged him to say something 
 more of his sister and Edmund. It 
 w^as a subject which she must learn to 
 speak of, and the weakness that shrunk 
 from it would soon be quite unpar- 
 donable. 
 
 When Mr. Price and his friend had 
 seen all that they wished, or had time 
 for, the others were ready to return; 
 
 and 
 
( 209 ) 
 
 and in the course of their walk back, 
 Mr. Crawford contrived a minute's 
 privacy for telling Fanny that his only 
 business in Portsmouth was to see her, 
 that he was come down for a couple of 
 days on her account and hers onlj^, and 
 because he could not endure a longer 
 total separation. She was sorry, really 
 sorry; and yet, in spite of this and the 
 two or three _ other things which she 
 wished he had not said, she thought him 
 altogether improved since she had seen 
 him; he was much more gentle, oblig- 
 ing, and attentive to other people's feel- 
 ings than he had ever been at Mansfield ; 
 she had never seen him so agreeable — 
 so near being agreeable ; his behaviour 
 to her father could not offend, and there 
 was something particularly kind and 
 proper in the notice he took of Susan. 
 He was decidedly improved. She 
 wished the next day over, she wished 
 he had come only for one day — but it 
 was not so very bad as she would have 
 
 expected i 
 
( i2ia ) 
 
 expected; the pleasure of talking, of 
 Mansfield was so very great ! 
 
 Before they parted, she had to thank 
 him for another pleasure, and one of 
 no trivial kind. Her father asked him 
 to do them the honour of taking his 
 mutton with them, and Fanny had time 
 for only one thrill of horror, before 
 he declared himself prevented by a prior 
 engagement. He was engaged to dinner 
 already both for that day and the next;, 
 he had met with some acquaintance at 
 the Crown who would not be denied;, 
 he should have the honour, however, 
 of waiting on them again on the mor- 
 row, &c. and so they parted — Fanny in 
 a state of actual felicity from escaping 
 so horrible an evil ! 
 
 To have had him join their family 
 dinner-party and see all their deficien- 
 cies would have been dreadful ! Re- 
 becca's cookery and Rebecca's wait- 
 ing, and Betsey's eating at table without 
 restraint, and pulling every thing about 
 
 as- 
 
( 211 ) 
 
 as she chose, were what Fanny herself 
 was not yet enough inured to> for her 
 often to make a tolerable meal. She 
 was nice only from natural delicacy, 
 but he had been brought up in a school 
 of luxury and epicurism. 
 
 CHAP. 
 
( 212 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 The Prices were just setting off for 
 church the next day when Mr. Craw- 
 ford appeared again. He came — not to 
 stop — but to join theni ; he was asked 
 to go with them to the Garrison chapel, 
 which was exactly what he had intend- 
 ed, and they all walked thither togCi- 
 ther. 
 
 The family were now seen to advan- 
 tage. Nature had given them no incon- 
 siderable share of beauty, and every 
 Sunday dressed them in their cleanest 
 skins and best attire, Sunday always 
 brought this comfort to Fanny, and on 
 this Sunday she felt it more than ever. 
 Her poor mother now did not look so 
 very unworthy of being Lady Bertram's 
 sister as she was but too apt to look. It 
 often grieved her to the heart — to think 
 of the contrast between them — to think 
 that where nature had made so little 
 difference, circumstances should have 
 made so much, and that her mother, 
 
 as 
 
( ^13 ) 
 
 as handsome as Lady Bertram, and some 
 years her junior, should havean appear- 
 ance so much more worn and faded, so 
 comfortless, so slatternly, so shabby. 
 But Sunday made her a very creditable 
 and tolerably cheerful looking Mrs. 
 Price, coming abroad with a fine family 
 of children, feeling a little respite of 
 her weekly cares, and only discomposed 
 if she saw her boys run into danger, or 
 Rebecca pass by with a flower in her 
 hat. 
 
 In chapel they were obliged to divide, 
 but Mr. Crawford took care not to be 
 divided from the female branchy and 
 after chapel he still continued with 
 them, and made one in the family party 
 on the ramparts. 
 
 Mrs. Price took her weekly walk 
 on the ramparts every tine Sunday 
 throughout the year, always going di- 
 rectly ^fter morning service and staying 
 till dinner-time. It was her public 
 place ; there she met her acquaintance, 
 heard a little news, talked over the bad- 
 ness 
 
( 214 ) 
 
 iiess of the Portsmouth servants, and 
 wound up her spirits for the six days 
 ensuing. 
 
 Thither they now went; Mr, Craw- 
 ford 'most happy to <:onsider the Miss 
 Prices as his pecuHar charge^ and before 
 they had been there long — somehow 
 or other — there was no saying how- 
 Fanny could not have believed it — but 
 he was walking between them with an 
 arm of each under his, and she did not 
 know how to prevent or put an end to 
 it. It made h€r uncomfortable for a 
 time— but yet there were enjoyments 
 in the day and in the view vy^hich would 
 be felt. 
 
 The day was uncommonly lovely. 
 It was really March ; but it was April 
 in its mild air, brisk soft wind, and 
 bright sun, occasionally clouded for a 
 minute; and every thing looked so 
 beautiful under the influence of such a 
 sky, the effects of the shadows pursuing 
 each other, on the ships at Spithead and 
 the island beyond, with the ever-vary- 
 ing 
 
( 215 ) 
 
 ing hues of the sea now at high water, 
 dancing in its glee and dashing against 
 the ramparts with so fine a sound, pro- 
 duced aUogether such a combination of 
 charms for Fanny, as made her gradu- 
 ally almost careless of the circumstances 
 tinder which she felt them. Nay, had 
 she been without his arm, she would 
 soon have known that she needed it^ 
 for she wanted strength for a two 
 hours' saunter of this kind, coming as it 
 generally did upon a week's previous 
 inactivity. Fanny was beginning to 
 feel the effect of being debarred from 
 her usual, regular exercise ; she had lost 
 ground as to health since her being in 
 Portsmouth, and but for Mr. Crawford 
 and the beauty of the weather, would 
 soon have been knocked up now. 
 
 The loveliness of the day, and of the 
 view, he felt like herself. They often 
 stopt with the same sentiment and 
 taste, leaning against the wall, some 
 minutes, to look and admire ; and con- 
 sidering he was not Edmund, Fanny 
 
 could 
 
( 216 ) 
 
 could not but allow that he was suffi- 
 ciently open to the charms of nature, 
 and very well able to express his 
 admiration. She had a few tender 
 reveries now and then^ which he 
 could sometimes take advantage of, to 
 look in her face without detection f 
 and the result of these looks was, tha 
 thoug^li as bewitching as ever, her face 
 was less blooming than it ought to 
 be. — She said she was very well, and 
 did not like to be supposed otherwise ; 
 but take it all in all, he was convinced 
 that her present residence could not be 
 comfortable, and, therefore, could not 
 be salutary for her, and he was grow- 
 ing anxious for her being again at 
 Mansfield, where her own happiness, 
 and his in seeing her, must be so much 
 gieater. 
 
 " You have been here a month, I 
 think ?" said he. 
 
 " No. Not quite a month. — It is 
 only four weeks to-morrow since I left 
 Mansfield.''^ 
 
 '' You 
 
( S17 ) 
 
 ** You are a most accurate and 
 honest reckoner. I should call that a 
 month.*' 
 
 "I did not arrive here till Tuesday 
 evening." 
 
 "And it is to be a two months* visit, 
 is not it?" 
 
 " Yes. — My uncle talked of two 
 months. I suppose it will not be 
 less." 
 
 " And how are vmi to be con- 
 veyed back again ? Who comes for 
 you?" 
 
 " I do not know. I have heard no- 
 thing about it yet from my aunt. Per- 
 haps I may be to stay longer. It may 
 not be convenient for me to be fetched 
 -exactly at the two months' end," 
 
 After a moment's reflection, Mr. 
 Crawford replied, *^ I know Mansfield, 
 I know its way, I know its faults to- 
 wards you, I know the danger of your 
 being so far forgotten, as to have your 
 comforts give way to the imaginary con- 
 venience of any single being in the fa- 
 
 VOL. III. L mily. 
 
( 218 ) 
 
 mily. I am aware that you may be 
 left here week after week, if Sir Tho- 
 mas cannot settle every thing for com- 
 ing himself, or sending your aunt's 
 maid for you, without involving the 
 slightest alteration of the arrangements 
 which he may have laid down for the 
 next quarter of a year. This will not 
 do. Two months is an ample allowance, 
 I should think six weeks quite enough. 
 — I am consideringyoursister*s health," 
 said he, .addressing himself to Susan, 
 "which I think theconfinement of Ports- 
 mouth'unfavourable to. She requirescon- 
 stant air and exercise. When you know 
 her as well as I do, I am sure you will 
 agree that she does, and that she ought 
 never to be long banished from the free 
 air, and libertyof the country. — If, there- 
 fore, (turning again to Fanny) you find 
 yourself growing unwell, and any diffi- 
 culties arise about your returning to 
 Mansfield — without waiting for the 
 two months to be ended — that must 
 not be regarded as of any consequence, 
 
 if 
 
( 219 ) 
 
 if you feel yourself at all less strong, 
 or comfortable than usual, and will 
 only let my sister know it, give her 
 only the slightest hint, she and I will 
 immediately come down, and take you 
 back to Mansfield. You know the ease, 
 and the pleasure with which this would 
 be done. You know all that would be 
 felt on the occasion." 
 
 Fanny thanked him, but tried to laugh 
 it off. 
 
 " I am perfectlysejrious,'* — hereplied, 
 — " as you perfectly know. — And I 
 hope you will not be cruelly concealing 
 anytendency to indisposition. — Indeed, 
 you shall not, it shall not be in your 
 power, for so long only as you posi- 
 tively say, in every letter to Mary, ^ I 
 am well.' — and I know ydu cannot 
 speak or write a falsehood, — so long only 
 shall you be considered as well.** 
 
 Fanny thanked him again,, but was 
 
 affected and distressed to a degree that 
 
 made it impossible for her to say much, 
 
 L 2 or 
 
( mo ) 
 
 or even to be certain of what she 
 ought to say.— This was towards the 
 close of their walk. He attended them 
 to the last, and left them only at the 
 door of their own house, when he 
 knew them to be going to dinner, and 
 therefore pretended to be waited for 
 elsewhere. 
 
 ^' I .wish you were not so tired," — 
 said he, still detaining Fanny after all 
 the others w^ere in the house;" "I wish 
 I left yqu in stronger health. — Is there 
 any thing I can do for you in town? 
 I have half an idea of going into Nor- 
 folk again soon. I am not satisfied 
 about Maddison. — I am sure he still 
 means to impose on me if possible, and 
 get a cousin of his own into a certain 
 mill, which I design for somebody else. 
 — I must come to an understanding 
 with him. I must make him know 
 that I will not be tricked on the 
 soiith side of Everingham, any more 
 than on the north> that I will be master 
 of my own property. I was not expli- 
 cit 
 
( 221 ) 
 
 cit enough with him before.— The mis- 
 chief such a man does on an estate, 
 both as to the credit of his employer, 
 and the welfare of the poor, is incon- 
 ceivable. I have a great mind to go 
 back into Norfolk directly, and put every 
 thing at once on such a footing as cannot 
 be afterwards swerved from. — Maddison 
 is a clever fellow ; I' do not wish to dis- 
 place him — ^^provided he does not try 
 to displace mc ,•— but it would be simple 
 to be duped by a man who has no right 
 of creditor to dupe me — and worse 
 than simple to let him give me a hard- 
 hearted, griping fellow for a tenant, in-- 
 stead of an honest man, to whom I 
 have given half a promise already. — 
 Would not it be worse than simple ?' 
 Shall I go? — Do you advise it?" 
 
 " I advise !-— you know very wfelF 
 what is right.*' 
 
 "Yes. When you give me your 
 opinion, I always know what is right. 
 Your judgment is my rule of right.*' 
 
 *K)h> no I— do not say so. We have^ 
 
 all 
 
( 222 ) 
 
 all a better guide in ourselves^ if we 
 would attend to it, than any other per- 
 son can be. Good bye; I wish you a 
 pleasant journey to-morrow/' 
 
 ^' Is there nothing I can do for you 
 in town?" 
 
 *^ Nothing, I am much obliged to 
 you." , 
 
 *' Have you no niesgage for any- 
 body?'* 
 
 '* My love to your sister, if you 
 please; and when you see my cousin — 
 my cousin Edmund, I wish you would 
 be §0 good as to say that — 1 suppose 
 I shall soon hear from him/' 
 
 " Certainly; and if he is lazy or neg- 
 ligent, I will write his excuses my- 
 self—" 
 
 He could say no more, for Fanny 
 would be no longer detained. He 
 pressed her hand, looked at her, and 
 was gone. He went to while away the 
 next three hours as he could, with his 
 other acquaintance, till the best dinner 
 that a capital inn afforded, was ready 
 
 for 
 
( 223 , ) 
 
 for their enjoyment, and she turned in 
 to her more simple one immediately. 
 
 Their general fare bore a very dif- 
 ferent character j and could he have sus- 
 pected how many privations, besides 
 that of exercise, she endured in her 
 father's house, he would have wondered 
 that her looks were not much more af- 
 fected than he found them. She was 
 so little equal to Rebecca's puddings, 
 and Rebecca's hashes, brought to table 
 as they all were, with such accompani- 
 ments of half-cleaned plates, and not 
 half-cleaned knives aud forks, that she 
 was very often constrained to defar 
 her heartiest meal, till she could send 
 her brothers in the evening for biscuits 
 and buns. After being nursed up at 
 Mansfield, it was too late in the day to 
 be hardened at Portsmouth 3 and though 
 Sir Thomas, had he known all, might 
 have thought his niece in the most pro- 
 mising way of being starved, both mind 
 and body, into a much juster value for 
 Mx» Crawford's good company and 
 
 good 
 
( ^U } 
 
 good fortune, he would probably have 
 feared to push his experiment farther, 
 lest she might die under the cure. 
 
 Fanny was out of spirits all the rest 
 of the day. Though tolerably secure 
 oF not seeing Mr. Crawford again, she 
 could not help being low. It was part- 
 ing with somebody of the nature of a 
 friend 5 and though in one light glad to 
 have him gone, it seemed as if she was 
 now deserted by everybody ^ it was a 
 sort of renewed separation from Mans- 
 field ; and she could not think of his 
 returning to town, and being frequently 
 with Mary and Edmund, without feel- 
 ings so near akin to en\y, as made her 
 hate herself for having them. 
 
 Her dejection had no abatement from 
 anything passing around her^ a friend 
 or two of her father's, as always hap- 
 pened if he was not with them, spent 
 the long, long evening there ; and from 
 six o'clock to half past nine, there was 
 little intermission of noise or grog. She 
 was very low. The wonderful improve- 
 ment 
 
( 225 ) 
 
 ment which she still fancied in Mr.Craw» 
 ford, was the nearest to adrtiinistering 
 comfort of anything within the current 
 of her thoughts. Not considering in 
 how different a circle shfe had been just 
 seeing him, nor how' much might be 
 owing to contrast, she was quite per- 
 suaded of his being astonishingly more 
 gentle, and regardful of others, than 
 formerly. And if in httle things, must 
 it not be so in great ? So anxious for 
 her health and comfort, so very feeling 
 as he now expressed himself, and really- 
 seemed, might not it be fairly supposed, 
 that he would not much longer persevere 
 in a suit so distressing to her? 
 
 L 3 CHAP 
 
( n6 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 It was presun^d that Mr. Crawford 
 was travelling back to London, on the 
 morrow, for nothing more was seen of 
 him at Mr. Price's; and two days after- 
 wards, it was a fact ascertained to Fanny 
 by the following letter from his sister, 
 opened and read by her, on another 
 account, with the most anxious cu- 
 riosity: — 
 
 . " I have to inform you, my dearest 
 Fanny, that Henry has been down to 
 Portsmouth to see you; that he had a 
 delightful walk with you to the Dock- 
 yard last Saturday, and one still more 
 to be dwelt on the next day, on the 
 ramparts; when the balmy air^ the 
 sparkling sea, and your sweet looks and 
 conversation were altogether in the 
 most delicious harmony, and afforded 
 sensations which are to raise ecstacy 
 even in retrospect. This, as well as 
 I understand, . is to be the substance of 
 
 my 
 
( nr ) 
 
 my information. He makes me write^ 
 but I do not know what else is to be 
 communicated, except this said visit 
 to Portsmouth, and these two said 
 walks, and his introduction to your 
 family, especially to a fair sister of 
 your's, a fine girl of fifteen, who was 
 of the party on the ramparts, taking 
 her first lesson, I presume, in love. I 
 have not time for writing much, but it 
 would be out of place if I had, for this 
 is to be a mere letter of business, penned 
 for the purpose of conveying necessary 
 information, which could not be delayed 
 without risk of evil. My dear, dear 
 Fanny, if I had you here, how I would 
 talk to you! — You should listen to me 
 till you were tired, and advise me till 
 you were still tired more; but it is im- 
 possible to put an hundredth part o^ 
 my great mind on paper, so I will ab- 
 stain altogether, and leave you to guess 
 what you like. I have no news for 
 you. You have politics of course ^ and 
 it would be too bad to plague you with 
 
 the 
 
( ns ) 
 
 the names of people and parties, that 
 fill up my time. I ought to have sent 
 you an account of your cousin's first 
 party, but I was lazy, and now it is too 
 long ago; suffice it, that every thing 
 was just as it ought to be, in a style 
 that any of her connections must have 
 been gratified to witness, and that her 
 own dress and manners did her the 
 greatest credit. My friend Mrs. Fraser 
 is mad for such a house, and it would 
 not make me miserable. I go to Lady 
 Stornaway after Easter. She seems in 
 high spirits, and very happy. I fancy 
 Lord S. is very good-humoured and 
 pleasant in his own family, and I do not 
 think him so very ill-looking as I did, 
 at least one sees many worse. He will 
 not do by the side of your cousin Ed- 
 mund. Of the last-mentioned hero, 
 what shall I say ? If I avoided his name 
 entirely, it would look suspicious. I 
 will say, then, that we have seen him two 
 or three times, and that my friends 
 here are very much struck with his 
 
 gentleman-like 
 
( 229 ) 
 
 gentleman-like appearance. Mrs.Fraser 
 (no bad judge), declares she,knowsbut 
 three men in town who havejso good a 
 person, height, and air; and I must con- 
 fess, when he dined here the other 
 day, there were none to compare with 
 him, and we were a party of sixteen. 
 Luckily there is no distinction of dress 
 now-a-days to tell tales, but — but — ^but. 
 Your's, affectionately." 
 " I had almost forgot (it was Ed- 
 mund's fault, he gets into my head 
 more than does me good), one very ma- 
 terial thing I had to say from Henry and 
 myself, I mean about our taking you 
 back into Northamptonshire. My dear 
 little creature, do not stay at Portsmouth 
 to lose your pretty looks. Those vile 
 sea-breezes are the ruin of beauty 
 and health. My poor aunt alwayjs felt 
 affected, if within ten miles of the sea, 
 which the Admiral of course never be- 
 lieved, but I know it was so. I am at 
 your service and Henry^s, at an hour's 
 notice. I should hke the scheme, and 
 
 we 
 
( 230 ) 
 
 we would make a little circuit, and shew 
 you Everingham in our way, and per- 
 haps you would not mind passing 
 through London, and seeing the inside 
 of St. George's, Hanover-Square. Only 
 keep your cousin Edmund from me at 
 such a time, I should not like to be 
 tempted. What a long letter ! — one 
 word more. Henry I find has some 
 idea of going into Norfolk again upon 
 some business that you approve, but 
 this cannot possibly be permitted before 
 the miiddle of next week, that is, he 
 cannot any how be spared till after the 
 14th, for we have a party that evening. 
 The value of a m^in like Henry on such 
 an occasion, is what you can have no 
 conception of^ so you must take it 
 upon my word, to be inestimable. He 
 will see the Rushworths, which I own 
 I am not sorry for — having a little cu- 
 riosity — and so I think has he, though 
 he will not acknowledge it.'* 
 
 This was a letter to be run through 
 eagerly, to be read deliberately, to sup- 
 ply 
 
( 251 ) 
 
 ply matter for much reflection, and to 
 leave every thing in greater suspense 
 than ever. The only certainty to be 
 drawn from it was, that nothing deci- 
 sive had yet taken place. Edmund had 
 HOt yet spoken. How Miss Crawford 
 really felt— how she meant to act, or 
 might act without or against her mean- 
 ing — whether his importance to her 
 were quite what it had been before the 
 last separation — whether if lessened it 
 were likely to lessen more, or to reco- 
 ver itself, were subjects for endless con- 
 jecture, and to be thought of on that 
 day and many days to come, without 
 producing any conclusion. The idea 
 that returned the oftenest,was that Miss 
 Crawford, after proving herself cooled 
 and staggered by a return to London 
 habits, would yet prove herself in the 
 end too much attached to him, to give 
 him up. She would try to be more 
 ambitious than her heart would allow. 
 She would hesitate, she would teaze, 
 she would condition, she would require 
 
 a 
 
( 232- ) 
 
 r great deal^ bttt she would finally ac- 
 cept. This wia& Fanny's most frequent 
 expectations. A house in town ! — that 
 she thought must be impossible. Yet 
 there was no saying what Miss Craw- 
 ford might not ask. The prospect for 
 her cousin grew worse and worse. 
 The woman who could speak of him, 
 and speak only of his • appearance ! — 
 What an unworthy attachment 1 — Tor 
 be deriving support from the commen-* 
 dations of Mrs. Fraser ! She who had 
 known him intimately half a year^ 
 Fanny was ashamed of her. Those 
 parts of the letter which related only to- 
 Mr. Crawford and herself touched her 
 in comparison, slightly. Whether Mr.^ 
 Crawford went into Norfolk before or 
 after the 14th, was certainly no concern 
 of her's, though, every thing considered^ 
 she thought he tvoidd go without delay. 
 That Miss Crawford should endeavour 
 to secure a meeting between him and 
 Mrs. Rushworth> was all in her worst 
 hne of conduct, and grossly unkind and 
 
 ill-judged 5 
 
ill-judged ', but she hoped he would not 
 be actuated by any such degrading cu- 
 riosity. He acknowledged no such in- 
 ducement, and his sister ought to have 
 given him credit for better feelings than 
 her own. 
 
 She was yet more impatient for ano- 
 ther letter from town after receiving 
 this, than she had been before; and for 
 a few days, was so unsettled by it alto- 
 gether, by what had come, and what 
 might come, that her usual readings 
 and conversation with Susan were much 
 suspended. She could not command 
 her attention as she wished. If Mr. 
 Crawford remembered her message to 
 her cousin, sh0 thought it very likely^ 
 most likely, that he would write to her 
 at all events -, it would be most consist- 
 ent with his usual kindness, and till she 
 got rid of this idea, till it gradually 
 wore off, by no letters appearing in the 
 course of three or four days more, she 
 was in a most restless, anxious state. 
 
 At 
 
( 2S4 ) 
 
 Atlengtb^asomethinglikecomposure 
 succeeded. Suspense must be submitted 
 to, and must not be allowed to wear her 
 out, and make her useless. Time did 
 something, her own exertions some- 
 thing more, and she resumed her atten- 
 tions to Susan, and again awakened the 
 same interest in them. 
 
 Susan was growing very fond of her, 
 ami though without any of the early 
 delight in books, which had been so 
 strong in Fanny, with a disposition 
 muchless inclined to sedentary pursuits, 
 or to information for information's sake, , 
 she bad so strong a desire of not appear- 
 ing ignorant, as with a good clear un- 
 derstanding, made her a most attentive, 
 profitable, thankful pupil. Fanny was 
 her oracle. Fanny's explanations and 
 remarks were a most important addition 
 to every essay, or every chapter of his- 
 tory. What Fanny told her of former 
 times, dwelt more on her mind than the 
 pages of Goldsmith y and she paid her 
 
 sister 
 
( ^35 ) 
 
 sister the compliment of preferring her 
 style to that of any printed author. The 
 early habit of reading was wanting. 
 
 Their conversations, however, were 
 not always on subjects so high as his- 
 tory or morals. Others had their hour, 
 and of lesser matters, none returned so 
 often, or remained so long between 
 them, as Mansfield Park, a description 
 of the people, the manners, the amuse- 
 ments, the ways of Mansfield Park. 
 Susan, who had an innate taste for the 
 genteel and well-appointed, was eager to 
 hear, and Fanny could not but indulge 
 herself in dwelling on so beloved a 
 theme. She hoped it was not wrong; 
 though after a time, Susan*s very great 
 admiration of every thing said or done 
 in her uncle's house, and earnest long- 
 ing to go into Northamptonshire, seem- 
 ed almost to blame her for exciting 
 feelings which could not be gratified. 
 
 Poor Susan w^as very little better fitted 
 for home than her elder sister ; and as 
 Fanny grew thoroughly to understand 
 
 this. 
 
( 236 ) 
 
 this, she began to feel that when hef 
 own release from Portsmouth came, 
 her happiness would have a material 
 drawback in leaving Susan behind. 
 That a girl so capable of being made, 
 every thing good, should be left in 
 such hands, distressed her more and 
 more. Were s1ie likely to have a home 
 to invite her to, what a blessing it 
 would be ! — And had it been possible 
 for her to return Mr. Crawford's re- 
 gard, the probability of his being very 
 far from objecting to such a measure, 
 would have been the greatest^iiKJrease 
 of all her own comforts. She thought 
 he was really good-tempered, and could 
 fancy his entering into a plan of thatsort^ 
 most pleasantly. 
 
( S37 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Seven weeks of the two months were 
 very nearly gone, when the one letter, 
 the letter from Edmund so long ex- 
 pected, was put into Fanny's hands. 
 As she opened and saw Us length she 
 prepared herself for a minute detail 
 of happiness and a profusion of love 
 and praise towards the fortunate crea- 
 ture, who was now mistress of his 
 fate. These were the contents. 
 
 " Mansfield Park. 
 " My dear Fanny, 
 '*' Excuse me that I have not written 
 before, Crawford told me that you were 
 wishing to hear from me, but I found 
 it impossible to write from London, 
 and persuaded myself that you would 
 understand my silence. — Could I have 
 sent a few happy lines, they should not 
 have been wanting, but nothing of that 
 nature was ever in my power. — I am 
 returned to Mansfield in a less assured 
 
 state 
 
( 2SS ) 
 
 state than when I left it. My hopes are 
 much weaker. — You are probably aware 
 of this already. — So very fond of you 
 as Miss Crawford is, it is most natural 
 that she should tell you enough of her 
 own feelings, to furnish a tolerable 
 guess at mine. — I will not be prevented, 
 however, from making my own com- 
 munication. Our confidences in you 
 need not clash. — I ask no questions. — 
 There is something soothing in the idea, 
 that we have the same friend, and that 
 whatever unhappy differences of opi- 
 nion may exist between us, we are 
 united in our love of you. — It will be a 
 comfort to me to tell you how things 
 now are, and what are my present plans, 
 if plans I can be said to have. — I have 
 been returned since Saturday. I was 
 three weeks in London, and saw her 
 (for London) very often. I had every 
 attention from the Frasers that could be 
 reasonably expected. I dare say I was 
 not reasonable in carrying with me 
 hopes of an intercourse at all like that 
 
 of 
 
( 239 ) 
 
 of Mansfield. It was her manner, 
 however, rather than any unfrequency 
 of meeting. Had she been different 
 when I did see her, I should have made 
 no complaint, but from the very first 
 she was altered ; my first reception was 
 so unlike what I had hoped, that I had 
 almost resolved on leaving London 
 again directly. — I need not particu- 
 larize. You know the weak side of her 
 character, and may imagine the senti- 
 ments and expressions which were tor- 
 turing me. She was in high spirits, 
 and surrounded by those who were 
 giving all the support of their own 
 bad sense to her too lively mind. I 
 do not like Mrs. Fraser. She is a cold- 
 hearted, vain woman, who has married 
 entirely from convenience, and though 
 evidently unhappy in her marriage, 
 places her disappointment, not to faults 
 of judgement or temper, or dispropor- 
 tion of age, but to her being after all, 
 less affluent than many of her ac- 
 quaintance, especially than her sis- 
 ter. 
 
( MO ) 
 
 ter. Lady Stornawaj, and is the 
 determined supporter of every thing- 
 mercenary and ambitious, provided it be 
 only mercenary andambitious enough. 
 I look upon her intimacy with those 
 two sisters, as the greatest misfortune 
 of her life and mine. They have been 
 leading her astray for years. Could 
 ishe be detached from them! — and some- 
 4;imes Ido not despair of it, for the afFec- 
 .tion appears to me principally on their 
 .side. They are very fond of her; but I 
 am sure sh« does not love them as she 
 loves you. When I think of her great 
 attachment to you, indeed, and the 
 whole of ?her judicious, upright conduct 
 as a sister, she appears a very different 
 creature, capable of every thing noble, 
 and I am ready to blame myself for a too 
 harsh construction of a playful manner. 
 I cannot give her up, Fanny. She is 
 the only woman in the w-orld whom I 
 could ever think of as a wife. If I did 
 not believe that she had some regard 
 for me, of course I should not say this, 
 
 but 
 
( 241 ) 
 
 but I do believe it. I am convinced, 
 that she is not without a decided prefer- 
 ence. I have no jealousy of any indi- 
 vidual. It is the influence of the fash- 
 ionable world altogether that I am jea- 
 lous of. It is the habits of wealth that I 
 fear. Her ideas are not higher than 
 her own fortune may warrant, but they 
 are beyond what our incomes united 
 eould authorise. There is comfort, 
 however, even here. I could better bear 
 to lose her, because not rich enough, 
 than because of my profession. That 
 would only prove her affection not 
 equal to sacrifices, which, in fact, I am 
 scarcely justified in asking; and if I am 
 refused, that, I think, will be the honest 
 motive. Her prejudices, I trust, are not 
 so strong as they were. You have my 
 thoughts exactly as they arise, my dear 
 Fanny; perhaps they are some times 
 contradictory, but it will not be a less 
 faithful picture of my mind. Having 
 once begun, it is a pleasure to me to tell 
 you aD I feel. I cannot give her up. 
 VOL. IIIp M Con- 
 
( 242 ) 
 
 Connected, as we already are, and, I 
 hope, are to be, to give up Mary Craw- 
 ford, would be to give up the society of 
 some of those most dear to me, to ba- 
 nish myself from the very houses and 
 friends whom, under any other distress, 
 I should turn to for consolation. The 
 loss of Mary I must consider as com- 
 prehending the loss of Crawford and of 
 Fanny. Were it a decided thing, an 
 actual refusal, I hope I should know 
 how to bear it, and how to endeavour 
 to weaken her hold on my heart— and 
 m the course of a few years: — ^but I am 
 writing nonsense — were I refused, I 
 must bear it; and till lam, I can never 
 cease to try for her. This is the truth. 
 The only question is how / What may 
 be the likeliest means? I have some- 
 times thought of going to London 
 again after Easter, and sometimes re- 
 solved on doing nothing till she returns 
 to Mansfield. Even now, she speaks 
 with pleasure of being in Mansfield in 
 Juncj but June is at a great distance, 
 
 and 
 
( 243 ) 
 
 and I believe I shall write to ber. I 
 have nearly determined on explaining 
 myself by letter. To be at an early 
 certainty is a material object. My pre- 
 sent state is miserably irksome. Con- 
 sidering every thing, I think a letter 
 will be decidedly the best method of 
 explanation. I shall be able to write 
 much that I could not say, and shall be 
 giving her time for reflection before she 
 resolves on her answer, and I am less 
 afraid of the result of reflection than 
 of an immediate hasty impulse; I think 
 I am. My greatest danger would lie 
 in her consulting Mrs. Fraser, and I at 
 a distance,unable to help my own cause. 
 A letter exposes to all the evil of con- 
 sultation, and where the mind is any 
 thing short of perfect decision, an ad- 
 viser may, in an unlucky momeitt, lead 
 it to do what it may afterwards regret. 
 I must think this matter over a little. 
 This long letter, full of my own con- 
 cerns £ilone, will be enough to tire evea 
 the friendship of a Fanny. The last 
 M 2 time 
 
( ^44 ) 
 
 time I saw Crawford was at Mrs. Fraser*s 
 party. I am more and more satisfied 
 with all that I see and hear of him. 
 There is not a shadow of wavering. 
 He thoroughly knows his own mind, 
 and acts up to his resolutions — an ines- 
 timable quality. I could not see him, 
 and my eldest sister in the same room, 
 without recollecting what you once told 
 me, and I acknowledge that they did 
 not meet as friends. There was mark- 
 ed coolness on her side. They scarcely 
 spoke. I saw him draw back surprised;, 
 and I was sorry that Mrs. Rush worth 
 should resent any former supposed slight 
 to Miss Bertram. You will wish to 
 hear my opinion of Maria's degree of 
 comfort as a wife. There is no appear- 
 ance of unhappiness. 1 hope they get 
 on pretty well together. I dined twice 
 in Wimpole Street, and might have been 
 there oftener, but it is mortifying to be 
 with Rushworth as a brother. Julia 
 seems to enjoy London exceedingly. 
 I had little enjoyment there — but have 
 
 less 
 
( 245 ) 
 
 less here. We are not a lively party. 
 You are very much wanted. I miss you 
 more than I can express. My mother 
 desires her best love, and hopes to hear 
 from you soon. She talks of you al- 
 most eveiy hour, and I am sorry to find 
 how many weeks more she is likely to 
 be without you. My Father means to 
 fetch you himself, but it will not be till 
 after Easter, when he has business in 
 town. You are happy at Portsmouth, 
 I hope, but this must not be a yearly 
 visit. I want you at home, that I may 
 have your opinion about Thornton La- 
 cey. I have little heart for extensive 
 improvements till I know that it will 
 ever have a mistress. I think I shall 
 certainly write. It is quite settled that 
 the Grants go to Bath; they leave 
 Mansfield on Monday. I am glad of 
 it. I am not comfortable enough to be 
 fit for any body ; but your aunt seems 
 to feel out of luck that such an article 
 of Mansfield news should fall to my pen 
 instead of her's. Your's ever, my dear- 
 est Fanny." 
 
( U6 ) 
 
 ^' I never will-^no, I certainly never 
 will wish for a letter again/' was 
 Fanny's secret declaration, as she finish- 
 ed this. *^ What do they bring but 
 disappointment and sorrow? — Not till 
 after Easter! — How shall I bear it?— 
 And my poor aunt talking of me every 
 hourP' 
 
 Fanny checked the tendency of these 
 thoughts as well as she could, but 
 she was within half a minute of start- 
 ing the idea, that Sir Thomas was 
 quite unkind, both to her aunt and to 
 herself. — As for the main subject 
 of the letter — there was nothing in that 
 to soothe irritation. She was almost 
 vexed into displeasure, and anger, 
 against Edmund, " There is no good 
 in this delay,'* said she. " Why is not 
 it settled?" — He is blinded, and no- 
 thing will open his eyes, nothing can, 
 after having had truths before him so 
 long in vain. — He will marry her, and 
 he poor and miserable. God grant 
 that her influence do not make him 
 
 cease 
 
( ^47 ) 
 
 cease to be respectable I"— She looked 
 over tlje letter again. " * So very fond 
 of me!* *tis nonsense all. She loves 
 nobody but herself and her brother. 
 Her friends leadin^: her astray for years! 
 She is quite as likely to have led them 
 astray. They have all, perhaps, been cor- 
 rupting one another ; but if they are 
 so much fonder of her than she is of 
 them, she is the less likely to have been 
 hurt, except by their flattery. ' The 
 only woman in the world, whom he 
 could ever think of as a wife.' I firmly 
 believe it. It is an attachment to go- 
 vern his whole life. Accepted or re- 
 fused, his heart is wedded to her for 
 ever. ' The loss of Mary, I must con- 
 sider as comprehending the loss of 
 Crawford and Fanny.* Edmund, you 
 do not know me. The families would 
 never be connected, if you did not con- 
 nect them ! Oh! write, write. Finish 
 it at once. Let there be an end of 
 this suspense. Fix, commit, condemn 
 yourself." 
 
 Such 
 
( 248 ) 
 
 Such sensationsj however, were too 
 near a kin to resentment to be long 
 guiding Fanny's sohloquies. She was 
 soon more softened and sorrowful.-^ 
 His warm regard, his kind expressions, 
 his confidential treatment touched her 
 strongly. He was only too good to 
 every body. — It was a letter, in short, 
 which she would not but have had 
 for the world, and which could never 
 be valued enough. This was the end 
 of it. 
 
 Every body at all addicted to letter 
 writing, without having much to say, 
 which will include a large proportion 
 of the female world at least, must feel 
 with Lady Bertram, that she was out 
 of luck in having such a capital piece, 
 of Mansfield news, as the certainty of 
 the Grants going to Bath, occur at a 
 time when she could make no advan- 
 tage of it, and will admit that it must 
 have been very mortifying to her to 
 see it fall to the share of her thankless 
 son, and treated as concisely as possi- 
 ble 
 
( 249 ) 
 
 ble at the end of a long letter, instead 
 of having it to spread over the largest 
 part of a page of her own. — For though 
 Lady Bertram rather shone in the epis- 
 tolary line, having early in her mar- 
 riage, from the want of other employ- 
 ment, and the circumstance of Sir Tho- 
 mas's being in Parliament, got into 
 the way of making and keeping corres- 
 pondents, and formed for herself a 
 very creditable, common- place, ampli- 
 fying style, so that a very little matter 
 was enough for her ; .she could not do 
 entirely without any ; she must have 
 something to write about, even to her 
 niece, and being so soon to lose all the 
 benefit of Dr. Grant's gouty symptoms 
 and Mrs. Grant's morning calls, it 
 was very hard upon her to be deprived 
 of one of the last epistolary uses ^he. 
 could put them to. 
 
 There was a rich amends, however, 
 
 preparing for her. Lady Bertram's hour 
 
 of good luck came. Within a few days 
 
 M 3 from 
 
( £50 ) 
 
 ^' ' . ' ■ . 
 
 from the ;|eceipt of Edmund's letter, 
 
 Fanny had one from her aunt, begin- 
 ning thus:^ — ^ - 
 
 " My dear Fanny, 
 
 " I take up my pen to com- 
 municate some very alarming intelli- 
 gence, which I make no doubt will give 
 you much concern." 
 
 This was a great deal better than to 
 bave to take up the pen to acquaint her 
 with all the particulars of the Grants' 
 iritended journey, for the present intel- 
 ligence was of a nature to promise occu- 
 pation for the pen for many days to 
 cbme, being no less than the dangerous 
 illness of her eldest son, of which they 
 had received notice by express, a {e\t 
 hours before. 
 
 Tom had gone from London with a 
 party of young men to Newmarket, 
 where a neglected fall,^ and a good deal 
 of drinking, had brought on a fever; 
 and when the party broke up, being 
 unable to move, had been left by him- 
 self at the house of one of these young 
 
 men. 
 
( 251 ) 
 
 men, to the comforts of sickness and 
 solitude, and the attendance only of 
 servants. Instead of being soon well 
 enough to follow his friends, as he had 
 then hoped, his disorder increased con- 
 siderably, and it was not long before he 
 thought so ill of himself, as to be as ready 
 as his physician to have a letter dis- 
 patched to Mansfield. 
 
 "This distressing intelligence, as you 
 may suppose,'* observed her Ladyship, 
 after giving the substance of it, "has 
 agitated us exceedingly, and we cannot 
 prevent ourselves from being greatly 
 alarmed, and apprehensive for the poor 
 invalid, whose state Sir Thomas fear* 
 may be very critical; and Edmund 
 kindly proposes attending his brother 
 immediately, but I am happy to add, 
 that Sir Thomas will not leave me on 
 this distressing occasion, as it wpuld be 
 too trying for me. We shall greatly 
 miss Edmund in our small circle, but I 
 trust and hope he will find the poor in- 
 valid in a. less alarming state than might 
 
 be 
 
( ^4^ ) 
 
 be apprehended, and that he will be able 
 to bring him to Mansfield shortly, 
 which Sir Thomas proposes should be 
 done, and thinks best on every account, 
 and I flatter myself, the poor sufferer 
 will soon be able to bear the removal 
 without material inconvenience or 
 injury. As I have little doubt of your 
 feeling for us, my dear Fanny, under 
 these distressing circumstances, I will 
 write again very soon.** 
 
 Fanny's feelings on the occasion were 
 indeed considerably more warm and 
 genuine than her aunt*s style of writing. 
 She felt truly for them all. Tom dan- 
 gerously ill, Edmund gone to attend 
 him, and the sadly small party remain- 
 ing at Mansfield, were cares to shut out 
 every other care, or almost every other. 
 She could just find selfishness enough to 
 wonder whether Edmund had written to 
 MissCrawfordbeforethissummonscame, 
 but no sentiment dwelt long with her, 
 that was not purely affectionate and 
 disinterestedly anxious. Her aunt did 
 
 not 
 
( Q53 ) 
 
 not neglec her; she wrote again and 
 again ; they were receiving frequent ac- 
 countsfrom Eclmund,ancl these accounts 
 were as regularly transmitted to Fanny, 
 in the same diffuse style, and the same 
 medley of trusts, hopes, and fears, all 
 following and producing each other at 
 hap- hazard. It was a sort of playing at 
 being frightened. The sufferings which 
 Lady Bertram did not see, had little 
 power over her fancy; and she wrote 
 very comfortably about agitation and 
 anxiety, and poor invalids, till Tom was 
 actually conveyed to Mansfield, and her 
 own eyes had beheld his altered appear- 
 ance. Then, a letter which she had 
 been previously preparing for Fanny, 
 was finished in a different style, in the 
 language of real feeling and alarm ; 
 then, she wrote as she might have spo- 
 ken. ^^ He is just come, my dear 
 Fanny, and is taken up stairs; and I am 
 so shocked to see him, that I do not 
 know what to do. I am sure he has 
 been very ill. Poor Tom, I am quite 
 
 grieved 
 
( Q54 ) 
 
 grieved for him, and very much fright- 
 ened, and so is Sir Thomas ; and how 
 glad I should be, if you were here to 
 comfort me. But Sir Thomas hopes he 
 will be better to-morrow, and says we 
 must consider his journey/' 
 
 The real solicitude now awakened in 
 the maternal bosom was not soon over. 
 Tom*s extreme impatience to be re- 
 moved to Mansfield, and experience 
 those comforts of home and family 
 which had been Httle thought of in un- 
 interrupted health,hadprobablyinduced 
 his being conveyed thither too early, 
 as a return of fever came on, and for 
 a week he was in a more alarming state 
 than ever. They were all very seriously 
 frightened. Lady Bertram wrote her 
 daily terrors to her niece, who might 
 now be said to live upon letters, and 
 pass all her time between suffering from 
 that of to-day, and looking forward to 
 to-morrow's. Without any particular 
 affection for her eldest cousin, her ten- 
 derness of heart made her feel that she 
 
 could 
 
( 255 ) 
 
 could not spare him ; and the purity of 
 her principles added yet a keener solici- 
 tude, when she considered how little 
 useful, hoWtfttle self-denying his life 
 had (apparently) been. 
 'i- Susan was her only companion and 
 listener on this, as on more common 
 occasions. Susan was always ready to 
 hear and to sympathize. Nobody else 
 could be interested in so remote an 
 evil as illnesi, in a family above an 
 hun^reditiiles off — not even Mrs. Price, 
 beyOnd a brief question or two if she 
 saw her daughter with a letter in her 
 Band, and now and then the quiet 
 observation of *^ My poor sister Ber- 
 tram must be in a great deal of trouble.'' 
 So long divided, and so diiferently 
 situated, the ties of blood were little 
 more than nothing. An attachment, 
 originally as tranquil as their tempers, 
 was now become a mere name. Mrs. 
 Price did quite as much for Lady Ber- 
 tram, as Lady Bertram would have 
 done for Mrs. Price. Three or four 
 
 Prices 
 
( 256 ) 
 
 Prices might have been swept away, 
 any or all, except Fanny and William, 
 and Lady Bertram would have thought 
 little about it; or perhaps might have 
 caught from Mrs. Norris's lips the cant 
 of its being a very happy thing, and a 
 great blessing to their poor dear sister 
 Price to have them so well provided 
 for. 
 
 CHAP. 
 
( ^51 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 At about the week's end from his re- 
 turn to Mansfield, Tora*s immediate 
 danger was over, and he was so far pro- 
 nounced safe, as to make his mother 
 perfectly easy ; for being now used to 
 the sight of him in his suffering, helpless 
 state, and hearing only the best, and 
 never thinking beyond what she heard, 
 w^ith no disposition for alarm, and no 
 aptitude at a hint. Lady Bertram was 
 the happiest subject in the world for a 
 little medical imposition. The fever 
 w^as subdued ; the fever had been his 
 complaint, of course he would soon be 
 well again; Lady Bertram could think 
 nothingless,and Fanny shared her aunt's 
 security, till she received a few lines 
 from Edmund, written purposely to 
 give her a clearer idea of his brother's 
 situation, and acquaint her with the 
 apprehensions which he and his father 
 had imbibed from the physician, with 
 
 respect 
 
( 258 ) 
 
 respect to some strong hectic symptoms, 
 which seemed to seize the frame on the 
 departure of the fever. They judged 
 it best that Lady Bertram should not be 
 harassed by alarms which^ it was to be 
 hoped, would prove unfounded ; but 
 there was no reason why Fanny should 
 not know the truth. They were appre- 
 hensive for his lungs. 
 
 A very few lines from Edmund shew- 
 ed her the patient and the sick room in 
 a juster and stronger light than all 
 Lady Bertram's sheets of paper could 
 do. There was hardly any one in the 
 house who might not have described, 
 from personal observation, better than 
 herself j not one who was not more 
 useful at times to her son. She could 
 do nothing but glide in quietly and 
 look at him ; but, when able to talk or 
 be talked to, or read to, Edmund was 
 the companion he preferred. His aunt 
 worried him by her cares, and Sir 
 Thomas knew, not how^ to bring down 
 his conversation or his voice to the 
 
 level 
 
( 259 ) 
 
 level of irritation and feebleness. Ed- 
 mund was all in all. Fanny would 
 certainly believe him so at least, and 
 must find that her estimation of him 
 was higher than ever when he appeared 
 as the attendant, supporter, cheerer of 
 a suffering brother. There was not 
 only the debihty of recent illness to 
 assist; there was also, as she now learnt, 
 nerves much affected, spirits much de- 
 pressed to calm and raise; and her own 
 imagination added that there must be a 
 mind to be properly guided. 
 
 The family were not consumptive, 
 and she was more inclined to hope than 
 fear for her cousin — -except when she 
 thought of Miss Crawford — but Miss 
 Crawford gave her the idea of being 
 the child of good luck, and to her 
 selfishness and vanity it would be good 
 luck to have Edmund the only son. 
 
 Even in the sick chamber, the for- 
 tunate Mary was not forgotten. Ed- 
 mund's letter had this postcript. " On 
 the subject of my last, I had actually 
 
 begun 
 
( ^60 ) 
 
 begun a letter when called away by 
 f om's illness, but I have now changed 
 my mind, and fear to trust the influence 
 of friends. When Tom is better, I 
 shall go/' 
 
 Such was the state of Mansfield, and 
 so it continued, with scarcely any change 
 till Easter. A line occasionally added 
 by Edmund to his mother's letter 
 was enough for Fanny's information. 
 Tom's amendment was alarmingly 
 slow. 
 
 Easter came— particularly late this 
 year, as Fanny had most sorrowfully 
 considered, on first learning that she 
 had no chance of leaving Portsmouth 
 till after it. It came, and she had yet 
 heard nothing of her return — nothing 
 even of the going to London, which 
 was to precede her return. Her aunt 
 often expressed a wish for her, but there 
 was no notice, no message from the 
 uncle on whom all depended. She sup- 
 posed he could not yet leave his son, 
 but it was a cruel, a terrible delay to her. 
 
 The 
 
( 'm ) 
 
 The end of April was coming on ; it 
 would soon be almost three months 
 instead of two that she had been absent 
 from them all, and that her days had 
 been passing in a state of penance, 
 which she loved them too well to hope 
 they would thoroughly understand ; 
 — and who could yet say when there 
 might be leisure to think of, or fetch 
 her ? 
 
 Her eagerness, her impatience, her 
 longings to be with them, were such 
 as to bring a line or two of Cowper*s 
 Tirocinium for ever before her. — 
 *^ With what intense desire she wants 
 her home," was continually on her 
 tongue, as the truest description of a 
 yearning which she could not suppose 
 any school-boy*s bosom to feel more 
 keenly. 
 
 When she had been coming to Ports- 
 moMth, she had loved to call it her home, 
 had been fond of saying that she was 
 going home ; the word had been very 
 dear to her ; and so it still was, but it 
 
 must 
 
( 262 ) 
 
 must be applied to Mansfield. That was 
 now the home. Portsmouth was Ports- 
 mouth ; Mansfield was home. They 
 had been long so arranged in the indul- 
 gence of her secret meditations^ and no- 
 thing was more consolatory to her than 
 to find her aunt using the same lan- 
 guage. — " I cannot but say, I much 
 regret your being from home at this 
 distressing time, so very trying to my 
 spirits. — I trust and hope, and sin- 
 cerely wish you may never be absent 
 from home so long again" — were most 
 delightful sentences to her. Still, how- 
 ever, it was her private regale. — -Deli- 
 cacy to her parents made her careful 
 not to betray such a preference of her 
 uncle's house : ^' it was always, *^ when 
 I go back into Northamptonshire, or 
 when I return to Mansfield, I shall do 
 so and so." — For a great while it was 
 SO; but at last the longing grew 
 stronger, it overthrew caution, and 
 she found herself talking of what she 
 should do when she went home, before 
 
 she 
 
( 263 ) 
 
 she was aware. — She reproached her- 
 self, coloured and looked fearfully to- 
 wards her Father and Mother. She 
 need not have been uneasy. There 
 was no sign of displeasure, or even of 
 hearing her. They were perfectly free 
 from any jealousy of Mansfield. She 
 was as welcome to wish herself there, 
 as to be there. 
 
 It was sad to Fanny to lose all the 
 pleasures of spring. She had not 
 known before what pleasures she had 
 to lose in passing March and April in 
 a town. She had not known before, 
 how much the beginnings and progress 
 of vegetation had delighted her. — What 
 animation both of body and mind, she 
 had derived from watching the advance 
 of that season which cannot, in spite 
 of its capriciousness, be unlovely, and 
 seeing its increasing beauties, from the 
 earliest flowers, in the warmest divi- 
 sions of her aunt's garden, to the open- 
 ing of leaves of her uncle's plantations, 
 and the glory of his woods. — To be 
 
 losing 
 
{ S64 ) 
 
 losing such pleasures was no trifle; to 
 be losing them, because she was in the 
 midst of closeness and noise, to have 
 confinement, bad air, bad smells, sub- 
 stituted for liberty, freshness, fragrance, 
 and verdure, was infinitely woise; — 
 but even these incitements to regret, 
 were feeble, compared with what arose 
 from the conviction of being missed, 
 by her best friends, and the longing to 
 be useful to those who were wanting 
 her! 
 
 Could she have been at home, she 
 might have been of service to every 
 creature in the house. She felt that she 
 must have been of use to all. To all, 
 she must have saved some trouble of 
 head or hand; and were it only in 
 supporting the spirits of her aunt Ber- 
 tram, keeping her from the evil of so- 
 litude, or the still greater evil of a rest- 
 less, officious companion, too apt to be 
 heightening danger in order to enhance 
 her own importance, her being there 
 would have been a general good. She 
 
 loved 
 
( 265 ) 
 
 loved to fancy how she icould have rea(^ 
 to her aunt, how she could have talked 
 to her, and tried at once to make her 
 feel the blessing of what was, and pre- 
 pare her mind for what might be; 
 and how many walks up and down 
 stairs she might have saved her, and 
 how many messages she might have 
 carried. 
 
 It astonished her that Tom's sisters 
 could be satisfied with remaining in 
 London at such a time — through an 
 illness, which had now, under differ- 
 ent degrees of danger, lasted several 
 weeks. They might return to Mans- 
 field when they chose; travelling could 
 be no difficulty to them, and she could 
 not comprehend how both could still 
 keep away. If Mrs. Rushworth could 
 imagine any interfering obligations, 
 Julia was certainly able to quit London 
 whenever she chose. — It appeared from 
 one of her aunt's letters, that Julia had 
 offered to return if wanted— but this 
 
 VOL. III. N was 
 
( 266 ) 
 
 Avas all. — It was evident that she would 
 rather remain where she was. 
 
 Fanny was disjposed to think the in- 
 fluence of London very much at war 
 with all respectable attachments. She 
 saw the proof of it in Miss Grawford> 
 as well as in her cousins ; her attach- 
 ment to Edmund had been respectable, 
 the most respectable part of her charac* 
 ter, her friendship for herself, had at 
 least been blameless. Where was either 
 sentiment now ? It was so long since 
 Fanny had had any letter from her, 
 that she had some reason to think 
 lightly of the friendship which had been 
 so dwelt on.— It was weeks since she 
 had heard any thing of Miss Crawford 
 or of her other connections in town, 
 except through Mansfield, and she was 
 beginning to suppose that she might 
 never know whether Mr. Crawford 
 had gone into Norfolk again or not, 
 till they met, and might never hear 
 from his sister any more this spring, 
 wheq the following letter was received 
 
 to 
 
( 267 ) 
 
 to revive old, and create some new sen- 
 sations. 
 
 "Forgive me, my dear Fanny, as soon 
 as you can, for my long silence, and 
 behave as if you could forgive me di- 
 rectly. This is my modest request 
 and expectation, for you are so good, 
 that I depend upon being treated better 
 than I deserve — and I v^^rite now to 
 beg an immediate answer: I want to 
 know the state of things at Mansfield 
 Park, and you, no doubt, are perfectly 
 able to give it. One should be a brute 
 not to feel for the distress they are in 
 —and from what I hear, poor Mr. Ber* 
 tram has a bad chance of ultimate re- 
 covery. I thought little of kis illness 
 at first. I looked upon him as the 
 sort of person to be made a fuss with, 
 .and to make a fuss himself in any 
 trifling disorder, and was chiefly con- 
 cerned for those who had to nurse 
 him ; but now it is confidently asserted 
 that he is really in a decline, that the 
 symptoms are most alarming, and that 
 N 2 part 
 
{ ^m ) 
 
 part of the family, at least, are aware 
 of it. If it be so, I am sure you must 
 be included in that part, that discerning 
 part, and therefore intreat you to let me 
 know how far I have been rightly in- 
 formed. I need not say how rejoiced I 
 shall be to hear there has been any mis- 
 take, but the report is so prevalent, that 
 I confess I cannot help trembling. To 
 have such a fine young man cut off 
 in the flower of his days, is most melan- 
 choly. .Poor Sir Thomas will feel it 
 dreadfully. I really am quite agitated 
 on the subject. Fanny, Fanny, I see 
 you smile, and look cunning, but upon 
 my honour, I never bribed a physician 
 in my life. Poor young man ! — If he 
 is to die, there will be two poor young 
 men less in the world; and with a 
 fearless face and bold voice would I say 
 to any one, that wealth and consequence 
 could fall into no hands more deserving 
 of them. It was a foolish precipitation 
 last Christmas, but the evil of a few day^ 
 may be blotted out in part. Varnish 
 
 and 
 
( 269 ) 
 
 and gilding hide many stains. It will 
 be but the loss of the Esquire after his 
 name. With real affection, Fanny, like 
 mine, more might be overlooked. Write 
 to me by return of post, judge of my 
 anxiety, and do not trifle with it. Tell 
 me the real truth, as you have it from 
 the fountain head. And now, do not 
 trouble yourself to be ashamed of eithei 
 my feelings or your own. Believe me, 
 they are not only natural, they are 
 philanthropic and virtuous. I put it to 
 your conscience, whether ' Sir Ed- 
 mund* would not do more good with 
 all the Bertram property, than any 
 other possible ' Sir.' Had the Grants 
 been at home, I would not have troubled 
 you, but you are now the only one I 
 can apply to for the truth, his sisters not 
 being within my reach. Mrs. R. has 
 been spending the Easter with the 
 Aylmers at Twickenham (as to be sure 
 you know), and is not yet returned; 
 and Julia is with the cousins, who live 
 near Bedford Square; but I forgot their 
 
 name 
 
( 270 } 
 
 name and street. Could I immediately 
 apply to either, however, I should still 
 prefer you, because it strikes me, that 
 they have all along been so unwilling to 
 have their own amusements cut up, as 
 to shut their eyes to the truth. I sup- 
 pose, Mrs. R.'s Easter holidays will not 
 last much longer; no doubt they are 
 thorough holidays to her. The Aylniers 
 are pleasant people ; and her husband 
 away, she€an have nothing but enjoy- 
 ment. I .give her credit for promoting 
 his going dutifully down to Bath, to 
 fetch his mother; but how will she and 
 the dowager agree in one house? Henry 
 is not at hand, so I have nothing to say 
 from„ him. Do not you think Edmund 
 would have been in town again long ago, 
 but for this illness? — Yours ever, Mary.'' 
 ^pf had actually began folding my 
 letterv when Henry w^alked in; but h^ 
 brings no intelligence to prevent my 
 sending it; Mrs. R. knows a dechne 
 is apprehended; he saw her this morn- 
 ing, she returns to Wimpole Street to- 
 
( 271 ) 
 
 day, the old lady is come. Now do not 
 make yourself uneasy with any queer 
 fancies, because he has been spending a 
 few days at Richmond. He does it 
 every spring* Be assured, he cares for 
 nobody but you. At this \ery mo^ 
 ment, he is wild to see you, and oc^ 
 Gupied only in contriving the means for 
 doing so> and for making his pleasure 
 conduce to yours. In proof, he repeats, 
 and more eagerly, what he said at Ports* 
 mouth, about our conveying you home, 
 and I join him in it with all my souL 
 pear Fanny, write directly, and tell us 
 to come. It will do us all good. He 
 and I can go to the Parsonage, you 
 know, and be no trouble to our friends 
 at Mansfield Park. It would really be 
 gratifying to see them all again, and a 
 little addition of society might be of in- 
 finite use to them; and, as to yourself,, 
 you must feel yourself to be so wanted 
 there, that you cannot in conscience 
 (conscientious as you are,) keep away, 
 when you have the means of returning. 
 
 I 
 
( ^72 ) 
 
 1 have not time or patience to give half 
 Henry's messages ; be satisfied, that the 
 spirit of each and every one is unal- 
 terable affection.'* 
 
 Fanny's disgust at the greater part of 
 this letter, with her extreme reluctance 
 to bring the writer of it and her cousin 
 Edmund together, would have made 
 her (as she felt), incapable of judging 
 impartiallywhetherthe concluding offer 
 might be accepted or not. To herself, 
 individually, it was most tempting. To 
 be finding herself, perhaps, within three 
 days, transported to Mansfield, was an 
 image of the greatest felicity — but it 
 would have been a material drawback, 
 to be owing such felicity to persons 
 in whose feelings and conduct, at the 
 present moment, she saw so much to 
 condemn ; the sister's feelings — the bro- 
 ther's conduct — her cold-hearted am- 
 bition— /??> thoughtless vanity. To have 
 him still the acquaintance, the flirt, per- 
 haps, of Mrs. Rushworth ! — She was 
 mortified. She had thought better of 
 
 him. 
 
' ( 273 ) 
 
 him. Happily, however, she was not 
 left to weigh and decide between oppo- 
 site inclinations and doubtful notions of 
 right; there was no occasion to deter- 
 mine, whether she ought to keep Ed- 
 mund and Mary asunder or not. She 
 had a rule to apply to, which settled 
 every thing. Her awe of her uncle, 
 and her dread of taking a liberty with 
 him, made it instantly plain to her, what 
 she had to do. She must absolutely 
 decline the proposal. If he wanted, he 
 would send for her; and even to offer 
 an early return, was apresumption which 
 hardly any thing would have seemed to 
 jjustify. She thanked Miss Crawford, 
 but gave a decided negative. — " Her 
 uncle, she understood, meant to fetch 
 her; and as her cousin's illness had con- 
 tinued so many weeks without her 
 being thought at all necessary, she must 
 suppose her return would be unwel- 
 come at present, and that she should 
 be felt an incumbrance." 
 Her representation of her cousin's 
 N? statei 
 
{ S74 ) 
 
 state at this time, was exactly according 
 to her own belief of it, and such as she 
 supposed would convey to the sanguine 
 mind of her correspondent,^ the hope of 
 every thing she was wishing for. Ed- 
 mund would be forgiven for being a 
 clergyman, it seemed, under certain 
 conditions of wealth; and this she sus*- 
 pected, w^as all the conquest of preju^ 
 dice, which he was so ready to con- 
 gratulate himself upon. She had only 
 learnt to think nothing of consequence 
 but money. 
 
 CHAP. 
 
f 275 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 As Fanny could not doubt that her^ 
 answer was conveying a real disappoint- 
 ment, she was rather in expectation,^ 
 froni her knowledge of Miss Crawford's 
 temper, of being urged again; and 
 though no second letter arrived for the 
 space of a week, she had still the same 
 feeling when it did come. 
 
 On receiving it, she could instantly 
 decide on its containing little writing, 
 and was persuaded of its having the 
 air of a letter of haste and business. 
 Its object was unquestionable ; and two 
 moments were enough to start the pro;? 
 bability of its being merely to give her 
 notice that they should be in Portsmouth 
 that very day, and to throw her into 
 all the agitation of doubting what she 
 ought to do in such a case. If two 
 moments, however, can surround with 
 difficulties, a third can disperse them ; 
 and before she had opened the letter, the 
 
 possibility 
 
( ^76 ) ^" 
 
 possibility of Mr. and Miss Crawford's 
 having applied to her uncle and ob- 
 tained his permission, was giving her 
 ease. This was the letter. 
 
 "A most scandalous, ill-natured ru- 
 mour has just reached me, and I write,' 
 dear Fanny, to warn you against giving 
 the least credit to it, should it spread 
 into the country. Depend upon it 
 there is some mistake, and that a day 
 or two will clear it up — at any rate, that 
 Henry is blameless, and in spite of a 
 moment's etourderie thinks of nobody 
 but you. Say not a word of it — hear 
 nothing, surmise nothing, whisper no- 
 thing, till I write again. I am sure it 
 will be all hushed up, and nothing 
 proved but Rush worth's folly. If they 
 are gone, I would lay my life they are 
 only gone to Mansfield Park, and Julia 
 with them. But why would not you 
 let us come for you ? I wish you may 
 not repent it. 
 
 "Yours, &c." 
 
 Fanny stood aghast. As no scandal- 
 
 OUSv 
 
( 277 ) 
 
 bus, ill-natured rumour had reached 
 her, it was impossible for her to under- 
 stand much of this strange letter. She 
 could only perceive that it must relate 
 to Wimpole Street and Mr. Crawford, 
 and only conjecture that something 
 very imprudent had just occurred in 
 that quarter to draw the notice of the 
 world, and to excite her jealousy, in 
 Miss Crawford's apprehension, if she 
 iieard it. Miss Crawford need not be 
 alarmed for her. She was only sorry 
 for the parties concerned and for Mans- 
 field, if the report should spread so far; 
 but she hoped it might not. If the 
 Rushworths were gone themselves to 
 Mansfield, as was to be inferred from 
 what Miss Crawford said, it was not 
 likely that any thing unpleasant should 
 have preceded them, or at least should 
 make any impression. 
 
 As to Mr. Crawford, she hoped it 
 might give him a knowledge of his own 
 disposition, convince him that he was 
 not capable of being steadily attached to 
 
 any 
 
{ 278 ) 
 
 any one woman in the world, and shame 
 him from persisting any longer in ad- 
 dressing herself; 
 
 It was very strange ! She had begun 
 to think he really loved her, and to 
 fancy his affection for her something 
 more than common — and his sister still 
 said that he cared for nobody else. Yet 
 there must have been some marked 
 display of attentions to her cousin, there 
 must have been some strong indiscre- 
 tion, since her correspondent was not 
 of a sort to regard a sHght one. 
 
 Very uncomfortable she was andmu^t 
 continue till she heard from Miss Craw- 
 ford again. It was impossible to banish 
 the letter from her thoughts, and she 
 could not reheve herself by speaking of 
 it to any human being. Miss Craw- 
 ford need not have urged secrecy with 
 so much warmth, she might have trustied 
 to her sense of what was due to her 
 cousin. 
 
 The next day came and brought n<> 
 second letter. Fanny was disappointed. 
 
( 279 ) 
 
 She could still think of little else all the 
 morning ; but when her father came 
 back in the afternoon with the daily 
 newspaper as usual, she was so far from 
 expecting any elucidation through such 
 a channel, that the subject was for a 
 moment out of her head. 
 
 She was deep in other musing. The 
 remembrance of her first evening in 
 that room, of her father and his news* 
 paper came across her. No candle was 
 nori7 wanted. The sun was yet an hour 
 and half above the horizon. She felt 
 that she had, indeed, been three months 
 there; and the sun's rays falling strongly 
 into the parlour, instead of cheering; 
 made her still more melancholy; for 
 sun shine appeared to her a totally dijp- 
 ferent thing in a town and in the court- 
 try. Here, its power was only a glare, 
 a stifling, sickly glare, serving but to 
 bring forward stains and dirt that might 
 otherwise have slept. There was nei- 
 ther health nor gaiety in sun-shine in a- 
 town* She sat in a blaze of oppressive 
 
 heat,. 
 
( 280 ) 
 
 heat, in a cloud of moving dust ; and 
 her eyes could only wander from the 
 walls marked by her father's head, to 
 the table cut and knotched by her bro- 
 thers, where stood the tea-board never 
 thoroughly cleaned, the cups and sau- 
 cers wiped in streaks, the milk a mix- 
 ture of motes floating in thin blue, 
 and the bread and butter growing every 
 minute more greasy than even Rebec- 
 ca's hands had first produced it. Her 
 father read his newspaper, and her mo-- 
 ther lanaented over the ragged carpet as 
 usual, while the tea was in preparation 
 ^— and wished Rebecca would mend it; 
 and Fanny was first roused by his callr 
 ing out to her, after humphing and con- 
 sidering over a particular paragraph — 
 What's the name of your great cousins 
 in town. Fan?/' 
 
 A moment's recollection enabled her 
 to say, " Rush worth. Sir.'* 
 
 « And don't they liv£ in Wimpole 
 Street?" 
 
 « Yes, Sir." 
 
 « Then,. 
 
( 581 ) 
 
 *' Then, there's the devil to pay 
 among them, that's all. There, (hold- 
 ing out the paper to her) — much good 
 may such fine relations do you. I 
 don't know what Sir Thomas may think 
 of such matters; he may be too much 
 of the courtier and fine gentleman to 
 like his daughter the less. But by G — 
 if she belonged to 7ne, I'd give her the 
 rope's end as long as I could stand over 
 her. A little flogging for man and 
 woman too, would be the best way of 
 preventing such things." 
 
 Fanny read to herself that " it was 
 wdth infinite concern the newspaper had 
 to announce to the world, a matrimo- 
 nial fracas in the family of Mr. R. of 
 Wimpole Street ; the beautiful Mrs. R. 
 whose name had not long been enrolled 
 in the lists of hymen, and who had pro- 
 mised to become so brilliant a leader in 
 the fashionable world, having quitted 
 her husband's roof in company with the 
 well known and captivating Mr. C. the 
 intimate friend and associate of Mr. R. 
 
 and 
 
( 28^ ) 
 
 and it was not known, eron to the 
 editor of the newspaper, whither they 
 were gone.'' 
 
 "It isami$take. Sir," said Fanny in- 
 stantly ; " it must be a mistake^— it 
 cannot be true — it must mean some 
 other people." 
 
 She spoke from the instinctive; wish 
 of delaying shame, she spoke with a 
 resolution which sprung from djespair, 
 for she spoke what she did not, could 
 not believe herself. It had been the 
 shock of conviction as she read. The 
 truth rushed on her; and how she 
 could have spoken at all, how. she could 
 even have breathed— -was afterwards 
 matter of wonder to herself. 
 
 Mr. Price cared too little about the 
 report, to make her much answer. " It 
 might be all a lie, he acknowledged; 
 but so many fine ladies were going to 
 the devil now-a-days that way, that 
 there was no answering for anybody." ; 
 
 "Indeed, I hope it is not true," said 
 Mrs. Price plaintively, " it would be so 
 
 very 
 
( 283 ) 
 
 very shocking! — If I have spoken once 
 to Rebecca about that carpet, I am sure 
 I have spoke at least a dozen times; 
 have not I, Betsey? — And it would not 
 be ten minutes work." 
 
 The horror of a mind like Fanny*s, 
 as it received the conviction of such 
 guilt, and began to take in some part 
 of the misery that must ensue, can 
 hardly be described. At first, it was a 
 soi't of stupefaction -, but every moment 
 was quickening her perception of the 
 horrible evil. She could not doubt; 
 she dared not indulge a hope of the 
 paragraph being false. Miss Crawford's 
 letter, which she had read so often as to 
 make every line her own, was in fright- 
 ful conformity with it. Her eager de- 
 fence of her brother, her hope of its 
 being hushed up, her evident agitation, 
 were all of a piece with something very 
 bad; and if there was a woman of 
 character in existence, who could treat 
 as a trifle this sin of the first magnitude, 
 who could try to gloss it over, and de- 
 sire 
 
( 284 ) 
 
 ^ire to have it unpunished, she could be- 
 lieve Miss Crawford to be the woman T 
 Now she could see her own mistake as 
 to who were gone — or said to be gone. 
 It was not Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth, 
 it was Mrs. Rushworth and Mr. Craw- 
 ford. 
 
 Fanny seemed to herself never to 
 have been shocked before. There was 
 no possibility of rest. The evening 
 passed, without a pause of misery, the 
 night was totally sleepless. She passed 
 only from feelings of sickness to shud- 
 derings of horror; and from hot fits of 
 fever to cold. The event was so shock- 
 ing, that there were moments even 
 when her heart revolted from it as 
 impossible — when she thought it could 
 not be. A woman married only six 
 months ago, a man professing himself 
 devoted, even engaged, to another — 
 that other her near relation — the whole 
 family, both families connected as they 
 were by tie upon tie, all friends, all in- 
 timate together ! — it was too horrible a 
 
 confusion 
 
( ns ) 
 
 corvfiision of guilt, too gross a complica- 
 tion of evil, for human nature, not in a 
 state of utter barbarism, to be capable 
 of! — ^yet her judgment told her it was so. 
 His unsettled affections, wavering with 
 his vanity, Marians decided attachment, 
 and no sufficient principle on cither 
 side, gave itpossibility — MissCrawford's 
 letter stampt it a fact. 
 
 What would be the consequence ? 
 Whom would it not injure? Whose 
 views might it not effect ? Whose peace 
 would it not cut up forever? Miss 
 Crawford herself— Edmund; but it was 
 dangerous,perhaps,totreadsuchground. 
 She confined herself, or tried to confine 
 herself to the simple, indubitable family- 
 misery which must envelope all, if it 
 were indeed a matter of certified guilt 
 and public exposure. The mother's 
 sufferings,t he father's — there,shepaused. 
 Julia's, Tom's, Edmund's — there, a yet 
 longer pause. They were the two on 
 whom it would fall most horribly. Sjr 
 Thomas's parental solicitude, and high 
 
 sense 
 
( 286 ) 
 
 sense of honour and decorum, Edmund's 
 upright principles, unsuspicious temper, 
 and genuine strength of feeling, made 
 her think it scarcely possible for them to 
 support life and reason under such dis- 
 grace; and it appeared to her, that as 
 far as this world alone Was concerned, 
 the greatest blessing to every one of 
 kindred with Mrs. ""Rushworth would 
 be instant annihilation. 
 
 Nothing happened the next day, or 
 the next, to weaken her terrors. Two 
 J>osts came in, and broughtno refutation, 
 public or private. There was no second 
 letter to explain away the first, from 
 Miss Crav^^ford; there was no intelli- 
 gence from Mansfield, though it was 
 now full time for her to hear again 
 from her aunt. This was an evil omeii. 
 She had, indeed, scarcely the shadow of 
 "R hope to soothe her mind, and was re- 
 duced to so low and wan and trembling 
 a condition as no mother — not unkind, 
 except Mrs. Price, could have overlook- 
 ed, when the third day did bring the 
 sickening knock, and a letter was again 
 
 put 
 
( 287 ) 
 
 put into her hands. It bore the Lon- 
 don postmark, and came from Edmund. 
 * *^ Dear Fanny, 
 
 You know our present wretch- 
 edness. May God support you under 
 yaur share. We have been here two 
 daysj but there is nothing to be done. 
 They cannot be traced. You may not 
 have heard of the" last blow — Julia's 
 elopement; she is gone to Scotland with 
 Yates. She left London a few hours 
 before we entered it. At any other 
 time, this would have been felt dread- 
 fully. Now it seems nothing, yet it is 
 an heavy aggravation. My father is 
 not overpowered. More cannot be 
 hoped. He is still able to think and 
 act; and I write, by his desire, to pro- 
 pose your returning home. He is 
 anxious to get you there for my mo- 
 tber% sake. I shall be at Portsmouth 
 the morning after you receive this, and 
 hope to find you ready to set off for 
 Mansfield. My Father wishes you to 
 invite Susan to go with you, for a few 
 ■■^ months. 
 
( 288 ) 
 
 months. Settle it as you like; say what 
 is proper; I am sure you will feel such 
 an instance of his kindness at such a 
 moment ! Do justice to his meaning, 
 however I may confuse it. You may 
 imagine something of my present state. 
 There is no end of the evil let loose 
 upon us. You will see me early, by 
 the mail. Your's, &c. 
 
 Never had Fanny more wanted a 
 cordial. Never had she felt such a one 
 as this letter contained. To-morrow ! 
 to leave Portsmouth to-morrow ! She 
 was, she felt she was, in the greatest 
 danger of being exquisitely happy, 
 while so many were miserable. The 
 evil which brought such good to her! 
 She dreaded lest she should learn to be 
 insensible of it. To be going so soon, 
 sent for so kindly, sent for as a comfort, 
 and with leave to take Susan, was alto- 
 gether such a combination of blessings 
 as set her heart in a glow, and for a 
 time, seemed to distance every pain, and 
 make her incapable of suitably sharing 
 
 the 
 
( .289 ) 
 
 the distress even of those whose dis- 
 tress she thought of most. Julia's 
 elopement coald affect her comparati V(a- 
 ly but little; she was amazed and 
 shocked; but it could not occupy hePj^ 
 could not dwell on her mind. She was 
 obliged to call herself to think of it, 
 and acknowledge it to be terrible and 
 grievous, or it was escaping her, in the 
 midst of all the agitating, pressing, joy- 
 ful cares attending this summons to 
 herself. 
 
 There is nothing like employment, 
 active, indispensable employment, for 
 relieving sorrow. Employment, even 
 melancholy, may dispel melancholy, and 
 her occupations were hopeful. She had 
 so much to do, that not even the horri- 
 ble story of Mrs. Rushworth (now fixed 
 to the last point of certainty), could 
 affect her as it had done before. She 
 had not time *o fee ttiisertvble. Within 
 twenty "four hours she was hoping to 
 be gone; her father and mother must 
 be spoken to, Susan prepared, every 
 
 VOL. HI. o thing 
 
( ^Se J 
 
 #iing gbt rearfy.Biisine^ followed 
 business; the day li^as hardly long 
 enough. The happiness she tvj^^l'ii^ 
 parting too, happiness very littfe al* 
 loyed by the black communfed'feiOft 
 which must briefly precede it-^thef joj^ 
 fill corisent of hef father and ihother to 
 Susan's going with her-*- the general 
 siati^faction with which the going <5f 
 both seemed regarded— and the eestakjy 
 of Susan herself, was all serving to sup- 
 Port her spirits. 
 
 The affiiction of the Bertrams was 
 little felt in the family. Mrs. Pi^lce 
 taliccd of her poor sister for d %w 
 ^inutes^— hut how to find any thing to 
 hold Susan's cloiheSi because Reb€«cli 
 took aWay all the boxes and spoilt 
 them, was much more in her thbughts, 
 H^d as for Siisan, now finexpectedly 
 f mtified m the first wish ^ft*^ heart, 
 tl^ -kifiowi^ ft^jth^g perfeonaHf of those 
 l^bb Wi i^ftfeedi brof «ho^ Whd Wferte 
 ^¥^t)M%-^if s$ie kmM h«elp i^mcfiig 
 
 as 
 
( 291 ) 
 
 as ought to be expected from human 
 virtue at fourteen. 
 
 As nothing was really left fpr the 
 decision «f Mrs, Price, or the good 
 offices of Rebecca, every thing was 
 rationalJy and duly accqaiplished, and 
 the girls were ready for the morrow. 
 The advantagjBof much sleep to prepare 
 them for their journey, was iinpossible. 
 The cousin who was travelling towards 
 them, could hardly have less than vi- 
 sited their agitated spirits, one all hap- 
 piness, the other all varying and inde- 
 scribable perturbation. 
 
 By eight in the morning, Edmund 
 was in the house. Th.e girls heard his 
 entrance Jrom above, and Fanny went 
 down. The idea of immediately seeing 
 him, with the knowledge of wh^t he 
 must be suffering, brought back all her 
 own fiicst feelings. He so near h^r, and 
 in misery. She M^as ready to sink, as 
 she ei)itiered the parlour. He was alone, 
 ftnd met her instantly ; sycid she found 
 kerself pressed to his heart vsdtb. only 
 o 2 thejpf 
 
these words, - just articulate, " My 
 Fanny — niy only sister— my only com- 
 fort now.*' She could fay uotb^ng; 
 nor f6v spine mill ut]^s could lie say- 
 more. ''■:'i^i^6^ '■h^^'rv>Ttt'\iU iS/f'^k^- 
 He turned away to recover. hjii^s^If, 
 and when he spoke again, thouglx his 
 voice still faltered, his manner showed 
 the wish of self-command, and the re^o^ 
 lution of avoiding any farther ajlusiop. 
 "Have you breakfasted ?—^ When shall 
 you be ready? — Does Susaq go ?"— - 
 were questions following ^ach other 
 rapidly. His great object was tb be off 
 as soon as possible. When Mansfield 
 was considered, time was precious; ^nd 
 the state of his own mii;i<J naade him 
 find relief only in motipi;^. It was 
 settled t|)i^tl;^^ should order thf^^ai;ri^e 
 to the ^oor in half an hour j, Eanny^^Ur 
 swered for their having^ bj^e^l^gt^, 
 and being quite ready;^^j^al|^jj l^gijf. 
 Hebad a|reMy ate^andd^^Hned^^j^ing 
 for th^ii- fne^l |Jg^^ould^aJJCj,rf|g^ 
 the i^jiip^r|^^^4,^5^i9, Ji^fj^jg^lfh 
 
 carriage. 
 
( 2# ) 
 
 carriage. 'H was ^6m agkin/glad to 
 get away even from Fanny. ' 
 ; He looked very ill; evidently suf- 
 fering under violent emotions, which 
 he was determined to suppress. She 
 kb##it must be so, but it was^ei'rible 
 to'h-er.- -'■'^'■.^'^■■■^- ^)^w-3r5y^ ;- 
 
 The carri^^e came; and he^eiftiered 
 th^house again at the same moment, 
 jti^t ih time to spend a few minutes 
 v^'ifh the family* and be a witness— but 
 that he saw nothing— of the tranquil 
 maittner in which the daughters were 
 paired with, and j list in time to prevent 
 th^if sitting down to the breakfast table, 
 Wbichby dint of muchuhusual activity, 
 waS ^#fte and completely ready as the 
 cat^riige d^ove from the door. Fanny's 
 la^t meal in lier^ fatber' s house was in 
 chi^racter witb 'her iRrst; shd was dis- 
 mi*^sed^fix)r1rt it ^ bog^ft^bly as she had 
 been! welcomi^d. 
 
 How her heart swelled with joy and 
 gratitude, as she passed the barriers of 
 Portsnniottth, and how Susan's face wore 
 
 its 
 
{ 99i ) 
 
 its bix)adest similes^ may be easily een- 
 ceiyed. Sittinj^ forwards, however, dnd 
 screened by her boiinet, those smilee 
 were ' unseeii; " "' ; ' ' V_^ ^ ' ' '"" 
 ;, ^ Th0 journey wa^ lively to be 1 Iffifnt 
 biie. fidmurid'sdeep sigb soften readied 
 Fanny. Had he been alone with her, 
 his heart must have opened in spite of 
 every resolution 5 but Susan's presence 
 drove him quite into himself, and ^h is 
 attempts to talk on indiffereiit subjects 
 could neter be long supported. 
 
 Fanny watched him with never«fail- 
 ing solicitude, and sometimes catching 
 his eye, revived an affectionate smile, 
 which comforted her; but the first day's 
 jpurney passed without her hearing a 
 Word from him on the subjects that 
 H-tfere weighing him down. Ilie next 
 iiporniDg produced a little more, jiist 
 b,e|bre their setting out from (Oxford, 
 \vhi!e Susan was stationed at a wiiiddw, 
 in eager observation of the departure of 
 a. large fopiily frpm the inn, the other 
 two wa*e sending tij^ the fire j and 
 
 Edmundjj 
 
( m ) 
 
 Edmund, particularly struck by the al. 
 teration in Fanuy*s looks, aud from his 
 igQQrauce of the daily eyils of h^r 
 father's house, attributing an undue 
 share of the change, attributing all to 
 th^rficent event, took her hand, and 
 said in alow, but very expressive tone, 
 ^*No wonder— you must feel it— you 
 n^ust suffer. How a man who bad 
 ODC^ loved, could desert you! But 
 3(^i(??V-— your regard was new compared 
 with— — ^Fanny, think of ?72e/** 
 
 The first division of their journey oc* 
 
 cupied a long day, and brought thenoi 
 
 almost knocked up, to Oxford 3 but the 
 
 secpnd was over at a niuch earlier houn 
 
 They were in the environs of Mansfield 
 
 lopg before the usual dinner-time, and 
 
 ^s they approached the beloved place,^ 
 
 the hearts of both sisters sank a little. 
 
 j^a^p ny^ t egan to d read the meeting with 
 
 }iW aunts and "torn, under so dreadful a 
 
 immniationsancl Susan to feel with 
 
 ^9^e^nxiety, that all her best mannersi 
 
 '^ al] herlj^efyacq^ired^S^^^^ 
 
 ■ ' y -^ " " '^ ' "'"'''' ' ■ was 
 
was practised here, was on the point of 
 being called iiJta^^iJtion^ Visions of 
 good and ill bre^ding^ of old vulgar-' 
 isnvs ; and new gentilities wsererbffore 
 Jtefj ;and she was «med;Hati rig much wp^Qrt 
 silver forks, napkins, and finger glassj^s. 
 Famiy had been every where awafcf to 
 the difference of the count rj fin^e 
 Februarys but, when they entered th^ 
 Riif4v, her perceptions and her pleasoiff isi 
 were of the keenest sort. It was Ibr^t 
 months, full three months, sinpe:^|ll|r 
 quitting it> and the change W9« f^onn 
 'fvinier to summer. ^ Her eye fell ey^ry 
 ijyhere Q^ la,wns and plan tuitions of |he 
 ireshest gfiqen ; ^nd^tbe tree^j^- tbppgjhi 
 not fully clothed, ;w;efe in t|h,^l^jd^ligl^t» 
 ful state, when farther beau ty is known 
 4o be at hand, and when, while much 
 is actually given to the sight, nwre yet 
 remains for the imagination. Her en- 
 joyment, however, was for herself alone. 
 Edmund could not share it. She looked 
 at him, but he was leatiing back, sunk 
 in a deeper gloom than ever, and with 
 ;:;>' '^eyes 
 
( 297 ) 
 
 eyes closed as if the view of cheerful*** 
 ness oppressed him, and the lovely scenes 
 of hotne miist be shut but. 
 
 It made her ftieflancholy agatin^and 
 the feno#1ed]ge of what must be end u- 
 :tnsg^^^lsmf inyested ^ven' the house, 
 modern-, airy, and well situated as it was, 
 with a ttielancholy aspect. 
 * • By one of the suffering party within, 
 they were? expected with siieh impa- 
 tience^ as she had never known before. 
 Fanny had scarcely passed the solemn- 
 looking servants, when Lady Bertram 
 C0(me from the drawing room to meet 
 W^ri cititie with no indolent step; and, 
 falling on her neck, said, ** Dear Fanny ! 
 now r shall be coixifortable. ' * 
 
 : v7iifiol £ fl<< .ir oi&ria ion bkioo haamh^ 
 -m 3 CHAP: 
 
( ^98 ) 
 
 « T It had bei^jn amiserabfe party,eacWof 
 the three believing themselves most mi- 
 serable. Mr3. Norris, however/ as most 
 attached to Mafia, was really the great- 
 est sufferer, Maria washer first favour- 
 ite, the dearest of all j the match had 
 
 /^een her own contriving, as she had 
 been wont with such pride of heart to 
 fe^l and say, and this conclusion of it 
 alir^pst overpowered her. 
 
 y -§he was an ^tered creature, quieted, 
 stupified, indifferent to everything that 
 
 /passed. Th^ being left with her sister 
 
 ^nd nephew, and all the house under 
 her care, had been an advantage entire- 
 ly thrown away 5 she had been unable 
 to direct Of diptate, or even fancy her- 
 gelf usefuE When really touched by 
 affliction, her active powers had been 
 all benumbeid ^ and neither Lady Ber- 
 tram nor Tom had received from her 
 the smaJtesilirpl^cjrt or attempt at sup- 
 port. 
 
C s&g ) 
 
 port. She had done no more for them; 
 tlian they had done for each other. 
 They had been all solitary^ helpless, and 
 forlorn alike; and now the arrival of 
 the others only established her superi- 
 ority in wretchedness. Her companions 
 were relieved, but there was no good 
 for her, Edmund was almost as weU 
 ^ome to his brother, as Fanny to hep 
 punt; but Mrs.Norris, instead of having 
 comfort from either, was but the mo^ 
 irritated by the sight of the person whom, 
 in the blindness of her anger^ shecottld 
 have charged as the daemon of the pieces . 
 Had Fanny accepted Mr. Crawford^ 
 this could not have happened, 
 
 Susan, too, was a grievance. She had 
 not spirits to notice ber in^norethan 
 ;a few repulsive looks, but she felt her 
 as a spy, and an intruder, and an indi- 
 gent niece, and every thing most odiou& 
 By her other aunt, Susan was received 
 $v|th quiet kindness. Lady Bertram 
 Joex^A not give her much time, ov many 
 wordfi, bu tshefdl her, a« FJtevoy ^s sii^r, 
 
 to 
 
{ 300 ) 
 
 to have a claim at Mansfield, and was 
 ready to kiss and like her; and Susan 
 was tnore than satisfiedi for ahe canine 
 perfectly aware, that noting buf^iil 
 humour was to be expected frcntt Aunt 
 Norris; and was §o provided With hmp^ 
 piness, so strong in that best of bl^«« 
 sings, an escape from many certain eviJs, 
 that she could have stood against a gi^l 
 deahnore indifference than she met witji 
 from the others. !^-,i,^:|jf^ii 
 
 She was now left a good deal Id h^ivi? 
 selfi to ge€ acquainted with the howse 
 and grounds as she could, and spept hier 
 d?iys very happily in so dpm^ whilet^^sci 
 w|io might otherwise have attended to 
 her, were shut up, or wholly Qcciipied 
 each with the person quite dependant 
 on them, at this time, for every thing 
 like comfort j Edmund trying to. bury 
 his own feeUngs in exertions for thei re*- 
 lief of his brothers, and Fanny devoted 
 to her aunt Bertram, returning to ^ very 
 former office, with niore thaa fornacr 
 zeal, and thinking she could nev^r^do 
 vi < enough 
 
( 301 ) 
 
 enough for one wh&l^etfied so much to 
 ■vmntYk^ ;-■' ^■.^■^■-•t-- ^■■"■^ }■■:■■■ 'f^i^iii. 
 .^(ilP^ W^ '4v&t the dre^dlul b^^iftess 
 #itfc^ fanny, talk and lament, was ^11 
 I^dy Be) tram's x^n^dlation. To^ be 
 Ife^hed to fend borne with, and hear the 
 vcwee of kindness and syn^pathy i» re- 
 tu^dj was every thing that coulct be 
 4oiSe ft)!* her.- ^ To be othe r wise com fort- 
 •ed was out of the questiorii The case 
 admitted of no comfort. Lady Ber- 
 tram <lid not think deeply, but, guided 
 by Sir Thomas, she thought justly on 
 aH important points; and she saw, 
 therefore, in all its enormity, what had 
 happened^ and neither endeavoured 
 herself* nor required Fanny to advise 
 her, to think little bf giiilt and infaniy. 
 c i Her affections were not acdtei nor 
 was her mind tenacious* After a ti me. 
 Faulty fouhd it hot impossible to direct 
 . het thoughts to other subjects, and re- 
 vive some intereist in the usnal occupa- 
 tions; but whenever Lady Bertram:«;ay 
 
fixed on the event, she couM s^e it 
 only in one light, as cpmpreheriding jLhe 
 loss of a daughter, and a disgrace nigyi^r 
 to be wiped off .^4 
 
 ,; Fanny learnt from her, all the psirti- 
 culars which had yet transpired. JtJ^r 
 aunt was no very methodieal narrator; 
 but with the help of some letters to and 
 from Sir Thomas, and what she alre^dy 
 knew herself, and could reasonably com- 
 bine, she was soon able to understand 
 quite as much as she wished of ithe 
 circumstances attending the story. 
 
 Mrs. Rushworth had gone, for the 
 Easter holidays, to Twrckenhara, witha 
 family whom she had just grown inti- 
 mate with — a fami ly of li vply, agreeable 
 manners, and probably of morals and 
 discretion to suit-— for to their house 
 Mr. Crawford had constant access at all 
 times. His liaving been in the same 
 lapeighbourhood, Fanny al ready knew. 
 Mt. Ru&hwqrth had been gone, at this 
 ^me^ to Bath^ to pass a few days with 
 ills mother, and bring her back to town, 
 
 and 
 
( 303 ) 
 
 and Mafia was with these friends witli^ 
 d^i any restraint, without everi Jtilia ; 
 Ifc^r Julia had removed from Wimpoie 
 Street two or tliree weeks before, on a 
 visit to some relations of Sir Thomas; 
 ^ rembval which lier father and mother 
 ''%eve now disposed to attribute to ^ome 
 view of convenience on Mr. Yates's ac- 
 count. Very soon after tlie Rush worths 
 i^etum to Wimpoie Street, Sir Thomas 
 had received a letter from an old and 
 itiost particular friend in London^ who 
 heating and w^itnessing a good deal to 
 alarm him in that quarter, wrote to re^ 
 •' bofklmend Sir Thomas's coming to Loo- 
 dbn himself, and using his influence 
 with his daughter, to put an end to an 
 ^titimacy which was already exposing 
 '1i^ to unpleasant remarks, and evident- 
 ly making Mr. Rushworth uneasy. 
 
 Sir Thomas wa^^i^eparing toafctapon 
 iihis letter, witbt)Ut commuriicatiiag its 
 'contents to any ereatttre «t Mansfield, 
 -rrheiik it wai& folk)w«d by atiother, sent 
 '^kpressfmW #e<saij^ *«ieiw^^ m tfreak 
 
 to 
 
( 304 ) 
 
 to hifii the almost desperate situation 
 in which affairs then stood with the 
 young people. Mrs! Rash worth had 
 left her husband's house; Mr. Rusb- 
 worth h^db^eri in great ahger and dis- 
 tress tdA/wt(Mt^. H^ditig)^^l}i^; Ws 
 advice; Mr. Harditig feared thei*e haid 
 been Vr^ leasiy very flagrant indisi^retJibh. 
 Thie rtiaid-servant of Mrs. Rashwtfrth, 
 senior, threatened alarmingly. Hte v»r«is 
 doing all in his power to quiet every 
 thing, with the hope of Mrs. Rtish* 
 worth's return, but was so much cdttnt 
 teracted in Wimpole Street by the i in- 
 fluence of Mr. Rush worth's niotli^l^, 
 that the worst consequences might be 
 apprehended. ■> 
 
 This dreadful cOmniunication cotilS 
 not be kept from the rest of the fariiily. 
 Sir Thomas set *off ; EdMiinff' would 
 go with him ; ^nd the others liaa:be|n 
 Jeflt in a state bf wretchedness, itiferi^ 
 ,only to what followed the receipt of 
 the next letters firomLonddii.^^ Every 
 Jthing was by that time public b^^oSd a 
 iji hope. 
 
( 305 ) 
 
 hope. The servant of Mrs. Rushworth, 
 
 th^ pother,^ .bad exposure in her power, 
 
 ^d, supported by lier mistress, was not 
 
 tq be silencedx The two ladies, even in 
 
 the ishort time tb^}^ had been together^ 
 
 hs^d disagreed ; and the bitterness of the 
 
 ^feler against her daughter-in-law might 
 
 perhaps, arise almost as much from the 
 
 personal disrespect with which she had 
 
 herself been treated, as from sensibility 
 
 for. her son. ^ 
 
 ,v However that might be, she wasun- 
 
 jpaanageable. But had she been less 
 
 obstinate, or of less weight with her 
 
 Sony who was always guided by the 
 
 last speaker, by the person who could 
 
 get hold of and shut him up, the case 
 
 would still have been hopeless, for 
 
 Mrs. Rushworth did not appear again, 
 
 a«d there was every reason to conclude 
 
 hereto be conceided somewhere with 
 
 Mr. Crawford, who had quitted his 
 
 uncle's house, as for, a journey, on the 
 
 very day of her absenting herselfl : / 
 
 Sir Thomas, however, rfeinaiiied yet 
 
 . ' 9, 
 
( 506 ) 
 
 a little longer in town, ia the hape of 
 diseovering, and ^natchiiig liei^ fto|n4ar. 
 tfeer vic^, tlHmgh all was Io$t OQMIbe 
 sid^ of character. 
 ; .ffz> present state, F^npycoyW 
 be?ir to think ofV ? There was bs^t one 
 of his children who was not at this time 
 a source of misery to him. Tom's cooi- 
 plaints had been greatly height^»ed by 
 the shock of his sister's qonductj and 
 his recovery so much thrown back hyih 
 that even Lady Bertram had been struck 
 by the difference, and all her alarms 
 were regularly sent off to her husband; 
 and Julia's elopement, the additional 
 blow which had met him on his arrival 
 in London, though its force had be^n 
 deadened at the moment, mustj,,,she 
 knew, be sorely felt. She .saw tb^t 
 it was. His letters expressed l^jftw 
 *much he deplored it. Under any^ cir- 
 cumstances it would hfive been |i,q,,juf^- 
 welcome alliance, but to hav^j^ it;^o 
 cl^andestinely formed, anfi^uch a. period 
 fj^osen forjtspoippjeti^ijp^ce^ Julij^s 
 i,:^ feelings 
 
( 307 ) 
 
 feelings in a most ^nfavoarstble light/ 
 and severely aggravated the folly of her 
 choice. He called it a bad thing, done 
 in the worst manner, and at the worst 
 time; and though Julia was yet as more 
 pardonable than Maria as folly than 
 vice, he could not but regard the step 
 she had taken, as opening the worst 
 probabilities of a conclusion hereafter, 
 like her sister's. Such was his opinion 
 of the set into which she had thrown 
 herself. 
 
 Fanny felt for him most acutely. He 
 could have no comfort but in Edmund. 
 Every other child must be racking his 
 heart. His displeasure against herself 
 she trusted, reasoning differently from 
 Mrs. Norris, would now be done away. 
 She should be j ustified. M r. Crawford 
 would have fully acquitted her conduct 
 in refusing him, but this, though most 
 material to herself, would be poor con^ 
 solation to Sir Thomas. Her uncle's 
 displeasure was terrible to her; but what 
 (^iirtS "fei^^ifetiBcktioni or her gratitude 
 V'"'^' and 
 
( 308 ) 
 
 and^ttiichment do for him ? His stay 
 must be on Edmund alone. 
 
 She was mistaken, however, in sup- 
 posing that Edmund gave his father no 
 present pain. It was of a much less 
 poignant nature than what the others 
 excited; but SirThomas was consider- 
 ing his happiness as very deeply in- 
 volved in the offence of his sister and 
 friend, cut off by it as he must be from 
 the woman, whom he had been pur- 
 suing with undoubted attachment^ and 
 strong probability of success; and who 
 in every thing but this despicable bro- 
 ther, would have been so eligible a con- 
 nection. He was aware of what Edmund 
 hiust be suffering on his own behalf in 
 addition to all the rest, when they were 
 in town ; he had seen or conjectured his 
 feelings, and having reason to think 
 that c?w^ interview with Miss Crawford 
 had taken place, from which Edmund 
 derived only increased distress, had been 
 as anxious on that account as on others, 
 to get him out of town, and had en- 
 gaged 
 
( 509 ) 
 
 gaged him in taking Fanny h'otne to 
 her aunt, with a view to his relief and 
 benefit, no less than theirs. Fanny was 
 not in the secret df her uncle's feelings. 
 Sir Thomas not in the secret o^l Miss 
 Crawfor(i*s character. H^d he been 
 priyy to her conversation with hi s ■. s0h, 
 he would not have wished her to belong 
 to him, .though her t^yenty thou^arid 
 pounds had been forty. ; .^ . <^>fv4 
 • ' That EdqjUnd must be for eyer di- 
 vided from Mrss Crawford, did not 
 adnfiit of a doubt with Fanny; and yet, 
 till she knew that he felt the same, her 
 own conviction was insufficient. ' She 
 thought he did, but she wanted to be 
 assured pf it. If he would now speak 
 to her with the unreserve which had 
 S0nietrnies been too much for her b^fprie, 
 it would be most consoling ; but that s][ie 
 found was hot to be. She seldom sa^jy 
 him— .never ajone— he probably avoids 
 ed be.mff alone with her. What wasto 
 be inferred? " That his judgment sub- 
 mitfed to all his owh.pecuhar and bitter 
 
 share 
 
( 9W ) 
 
 shai?e (rf this family affliction^/ hut that 
 it was too keenly felt to be a ^t^l df 
 the slightest communicatioil. 'Rliit 
 must be his state. He yielded, but it 
 was with agonies, which did not admit 
 of speech. Lopg> long would it be ere 
 Miss Crawford's name passed his lips 
 agaiuy or she could hope for a r^fiewa! 
 of ^ueh cdnfidential intercourse as hact 
 been.. j;.,„ 
 
 Itwaslong, They reached Msinsfii^ld 
 on Thursday, and it was nottiti Sunday 
 evejiing that Edmund began to talk to 
 ber on the subject. Sitting with her on 
 Sunday evening— a wet Sunday even- 
 ing— the very time of all others when 
 if a friend is at hand the heart must be 
 opened, and everything told-^-no one 
 else in the room, except his mother, 
 w^ho, after hearing an affecting ser- 
 mon, had cried herself to sleep-^i^ was 
 impossible not to speak ; and so, y^ith 
 the usual beginnings, hardly to he traced 
 as to what C£^me first, aud the usual de- 
 claration that if she would listen to him 
 
 for 
 
( $U ) 
 
 fbf % ftew iMiwfe^/ lie sfeotild hertty 
 bri^f/^ud certainly never tax her 1a«id- 
 neisi in the same way again— she need 
 not fear a repetition — ^it would bea sub*- 
 ject prohibited entirely— heentered upon 
 the luxury of relating circumstances and 
 sensations of the first interest to him- 
 self, to one of whose affectionate sym- 
 pathy hfe was quite convinced. 
 
 How Fanny listened, with what cu- 
 riosity and concern, what pain and what 
 delight, how the agitation of his voice 
 was watched, and how carefully her 
 <DWii eyes were fixed on any object 
 but hittiselfj may be imagined. The 
 opening was alarming. He had seen 
 Mi^ Grawfofd. He had been invited 
 to see her. He had received a note 
 ftom Lady Stornaway to beg him to 
 call> aud regarding it as what Avas 
 meant to be the last, last interview of 
 friendship, ^nd investing her with all 
 the feelings of shame and wretchedness 
 which Crawfof d's sister ought to have 
 known, he had gohe to her in such a 
 
 state 
 
( 51^ ) 
 
 state of mind, so softened, so devoted, 
 as made it for a few moments impossi- 
 ble to Fanny's fears, that it should be 
 the last. But as he proceeded in hi» 
 story, these fears were over. She had 
 met him, 'he said, with a serious- — cer- 
 tainly a serious — even an agitated air; 
 but before he had been able to speak 
 one intelligible sentence, she had intro- 
 duced the subject in a manner which he 
 owned had shocked him. ** I heard 
 you were in town,'* said she — ** I wanted 
 to see you. Let us talk over this sad 
 business. What can equal the folly of 
 our two relations?*'*-'' I could not an-» 
 swer, but I believe my looks spoke. 
 She felt reproved. Sometimes how 
 quick to feel ! With a graver look and 
 voice she then added—* I do not mean 
 to defend Henry at your sister's- ex- 
 pence.' So she began— but how she 
 wient on, Fanny, is not fit— is hardly fit 
 to be repeated to you. I cannot recall 
 all her v/ords. I would not dwell upon 
 them if I could. Their substance was 
 
 great 
 
( 313 ) 
 
 greatangeratthe/b//j/ofeach. Sherepra- 
 bated her brother's folJy in being drawn 
 on by a woman whom he had never 
 cared for, to do what must lose him the 
 woman he adored; but still more the 
 felly of— poor Maria, in sacrificing such 
 a situation, plunging into such difficul- 
 ,ties, under the idea of being really loved 
 by a man who had long ago made his 
 indifference clear. Guess what I must 
 have felt. To hear the woman wbom — 
 no harsher name than folly given ! — So 
 voluntarily, so freely, so coolly to can- 
 vass it!-— No reluctance, no horror, no 
 feminine — shall I say ? no modest loath- 
 ings! — This is what the world does. 
 For where, Fanny, shall we find a 
 woman whom nature had so richly en- 
 dowed ?— Spoilt, spoilt ! — '* 
 
 ■ After a little reflection, he Went on 
 with a sort of desperate calmness—" I 
 will tell you every thing, and then have 
 done for ever. She saw it only as folly, ^ 
 and that folly stamped only by exposure. . 
 The want of common discretion, of 
 
 VOL. III. P caution — 
 
( 314 ) 
 
 caution^^his going down to Richmond 
 for the whole time of her being at 
 Twickenham-^— her putting herself in 
 the power of a servant; — it was the de- 
 tection in short— Oh! Fanny, it was 
 the detection, not the offence which she 
 reprobated. It was the imprudence 
 which had brought things to extremity, 
 and obliged her brother to give up 
 every dearer plan, in order to fly with 
 her." 
 
 He stopt. — ** And what," said Fan- 
 ny, (believing herself required to speak), 
 ** what could you say ?" 
 
 ^* Nothing, nothing to be understood. 
 I was like a man stunned. She went 
 ©n, began to talk of you; — yes, then 
 she began to talk of you, regretti«g, 
 as well she might, the loss of such 
 a-' j' . There she spoke very rationally. 
 But she has always done justice to you. 
 f He has thrown away,' said she, 'such 
 a woman as he will never see again. 
 She would ha^e fixjed him, she would 
 baye nia-ije bim hftppy for ever.'— My 
 
 dearest 
 
( 315 ) 
 
 dearest Faimy, I am giving you I hope 
 txme pkasure than pain by this retro- 
 i^ect of what might have been — but 
 what never can be now. You do not wish 
 me to be silent ? — if you do, give me 
 but a look, a word, and I have done." 
 
 No look or word was given. 
 
 «< Thank God!" said he. «* We were 
 all disposed to wonder — but it seems to 
 have been the merciful appointment of 
 Providence that the heart which knew 
 no guile, siiould not suffer. She spoke 
 of you with high praise and warm af- 
 fection y yet, even here, there was alloy, 
 a dash of evil — for in the midst of it 
 she could exclaim " Why, would not 
 sfce have him ? It is all her fault. Simple 
 girl!' — I shall never forgive her. Had 
 i^e accepted him as she ought, they 
 might now have been on the point of mar- 
 riage, and Henry would have been too 
 happy and too busy to want any other 
 object. He would have taken no pains 
 to be on terms with Mrs. Rush worth 
 again. It would have all eided in a 
 P 2 regular 
 
( 316 ) 
 
 regular standing flirtation, in yearly 
 meetings atSotherton and Everingham.' 
 Could you have believed it possible ?— 
 ^t the charm is broken. My eyes 
 are opened/' 
 
 '/* Cruel! "said Fanny — "quite cruel! 
 At such a moment to give way! to 
 gaiety and to speak with lightness, and 
 to you !— Absolute cruelty." 
 ' . " Cruelty, do you call it ? — We differ 
 there. No, her's is hot a cruel nature, 
 I do not consider her as meaning to 
 wound my feelings. The evil lies yet 
 deeper ; in her total ignorance, unsus- 
 piciousness of there being such feelings, 
 in a perversion of mind which' made it 
 natural to her to treat the subject as she 
 did. She was speaking only, as she had 
 been used to hear others speak, as she 
 imagined every body else would speak. 
 Her's are not faults of temper. She 
 would not voluntarily give unnecessary- 
 pain to any one, and though I may de- 
 ceive myself, I cannot but think that 
 for nie, for my feelings, she would— 
 
 Her's 
 
( 517. ) 
 
 Her*s are faults of principle, Fanny, of 
 blunted delicacy and a corrupted, viti- 
 ated mind. Perhaps it is best for me— 
 since it leaves me so little to regret. — 
 Not so, however. Gladly would I sub- 
 mit to all the increased pairi of losing 
 her, rather than have to think of her as 
 I do. I told her so.'' 
 '* Did you?'' 
 
 " Yes, when I left her I told her so." 
 "How long were you together ?" 
 *'Five and twenty mmutes. Well,> 
 she went on to say, that what remained 
 now to be done, was to bring about a 
 marriage between them. She spoke of 
 it, Fanny, with a steadier voice than I 
 can." He was obliged to pausemorethan 
 once as he continued. ** We must per- 
 suade Henry to marry her," said she,' 
 '' and what with honour, and the certain-- 
 ty of having shut himself out for ever- 
 from Fanny, I do not despair of it. Fan- 
 ny he must give up. I do not think that 
 even he could now hope to succeed 
 with one of her stamp, and therefore I; 
 
 hope 
 
( 518 ) 
 
 hope we may find no insuperable difE- 
 Gulty. My influence, which is not 
 small, shall all go that way ; and, when 
 oiice married, and properly supported 
 by her own family, people of respecta- 
 bility as they are, she may recover her 
 jfewDting in society to a certain degree. 
 In some circles, we know, she would 
 never be admitted, but with good din- 
 nerSj and large parties, there will always 
 be those who will be glad of her ac- 
 quaintance; and there is, undoubtedly, 
 i^ore Hberality and candour on those 
 points th an formerly. Wh at I ad v i se is, 
 that your father be quiet. Do not let 
 him injure his own cause by interference. 
 Persuade him to let things take their 
 course. If by any officious exertions of 
 his, she is induced to leave Henry *spro* 
 tection, there will be much le^ chance' 
 of his marrying her, than if she remain 
 with him. I know how he is likely to be 
 influenced. Let Sir Thomas trust to 
 his honour and compassion, and it may 
 all end well 5 but if he get his daughter 
 
 away, 
 
( ^19 ) 
 
 away, it will be destroying the chief 
 hold." 
 
 After repeating this, Edmund was so 
 much affected, that Fanny, watching 
 him with silent, but most tender concern, 
 was almost sorry that the subject had 
 been entered on at all. It was long be- 
 fore he could speak again. At last, 
 ^'Now, Fanny,'* said lie, ^* I shall soon 
 have done. I have told you the sub- 
 stance of all that she said. As soon as 
 I could speak, I replied that I had not 
 supposed it possible, coming in such a 
 state of mind into that house, as I had 
 done, that any thing could od \:. to 
 make ihe suffer more, but that she had 
 been inflicting deeper wounds In -Imost 
 every sentence. That, though i had, in 
 the course of our acquaititaoce, beeu' 
 often sensible of some ditfevence in ouif 
 opinions, on points too,of some moment^ 
 it had not entered my imagination tO 
 conceive the difference could be such a^ 
 she had now proved it. That the man* 
 ner in which she tr^at^d the dreadful 
 
 crime 
 
( 320 ) 
 
 crime committed by her brother and my 
 sister — (with whom lay the greater se- 
 duction I pretended not to say)— but 
 the manner in which she spoke of the: 
 crime itself, giving it every reproach' 
 but the right, considering its ill conse*' 
 quences only as they were to be braved' 
 or overborne by a defiance of decency 
 and impudence in wrong; and, last of 
 all", and above, all recommending to us a 
 compliance, a compromise, an acqui- 
 escence, in the continuance of the sin, 
 on the chance of a marriage which,: 
 thinking as I now thought of her bro- 
 ther, should rather be prevented than 
 sought — all this together most grie- 
 vously convinced me that I had never 
 understood her before, and that, as far as 
 related to rniiid, it had been the crea- 
 ture of my own imagination, not Miss 
 Crawford, that I had been too apt to dwell 
 on for many nionths past. That, per^ 
 haps it was best for me; I had less to 
 regret in sacrificing a friendship — feel- 
 ings—hopes which must, at any rate, 
 
 have 
 
( m ) 
 
 have been torn from me now. And 
 yet, that I must and would confess, 
 that, could I have restored her to what 
 she. had appeared to me before, I would 
 infinitely prefer any increase of the 
 pain of parting, for the sake of carry- 
 ing with me the right of tenderness 
 and esteem. This is what 1 said — the 
 purport of it — but, as you may ima-. 
 gine, not spoken so collectedly or me- 
 thodically as I have repeated it to you. 
 She was astonished, exceedingly astoh-- 
 ished — more than astonished. I saw her 
 change cpuntenance. She turned ex- , 
 tremely red. I imagined I saw a mix- 
 ture of many feelings— a great, though 
 short struggle — half a wish of yielding 
 to truths, half a sense of shame— but ha- 
 bit, habit carried it. She would have 
 laughed if she could. It was a sort of 
 laugh, as she answered, ' A pretty good 
 lecture upon my word. Was it part of 
 your last sermon ? At this rate, you 
 will soon reform every body at Mans- 
 field and Thornton Lacey 3 and when I 
 r3 hear 
 
( mt ) 
 
 hmrofytm nesjl, it may b#as a edebra^ 
 ted preacher in some great society of 
 Methodists, or as a mis^onary itito^ 
 fbreign parts.' She tried to speak care* 
 Ifessly; but she was not so careless as^ 
 she wanted to appear. I only said in: 
 r^ply, that from my heart I wished hep 
 ^ell, and earnestly hoped that she might 
 soon learn to think more justly, an4 
 not owe the most valuable knowledge 
 we could any of us acquire— the know- 
 ledge of ourselves and of our duty tiT^ 
 the lesions of affliction— and immedi*' 
 ately left the room. I had gone a few 
 steps, Fanny, when I heard the door* 
 open behind me. * Mr* Bertram,' saii^ 
 j^e. I looked back. 'Mr. Bertram^' 
 said she, with a smile^— but it was & 
 smile ill-suited to the conversation that 
 had passed, a saucy playful smile, seem- 
 ing to invite, in order to subdue me; 
 at least, it appeared so to me. I resist*-* 
 ed ; it was the impulse of the moment 
 to resist, and still walked on. I have 
 wncc^-^i5onietimes-^fbr a moment— re- 
 gretted 
 
( sm ) 
 
 grettdd that I did not go back; but I 
 kno^ I was rieht ; and sucli has been 
 the end of our acquaintance! And 
 what an acq^iaiutance has it been ! How 
 have I been deceived ! Equally in brea- 
 ther and sister deceived ! 1 thank you 
 for your patience, Fanny. This has 
 been the greatest relief, and now we 
 will have done.'* 
 
 And such was Fanny's dependance 
 <>n his words, that for five minutes she 
 thought they had done. Then, how- 
 ever, it all tame on again> or something 
 very like it, and nothing less than Lady 
 Bertram's rousing thoroughly up, could 
 rfeally close such a conversation. Till' 
 that happened, they continued to talk- 
 of Miss Crawford alone, and how s^hS 
 bad attached him, and how delight fol» 
 Bd^liufre had made her, and how excel- 
 Itot sfhe would have been, had she 
 fallen into good hands earlier. Fanny,- 
 now at liberty to speak open^Fy, feltf 
 more^ than justi'fied in adding to^ his' 
 knowledge of her real character, by 
 
 some 
 
c ^^^ ) 
 
 some hint of what share his brother's 
 state of health might be supposed to 
 have in her wish for a complete recon- 
 ciliation. This was not an agreeable 
 intimation. Nature resisted it for a 
 while. It would have been a vast deal 
 pleasanter to have had her more dis- 
 interested in her attachment; but his 
 vanity was not of a strength to fight 
 long against reason. He submitted to 
 believe, that Tom's illness had influenced 
 her; only reserving for himself this 
 consoling thought, that considering the. 
 many counteractions of opposing habits, 
 she had certainly been more attached to' 
 him than could have been expected, and 
 for his sake been more near doing right. 
 Fanny thought exactly the sanic; and 
 they were also quite agreed in their 
 opinion of the lasting effect, the indehble 
 impression, which such ad isappointment 
 must make on his mind. Time would 
 undoubtedly abate somewhat of his suf- 
 feringSj but still it was a sort of thing 
 > • whichi 
 
( 3^5 ) 
 
 which he never could get entirely the 
 better of ^ and as to his ever meeting 
 with any other woman who nid — it 
 was too impossible to be named but with 
 indignation. Fanny's friendship was all 
 that he had to cling to. 
 
 chap; 
 
( 3^6 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XVir. 
 
 Let other pens dwell on guilt airi' 
 misery. I quit such odious subjects s^ 
 soon as I can, impatient to restore every 
 body, not greatly in fault themselves, to 
 tolerable comfort, and to have done 
 with all the rest. 
 
 My Fanny indeed at this very time, 
 I have the satisfaction of knowinsj, must 
 have been happy in spite of every thing. 
 She must have been a happy creature in 
 spite of all that she felt or thought she 
 felt, for the distress of those around 
 her. She had sources of delight that 
 must force their way. She was returned 
 to Mansfield Park, she was useful, she 
 was beloved; she was safe from Mr. 
 Cfawford, and when Sir Thouias came 
 back she had every proof that could be 
 given in his then melancholy state of 
 spirits, of his perfect approbation and 
 increased regard 3 and happy as all this 
 
 must 
 
must maike ber, ^he would still' hme 
 beett happy without any of it, for Ed- 
 ntiund was no longer the dupe of Mig^ 
 Crawford. 
 
 It is true, that Edmund was very far 
 from happy himself. He was suffering 
 from disappointment and regret, griev- 
 iftg over what was, and wishing for 
 what could never be. She knew it u^as* 
 so, and was sorry; but it was with 
 a ^ri'ow so founded on satisfaction^* 
 ss0t tending to ease, and so much in 
 harmony with every dearest sensation^ 
 that there are few who might not have 
 been glad to exchange their greatest^ 
 gaiety for it. 
 
 S^r Thomas, poor Sir Thomas, a 
 parent, and conscious ol errors in; 
 bits own conduct a« a parent, was the 
 ll^n^es^t to suffer. He feh that he ought* 
 ifOt to have allowed the marriage, tbals^ 
 lifeda;oghter's sentiments had been suf- 
 fi0if€»Jt1y kuown to him to reuder bim^ 
 Oilp^le iU authoriMrig it, that in so^ 
 Amn^%% hitt} ^sacrifieeii th^ righit to tb^ 
 
 expedient. 
 
( ^2S ) 
 
 expedient, and been governed by mo- 
 tives of selfishness and worldly wisdom. ; 
 These were reflections that required 
 some time to soften; but time will 
 do almost every thing, and thoughJittle 
 comfort arose on Mrs. Rush worth's side; 
 for the misery she had occasioned, com- 
 fort was to be found greater than he 
 had supposed, in his other children. 
 Julia's match became a less desperate; 
 business than he had considered it at. 
 first. She was humble and wishing to be 
 forgiven, and Mr. Yates, desirous of be-, 
 ing really received into the family, was 
 disposed to look up to him and be guided. 
 He was not very solid 5 but there was a 
 hope of his becoming less trifling — of 
 his being at least tolerably domestic 
 and quiet; and, at any rate, there was 
 comfort in finding his estate rather, 
 more, and his debts much less, than he. 
 had feared, and in being consulted and 
 treated as the friend best worth attend-, 
 ing to. There was comfort also in 
 Tom, who gradually regained his health, 
 i without 
 
( 3^a ) 
 
 without regaining the thoughtlessness 
 gnd selfishness of his previous habits* 
 He was the better for ever for his 
 illness. He had suffered, and he had 
 learnt to think, two advantages that he 
 had never known before; and the self- 
 reproach arising from the deplorable 
 event in Wimpole Street, to which 
 he felt himself accessary by all the 
 dangerous intimacy of his unjustifiable 
 theatre, made an impression on his mind 
 which, at theageofsix-and-twenty, with 
 no want of sense, or good companions^ 
 was durable in its happy etTects. He 
 became what he ought to be, usefulto 
 his father, steady and quiet, and not 
 living merely for himself. 
 
 Here was comfort indeed ! and quite 
 as soon as Sir Thomas could place de- 
 pendence on such sources of good, Ed- 
 mund wa.^ contributing to his father's 
 ease by improvement in the only point 
 in which he had given him pain be- 
 fore — improvement in his spirits. After 
 wandering about and sitting under trees 
 
 with 
 
m\k F^nby all the summer eTcnings, he 
 had so well talked his mind into sub^ 
 mission, as to be very tolerably cheerful 
 again. 
 
 These were the circumstances and 
 the hopes which gradually brought 
 their alleviation to Sir Thomas, deaden- 
 ing his" Sense of what was lost, and in 
 part reconciling him to himself though 
 the anguish arising from the conviction 
 of his own errors in the education of 
 his daughters, was never to be entirely 
 done away. 
 
 Too late he became aware how unfa- 
 vourable to the character of any young 
 people, must be the totally opposite 
 treatment which Maria and Julia had 
 been always experiencing at home, A\'here 
 the excessive indulgence and flattery of 
 th^ir aunt had been continually con- 
 trasted with his own severity. He saw 
 how ill he had judged, in expecting to 
 counteract what was wrong in Mr?3. 
 Norris, by its reverse in himsell, clearly 
 »aw %\mi he had but increased the evil, 
 
 by 
 
( 3'dl ] 
 
 by t^acliing therft to repress therr spirits 
 in his preseace, as to make their real 
 dispQsition unkiiowin to him, and send- 
 ing them foF all their indulgences to a 
 person \rho had been able to attach them 
 only by the bhndness of her aifeetion, 
 and the excess of her praise. 
 
 Here had been grievous mismanage- 
 ment; but, bad as it was, he gradually 
 grew to feel that it had not beerk 
 the most direful mistake in his plan o^ 
 education. Something must have been 
 wanting within, or time would have 
 worn away much of its ill effect. He 
 feikfed that principle, active principle, 
 hald been wanting, that they had never 
 been properly taught to govern theii* 
 inclinations and tempers, by that sense 
 of duty which can alone suffice. They 
 had been instructed theoretically in 
 th^ir religion, but never required to 
 bring it into daily practice. To be dis- 
 tinguished for elegance and accomplish^ 
 ilients— the authorised object of their 
 youth'-^cottld have had no useful in- 
 
 fluenc 
 
( 33% ) 
 
 fluence that way, no moral effect on the 
 mind. He had meant them to be good, 
 but his cares had been directed to the 
 understanding and maaners, not the 
 disposition; and of the necessity of self- 
 denial and humility, he feared they had 
 never heard from any lips that could 
 profit them. 
 
 Bitterly did he deplore a deficiency 
 which now he could scarcely compre- 
 hend to have been possible. Wretchedly, 
 did he feel, that with all the cost and 
 care of an anxious and expensive educa- 
 tion, he had brought up his daughters, 
 without their understanding their first 
 duties, or his being acquainted with 
 their character and temper. ^^ 
 
 The high spirit and strong passions of 
 Mrs. Rushworth especially, were made 
 known to him only in their sad result- 
 She was not to be prevailed on to leave 
 Mr. Crawford. She hoped to marry^ 
 him, and they continued together till 
 she was obliged to be convinced that 
 such hope was vain, and till the disap- 
 pointment 
 
{ 33$ } 
 
 pointment and wretchedness arising 
 from the conviction, rendered her tem- 
 per so bad, and her feelings for him so 
 hke hatred, as to make them for a while 
 each other's punishment, and then in- 
 duce a voluntary separation. 
 
 She had lived with him to be re- 
 proached as the ruin of all his happiness 
 in Fanny, and carried away no better 
 consolation in leaving him, than that 
 she had divided them. What can ex- 
 ceed the misery of such a mind in such 
 a situation. 
 
 Mr. Rushworth had no difficulty in 
 procuring a divorce -, and so ended a 
 marriage contracted undersuch circum- 
 stances as to make any better end, the 
 effect 6f good luck, not to be reckoned 
 on. She had despised him, and loved 
 another— and he had been very much 
 aware that it was so. The indignities 
 of stupidity, and the disappointments of 
 selfish passion, can excite little pity. His 
 punishment followed his conduct, as did 
 a deeper punishment, the deeper guilt 
 
 of 
 
f »9i ) 
 
 of his wife. M0 wag ri&leased (mxi 
 the engag#m^t tp be jaoirtifi^d md 
 mihappy, till some other pretty girl 
 ^owldattmiit bim into matrimony ag$in> 
 .and he might set forward on a »<5Cond, 
 and it is to be hoped, more prosperojjif 
 trial <rftbe state-^-if duped, to be doped 
 at least with good hqmour and good 
 IiMjk 5 while she must withdraw with 
 infinitely stronger feelings to a retire*- 
 jiaent and reproach, whioh could allow 
 no second spring of hope or charactff. 
 Where she could be placed, beCiainfi 
 a subject of most melancholy and mo- 
 mentous consultation. Mrs. Norris, 
 whose attach ment seemed to augment 
 with the demerits of her niece, would 
 have had her received at home, and 
 countenanced by them all. Sir Thomas 
 would not hear of it, and Mrs. Norris'^ 
 anger against Fanny was so much the 
 greater, from considering her residence 
 there as the motive. She persisted in 
 placing his scruples to h^r account, 
 tl)pugb Sir Thori^a& vmy solenairty as- 
 sured 
 
( 335 ) 
 
 sured her, liiat hsid there bee® m young 
 woman ii^ question, had there been no 
 young person of either sex belonging to 
 him, to be endangered by the society, 
 or hurt by the character of Mrs Rush- 
 wprtJij he would never have offered so 
 great an insult to the neighbourhood, 
 as to expect it to notice her. As a 
 daughter — he hoped a penitent one—- 
 she should be protected by him, and se- 
 cured in every comfort, and supported 
 by every encouragement to do right, 
 which their relative situations admtttedj 
 but farther than thaf, he would not go. 
 Maria had destroyed her own character, 
 and he would not by a vain attempt to 
 restore what never could be restored, 
 be affording his sanction to vice, or in 
 seeking to lessen its disgrace, be any- 
 wise accessary to introducing such 
 misery in another man's family, as he 
 had known himself. 
 
 It ended in Mrs. Norris's resolving 
 to quit Mansfield^ and devote herself to 
 her unfortunate Maria, and in an es- 
 tablishment 
 
( 536 ) 
 
 tablishment being formed ifoc them in 
 another countrjr— ^remote and private, 
 wh^re, shut up together with little so- 
 ciety, on one side no affection, on^^she. 
 other, no judgment, it may be rea* 
 sonably supposed that their tempers! be- 
 came their mutual punishment. ^-^ 
 Mrs.Norris's removal from Mansfield 
 was the great supplementary comfort of 
 Sir Thomas's life. His opinion of iher 
 had been sinking from the day of his 
 return from Antigua; in every transac- 
 tion together from that peripdjr in their 
 daily intercourse, in business, or ia chat, 
 she had been regularly losjng ground 
 in his esteem, and convincing him that 
 either time had done her much dis- 
 service, or that he had considerabiy 
 over- rated her sense, and wonderfully 
 borne with her manners before. He had 
 felt her as an hourly evil, which was so 
 much the worse, a^: there seemed no 
 chance of its ceasing but with life ; she 
 seemed a pact of hia\self, that must be 
 borne for ever. To be relievied from 
 
 her 
 
( 537 ) 
 
 her, therefore,, was $o great a felicity, 
 that hadshe riot left bitter remembranGes 
 b'ehiajl her, there might have been dan- 
 ger of his learning almost to approve 
 the evil which produced such a good. 
 
 She was regretted by no one at Mans- 
 field. jShe had never been able to 
 attach even those she loved best, and 
 since Mrs. Rush worth's elopement, her 
 tempjer had been in a state of such ir- 
 ritatiojnt, as to make her every where tor- 
 menting. Not ^ven Fanny had tears for 
 aunt Norris^~not even when she was 
 gone for ever. 
 
 That Julia escaped better than Maria 
 was Qwing^. in some measure, to a fa- 
 vourable difference of disposition and 
 circumstance, but in a greater to her 
 .having been less the darling of that 
 very aunt, less flattered, and less spoilt. 
 Her beauty and acquirements had held 
 but a second place. She had been al- 
 ways used to think herself a little in- 
 ferior to Maria. Her temper was natu- 
 rally the easiest of the two^ her feelings, 
 
 V L, III. Q though 
 
( 3Sf5 ) 
 
 though quick, were more controulable ; 
 and education had not given her so 
 very hurtful a degree of self-conse- 
 quence. 
 
 She had submitted the best to the dis- 
 appointment in Henry Crawford. After 
 the first bitterness of the conviction of 
 being slighted was over, she had been 
 tolerably soon in a fair way of not 
 thinking of him again ; and when th^ 
 acquaintance was renewed in town, and 
 Mr. Rush worth's house became Craw- 
 ford's object, she had had the merit of 
 withdrawing herself from it, and of 
 chusing that time to pay a visit to her 
 other friends, in order to secure herself 
 from being again too much attracted. 
 This had been her motive in going to 
 her cousins. Mr. Yates's convenience 
 had had nothing to do with it. She had 
 been allowing his attentions some time, 
 but with very little idea of ever accept- 
 ing him ; and, had not her sister's con- 
 duct burst forth as it did, and her in- 
 creased dread of her father and of 
 
 home. 
 
( 339 ) 
 
 liome, on that event — imagining its 
 certain consequence to iierself would be 
 greater severity and restraint — made 
 her hastily resolve on avoidii»gsuch im- 
 mediatehorrors at all risks, it is proba- 
 ble that Mr. Yates would never have 
 succeeded. She had not eloped with 
 any worse feelings than those of selfish 
 alarm. It had appeared to her the only 
 thing to be done, Maria's guilt had 
 induced Julia's folly. 
 
 Henry Crawford, ruined by early in- 
 dependence and bad domestic example, 
 indulged in the freaks of a cold-blooded 
 vanity a little too long. Once it had, by 
 an opening undesigned and unmerited, 
 led him into the way of happiness. 
 Could he have been satisfied with the 
 conquest of one amiable woman's affec- 
 tions, could he have found sufficient 
 exultation in overcoming the reluc- 
 tance, in working himself into the ei- 
 teem and tenderness of Fanny Price, 
 there would have been every probabi- 
 lity of success and felicity for him. 
 Q 2 His 
 
( 340 ) 
 
 His affection had already done 5dme- 
 thing. Her influence over him had al- 
 ready given him some influence over 
 her. Would he have deserved more, 
 there can be no doubt that more would 
 have been obtained; especially when 
 that marriage had taken place, which 
 would have given him the assistance of 
 her conscience in subduing her first in- 
 clination, and brought them very often 
 together. Would he have persevered, 
 and uprightly, Fanny must have been 
 his reward — and a reward very volun- 
 tarily bestowed — within a reasonable 
 period from Edmund's marrying Mary. 
 Had he done as he intended, and as 
 he knew he ought, by going down to 
 Everingham after his return from Ports- 
 mouth, he might have been deciding 
 his own happy destiny. But he was 
 pressed to stay for Mrs. Fraser's party; 
 his staying was made of flattering con- 
 sequence, and he was to meet Mrs. 
 Rushworth there. Curiosity and vani- 
 ty were both engaged, and the tempta- 
 tion 
 
( 341 ) 
 
 tioa of immediate pleasure was too 
 strong for a mind unused to make any 
 sacrifice to right ; he resolved to defer 
 his Norfolk journey, resolved that wri- 
 ting should answer the purpose of it, 
 or that its purpose was unimportant—^ 
 and staid. He saw Mrs, Rushworth^ 
 was received by her with a coldness 
 which ought to have been repulsive, and 
 have established apparent indifference 
 between them for ever; but he was 
 mortified, he could not bear to be 
 thrown off by the woman whose smiles 
 had been so wholly at his command; 
 h^must exert himself to subdue so proud 
 a display of resentment ; it was anger 
 on Fanny's account ; he must get the 
 better of it, and make Mrs. Rushworth 
 Maria Bertram again in her treatment 
 of himself. 
 
 In this spirit he began the attack; 
 and by animated perseverance had soon 
 re-established the sort- of familiar inter- 
 course-^ofgallantry— of flirtation which 
 bounded his views, but in triumphing 
 
 over 
 
( S42 ) 
 
 oyer the discretion, which, though be- 
 ginning in anger, might have saved 
 them both, he had put himself in the 
 power of feehngs on her side, more 
 strong than he had supposed. — She 
 loved him; there was no withdrawing 
 attentions, avowedly dear to her. He 
 was entangled by his own vanity, 
 with as little excuse of love as pos- 
 sible, and without the smallest incon- 
 stancy of mind towards her cousin. — To 
 keep Fanny and the Bertrams from a 
 knowledge of what was passing became 
 his first object. Secrecy could not 
 have been more desirable for Mrs. 
 Rushworth's credit than he felt it for 
 his own. — When h^ returned from 
 Richmond, he would have been glad to 
 see Mrs. Rush worth no more. — All 
 that followed was the result of her im- 
 prudence ; and he went off with her at 
 last, because he could not help it, re- 
 gretting Fanny, even at the moment, but 
 regretting her infinitely -more, when all 
 the bustle of the intrigue was over, and a 
 very few months had taught him, by the 
 
 force 
 
( 343 ) 
 
 force of contrast J to place a yet higher 
 value on the sweetness of her temper, 
 the purity of her mind, and the excel- 
 lence of her principles. 
 
 That punishment, the public punish-^ 
 meat of disgrace, should in a just mea-^ 
 swie attend his share of the offence, is, 
 we know, not one of the barriers^ 
 which society gives to virtue. In this 
 world, the penalty islessequal than could 
 be wished ; but without presuming to 
 look forward to a juster appointment 
 hereafter, we may fairly consider a man 
 of sense like Henry Crawford, to be 
 providing for himself no small portion 
 of vexation and regret — vexation that 
 must rise sometimes to self-reproach, 
 and regret to wretchedness— in having 
 so requited hospitality, so injured fa- 
 mily peace, so forfeited his best, most 
 estimable and endeared acquaintance,, 
 and so lost the woman whom he had ra» 
 tionally, as well as passionately loved. 
 
 After what had passed to wpund and 
 alienate the two families, the continu- 
 ance 
 
( 3U ) 
 
 ance of the Bertrams and Grants in 
 such close neighbourhood would have 
 been most distressing ; but the absence 
 of the latter, for some months pur- 
 posely lengthened, ended very fortu- 
 nately in the necessity^ or at least the 
 practicability of a permanent removal/ 
 Dr. Grant, through an interest on which 
 he had almost ceased to form hopes^ 
 succeeded to a stall in Westminster, 
 which, as affording an occasion for leav- 
 ing Mansfield, an excuse for residence 
 in London, and an increase of income 
 to answer the expenses of the change, 
 was liigbiy acceptable to those who 
 went, and those who staid. 
 
 Mrs. Grant, vvith a temper to love 
 and be loved, must have gone with 
 some regret, from the scenes and peo- 
 ple she liad been used to; but the same 
 happiness ot disposition must in any 
 place hu I any society, secure her a 
 great deal to enjoy, and she had again a 
 home to offer Mary ; and Mary had had 
 enough of her own friends, enough of 
 
 vanity^ 
 
C ^4^ ) 
 
 vanity, ambition^ love, and disappoint*^ 
 meht in the course.of the last half year, 
 to be in need of the true kindness of 
 her sister's heart, and the rational tran- 
 quillity of her ways, — They lived to- 
 gether; and when Dr. Grant had 
 brought on apoplexy and death, by 
 three great institutionary dinners in one 
 week, they still lived together ; for 
 Mary, though perfectly resolved against 
 €ver attaching herself to a younger bro- 
 ther again, w^as long in finding among 
 the dashing representatives, or idle 
 lieir apparents, who were at the com- 
 mand of her beauty, and her 20,000/. 
 any one who could satisfy the better 
 t;aste she had acquired at Mansfield, 
 whose character and manners could au- 
 thorise a hope of the domestic happi- 
 ness she had there learnt to estimate, 
 or put Edmund Bertram sufficiently out 
 -of her head. 
 
 Edmund had greatly the advantage 
 
 ®f h€r in this respect. He had not to 
 
 wait and wish with vacant affections for 
 
 0.3 an 
 
{ 34^6 ) 
 
 aw object worthy to succeed her in them. 
 Scarcely had he done regretting Mary 
 Crawford, and observing to Fanny how 
 impossible it was that he should ever 
 meet with such another woman, before 
 it began to strike him whether a very 
 different kind of woman might not do 
 just as well— or a great deal better; 
 "whether Fanny herself were not grow- 
 ing as dear, as important to him in all 
 her smiles, and all her ways, as Mary 
 Crawford had ever been ; and w^hether it 
 might not be a possible, an hopeful un^ 
 dertaking to persuade her that her warm 
 and sisterly regard for him would be 
 foundation enough for wedded love. 
 
 I purposely abstain from dates on this 
 occasion, that every one may be at li- 
 berty to fix their own, aware that the 
 cure of unconquerable passions, and the 
 transfer of unchangingattachments,must 
 vary much as to time in different peo- 
 ple. — I only intreat every body to be- 
 lieve that exactly at the time w^hen \t 
 was quite natural that it should be so, 
 
 and 
 
( 347 ) 
 
 and not a weiek earlier, Edmund did 
 cease to care about Bliss Crawford, 
 and became as anxious to marry Fan- 
 Iky J as Fanny herself could desire. 
 
 With such a regard for her^ indeed, 
 as his had long been, a regard found- 
 ed on the most endearing claims of 
 innocence and helplessness, and com- 
 pleted by every recommendation of 
 growing worth, what could be more 
 natural than the change ? Loving, 
 guiding, protecting her, as he had 
 been doing ever since her being ten 
 years old, her mind in so great a degree 
 formed by his care, and her com- 
 fort depending on his kindness, an ob- 
 ject to him of such close and peculiar 
 interest, dearer by all his own import- 
 ance with her than any one else at 
 Mansfield, what was there now to 
 add, but that he should learn to prefer 
 soft light eyes to sparkling dark ones. — 
 And being always with her, and always 
 talking confidentially, and his feelings 
 exactly in that favourable state which a 
 
 recent 
 
( S48 ) 
 
 recent disappointment gives, those soft 
 light eyes could not be very long in ob- 
 taining the pre-eminence. 
 
 Having once set out, and felt that he 
 had done so, on this road to happiness, 
 there was nothing on the side of pru- 
 dence to stop him or make his progress 
 slow; no doubts of her deserving, no 
 fears from opposition of taste, no need 
 of drawing new hopes of happiness 
 from dissimilarity of temper. He;' 
 mind, disposition, opinions, and habits 
 wanted no half concealment, no self 
 deception on the present, no reliance 
 future improvement. Even in the 
 midst of his late infatuation, he had ac- 
 knowledged Fanny's mental superiority.. 
 What must be his sense of it now, there- 
 fore ? She was of course only too good 
 for him ; but as nobody minds having 
 what is too good for them, he was very 
 steadily earnest in the pursuit of the 
 blessing, and it was not possible that en- 
 couragement from her should be long 
 wanting. Timid, anxious, doubting as 
 
 she 
 
( 349 ) 
 
 she was, it was still impossible that such 
 tenderness as hers should not, at times, 
 hold out the strongest hope of success, 
 though it remained for a later period 
 to tell him the whole delightful and 
 astonishing truth. His happiness in 
 knowing himself to have been so long 
 the beloved of such a heart, must have 
 been great enough to warrant any 
 strength of language in which he could 
 clothe it to her or to himself; it must 
 have been a deliglitful happiness ! But 
 there was happiness elsewhere which no 
 description can reach. Let no one pre- 
 sume to give the feelings of a young* 
 woman on receiving the assurance of 
 that afiection of which slie ha6 scarcely 
 allowed herself lo entertain a hope. 
 
 Their own inclinations ascertained; 
 there wrre no difficulties behind, no 
 drawback of poverty or parenU It was 
 a'match wliich Sir Thomas's wishes had 
 even forestalled. Sick of amoitious and 
 mercenary connections, prizing more 
 and more the sterling good of principle 
 
 and 
 
( 350 ) 
 
 and temper, and chiefly anxious to bind 
 by the strongest securities all that re- 
 mained to him of domestic felicity, he 
 had pondered with genuine satisfaction 
 on the more than possibility of the two 
 young friends finding their mutual con- 
 solation in each other for all that had oc- 
 curred of disappointment to either j and 
 the joyful consent which met Edmund's 
 application, the high sense of having. 
 Idealised a great acquisitioa in the pro^ 
 mise of Fanny for a daughter, formed 
 just such, a contrast with his early opi- 
 nion on the subject when the poor little 
 girl's coming had been fivst agitated, as, 
 time is for ever producing between the 
 plans and decisions of mortals, for their 
 own instruction, and their neiglibour*s 
 entertainments 
 
 Fanny was indeed the daughter that 
 he wanted. His charitable kindness had 
 been rearing a prime comfort for him- 
 self. His liberality had a rich repay- 
 ment, and the general goodness of his 
 intentions by her, deserved it. He 
 
 might 
 
( 351 ) 
 
 might have made her childhood hap- 
 pier ; but it had been an error of judg- 
 ment only which had given him the ap- 
 pearance of harshness, and deprived him 
 of her early love ; and now, on really 
 knowing each other, their mutual at- 
 tachment became very strong. After 
 settling her at Thornton Lacey with 
 every kind attention to her comfort, 
 the object of almost every day was to 
 see her there, or to get her away from 
 it. 
 
 Selfishly dear as she had long been to 
 Lady Bertram, she could not be parted 
 with willingly by her^ No happiness 
 of son or niece could make her wish 
 the marriage. But it was possible to 
 part with her, because Susan remained 
 to supply her place. — ^Susan became the 
 stationary niece — delighted to be so! — • 
 and equally well adapted lor it by a rea- 
 diness of mind, and an inclination for 
 usefulness, as Fanny had been by sweet- 
 ness of temper, and strong feelings ol' 
 
 gratitude* 
 
( S5i ) 
 
 eratitude. Susan could never be 
 spared. Fi^st as a comfort to Fanny, 
 then as an auxiliary, and last as her 
 substitute, she was established at Mans-. 
 field, with every appearance of equal 
 permanency. Her more fearless dispo- 
 sition and happier nerves made every 
 thing easy to her there. — With- 
 quickness in understanding the tem- 
 pers of those she had to deal with, and 
 no natural timidity to restrain any con- 
 sequent wishes, she was soon welcome, 
 and useful to all;; and after Fanny's re- 
 moval, succeeded so naturally to her iri* 
 iluence over the hourly comfort of her 
 aunt, as gradually to become, perhaps,, 
 the most beloved of the two.— In her 
 usefulness, in Fanny's excellence, lA 
 William's continued good conduct, and 
 rising fame, and in the general vvell- 
 doing and success of the oihej' mem- 
 bers of the family, all assisting to ad- 
 vance each othej, and doing credit to 
 his countenance and aid. Sir Thomas 
 
 saw 
 
( SS3 ) ^ 
 
 saw repeated, and for ever repeated rea- 
 son, to rejoice in what he had done for 
 them all, and acknowledge the advan- 
 tages of early hardship and discipline, 
 ajad the consciousness of being born to 
 struggle and endure. 
 
 With so much true merit and true 
 love, and no want of fortune or friends, 
 the happiness of the married cousins 
 must appear as secure as earthly happi- 
 ness can be. — Equally formed for do- 
 mestic life, and attached to country plea- 
 sures, their home was the home of affec- 
 tion and comfort ; and to complete the 
 picture of good, the acquisition of 
 Mansfield living by the death of Dr. 
 Grant, occurred just after they had 
 been married long enough to begin to 
 want an increase of income, and feel 
 their distance from the paternal abode 
 an inconvenience. 
 
 On that event they removed to Mans- 
 field, and the parsonage there, which 
 under each of its two former owners, 
 Fanny had never been able to approach 
 
 but 
 
( ^^^ ) 
 
 but with some painful sensation of 
 restraint or alarm, soon grew as dear 
 to her heart, and as thoroughly per- 
 fect in her eyes, as every thing else, 
 within the view and patronage of Mans- 
 field Park, had long been. 
 
 FIKIS, 
 
1.p AY ISON, Lombard-street, 
 . Whitefriars, Londou.