Chapter 1 of Mansfield Park.
Mansfield Park by Jane Austen.
CHAPTER I
About thirty years ago Miss Maria Ward, of
Huntingdon, with only seven thousand pounds,
had the good luck to captivate Sir Thomas
Bertram, of Mansfield Park, in the county
of Northampton, and to be thereby raised to
the rank of a baronet’s lady, with all the
comforts and consequences of an handsome house
and large income. All Huntingdon exclaimed
on the greatness of the match, and her uncle,
the lawyer, himself, allowed her to be at
least three thousand pounds short of any equitable
claim to it. She had two sisters to be benefited
by her elevation; and such of their acquaintance
as thought Miss Ward and Miss Frances quite
as handsome as Miss Maria, did not scruple
to predict their marrying with almost equal
advantage. But there certainly are not so
many men of large fortune in the world as
there are pretty women to deserve them. Miss
Ward, at the end of half a dozen years, found
herself obliged to be attached to the Rev.
Mr. Norris, a friend of her brother-in-law,
with scarcely any private fortune, and Miss
Frances fared yet worse. Miss Ward’s match,
indeed, when it came to the point, was not
contemptible: Sir Thomas being happily able
to give his friend an income in the living
of Mansfield; and Mr. and Mrs. Norris began
their career of conjugal felicity with very
little less than a thousand a year. But Miss
Frances married, in the common phrase, to
disoblige her family, and by fixing on a lieutenant
of marines, without education, fortune, or
connexions, did it very thoroughly. She could
hardly have made a more untoward choice. Sir
Thomas Bertram had interest, which, from principle
as well as pride—from a general wish of
doing right, and a desire of seeing all that
were connected with him in situations of respectability,
he would have been glad to exert for the advantage
of Lady Bertram’s sister; but her husband’s
profession was such as no interest could reach;
and before he had time to devise any other
method of assisting them, an absolute breach
between the sisters had taken place. It was
the natural result of the conduct of each
party, and such as a very imprudent marriage
almost always produces. To save herself from
useless remonstrance, Mrs. Price never wrote
to her family on the subject till actually
married. Lady Bertram, who was a woman of
very tranquil feelings, and a temper remarkably
easy and indolent, would have contented herself
with merely giving up her sister, and thinking
no more of the matter; but Mrs. Norris had
a spirit of activity, which could not be satisfied
till she had written a long and angry letter
to Fanny, to point out the folly of her conduct,
and threaten her with all its possible ill
consequences. Mrs. Price, in her turn, was
injured and angry; and an answer, which comprehended
each sister in its bitterness, and bestowed
such very disrespectful reflections on the
pride of Sir Thomas as Mrs. Norris could not
possibly keep to herself, put an end to all
intercourse between them for a considerable
period.
Their homes were so distant, and the circles
in which they moved so distinct, as almost
to preclude the means of ever hearing of each
other’s existence during the eleven following
years, or, at least, to make it very wonderful
to Sir Thomas that Mrs. Norris should ever
have it in her power to tell them, as she
now and then did, in an angry voice, that
Fanny had got another child. By the end of
eleven years, however, Mrs. Price could no
longer afford to cherish pride or resentment,
or to lose one connexion that might possibly
assist her. A large and still increasing family,
an husband disabled for active service, but
not the less equal to company and good liquor,
and a very small income to supply their wants,
made her eager to regain the friends she had
so carelessly sacrificed; and she addressed
Lady Bertram in a letter which spoke so much
contrition and despondence, such a superfluity
of children, and such a want of almost everything
else, as could not but dispose them all to
a reconciliation. She was preparing for her
ninth lying-in; and after bewailing the circumstance,
and imploring their countenance as sponsors
to the expected child, she could not conceal
how important she felt they might be to the
future maintenance of the eight already in
being. Her eldest was a boy of ten years old,
a fine spirited fellow, who longed to be out
in the world; but what could she do? Was there
any chance of his being hereafter useful to
Sir Thomas in the concerns of his West Indian
property? No situation would be beneath him;
or what did Sir Thomas think of Woolwich?
or how could a boy be sent out to the East?
The letter was not unproductive. It re-established
peace and kindness. Sir Thomas sent friendly
advice and professions, Lady Bertram dispatched
money and baby-linen, and Mrs. Norris wrote
the letters.
Such were its immediate effects, and within
a twelvemonth a more important advantage to
Mrs. Price resulted from it. Mrs. Norris was
often observing to the others that she could
not get her poor sister and her family out
of her head, and that, much as they had all
done for her, she seemed to be wanting to
do more; and at length she could not but own
it to be her wish that poor Mrs. Price should
be relieved from the charge and expense of
one child entirely out of her great number.
“What if they were among them to undertake
the care of her eldest daughter, a girl now
nine years old, of an age to require more
attention than her poor mother could possibly
give? The trouble and expense of it to them
would be nothing, compared with the benevolence
of the action.” Lady Bertram agreed with
her instantly. “I think we cannot do better,”
said she; “let us send for the child.”
Sir Thomas could not give so instantaneous
and unqualified a consent. He debated and
hesitated;—it was a serious charge;—a
girl so brought up must be adequately provided
for, or there would be cruelty instead of
kindness in taking her from her family. He
thought of his own four children, of his two
sons, of cousins in love, etc.;—but no sooner
had he deliberately begun to state his objections,
than Mrs. Norris interrupted him with a reply
to them all, whether stated or not.
“My dear Sir Thomas, I perfectly comprehend
you, and do justice to the generosity and
delicacy of your notions, which indeed are
quite of a piece with your general conduct;
and I entirely agree with you in the main
as to the propriety of doing everything one
could by way of providing for a child one
had in a manner taken into one’s own hands;
and I am sure I should be the last person
in the world to withhold my mite upon such
an occasion. Having no children of my own,
who should I look to in any little matter
I may ever have to bestow, but the children
of my sisters?—and I am sure Mr. Norris
is too just—but you know I am a woman of
few words and professions. Do not let us be
frightened from a good deed by a trifle. Give
a girl an education, and introduce her properly
into the world, and ten to one but she has
the means of settling well, without farther
expense to anybody. A niece of ours, Sir Thomas,
I may say, or at least of yours, would not
grow up in this neighbourhood without many
advantages. I don’t say she would be so
handsome as her cousins. I dare say she would
not; but she would be introduced into the
society of this country under such very favourable
circumstances as, in all human probability,
would get her a creditable establishment.
You are thinking of your sons—but do not
you know that, of all things upon earth, that
is the least likely to happen, brought up
as they would be, always together like brothers
and sisters? It is morally impossible. I never
knew an instance of it. It is, in fact, the
only sure way of providing against the connexion.
Suppose her a pretty girl, and seen by Tom
or Edmund for the first time seven years hence,
and I dare say there would be mischief. The
very idea of her having been suffered to grow
up at a distance from us all in poverty and
neglect, would be enough to make either of
the dear, sweet-tempered boys in love with
her. But breed her up with them from this
time, and suppose her even to have the beauty
of an angel, and she will never be more to
either than a sister.”
“There is a great deal of truth in what
you say,” replied Sir Thomas, “and far
be it from me to throw any fanciful impediment
in the way of a plan which would be so consistent
with the relative situations of each. I only
meant to observe that it ought not to be lightly
engaged in, and that to make it really serviceable
to Mrs. Price, and creditable to ourselves,
we must secure to the child, or consider ourselves
engaged to secure to her hereafter, as circumstances
may arise, the provision of a gentlewoman,
if no such establishment should offer as you
are so sanguine in expecting.”
“I thoroughly understand you,” cried Mrs.
Norris, “you are everything that is generous
and considerate, and I am sure we shall never
disagree on this point. Whatever I can do,
as you well know, I am always ready enough
to do for the good of those I love; and, though
I could never feel for this little girl the
hundredth part of the regard I bear your own
dear children, nor consider her, in any respect,
so much my own, I should hate myself if I
were capable of neglecting her. Is not she
a sister’s child? and could I bear to see
her want while I had a bit of bread to give
her? My dear Sir Thomas, with all my faults
I have a warm heart; and, poor as I am, would
rather deny myself the necessaries of life
than do an ungenerous thing. So, if you are
not against it, I will write to my poor sister
tomorrow, and make the proposal; and, as soon
as matters are settled, I will engage to get
the child to Mansfield; you shall have no
trouble about it. My own trouble, you know,
I never regard. I will send Nanny to London
on purpose, and she may have a bed at her
cousin the saddler’s, and the child be appointed
to meet her there. They may easily get her
from Portsmouth to town by the coach, under
the care of any creditable person that may
chance to be going. I dare say there is always
some reputable tradesman’s wife or other
going up.”
Except to the attack on Nanny’s cousin,
Sir Thomas no longer made any objection, and
a more respectable, though less economical
rendezvous being accordingly substituted,
everything was considered as settled, and
the pleasures of so benevolent a scheme were
already enjoyed. The division of gratifying
sensations ought not, in strict justice, to
have been equal; for Sir Thomas was fully
resolved to be the real and consistent patron
of the selected child, and Mrs. Norris had
not the least intention of being at any expense
whatever in her maintenance. As far as walking,
talking, and contriving reached, she was thoroughly
benevolent, and nobody knew better how to
dictate liberality to others; but her love
of money was equal to her love of directing,
and she knew quite as well how to save her
own as to spend that of her friends. Having
married on a narrower income than she had
been used to look forward to, she had, from
the first, fancied a very strict line of economy
necessary; and what was begun as a matter
of prudence, soon grew into a matter of choice,
as an object of that needful solicitude which
there were no children to supply. Had there
been a family to provide for, Mrs. Norris
might never have saved her money; but having
no care of that kind, there was nothing to
impede her frugality, or lessen the comfort
of making a yearly addition to an income which
they had never lived up to. Under this infatuating
principle, counteracted by no real affection
for her sister, it was impossible for her
to aim at more than the credit of projecting
and arranging so expensive a charity; though
perhaps she might so little know herself as
to walk home to the Parsonage, after this
conversation, in the happy belief of being
the most liberal-minded sister and aunt in
the world.
When the subject was brought forward again,
her views were more fully explained; and,
in reply to Lady Bertram’s calm inquiry
of “Where shall the child come to first,
sister, to you or to us?” Sir Thomas heard
with some surprise that it would be totally
out of Mrs. Norris’s power to take any share
in the personal charge of her. He had been
considering her as a particularly welcome
addition at the Parsonage, as a desirable
companion to an aunt who had no children of
her own; but he found himself wholly mistaken.
Mrs. Norris was sorry to say that the little
girl’s staying with them, at least as things
then were, was quite out of the question.
Poor Mr. Norris’s indifferent state of health
made it an impossibility: he could no more
bear the noise of a child than he could fly;
if, indeed, he should ever get well of his
gouty complaints, it would be a different
matter: she should then be glad to take her
turn, and think nothing of the inconvenience;
but just now, poor Mr. Norris took up every
moment of her time, and the very mention of
such a thing she was sure would distract him.
“Then she had better come to us,” said
Lady Bertram, with the utmost composure. After
a short pause Sir Thomas added with dignity,
“Yes, let her home be in this house. We
will endeavour to do our duty by her, and
she will, at least, have the advantage of
companions of her own age, and of a regular
instructress.”
“Very true,” cried Mrs. Norris, “which
are both very important considerations; and
it will be just the same to Miss Lee whether
she has three girls to teach, or only two—there
can be no difference. I only wish I could
be more useful; but you see I do all in my
power. I am not one of those that spare their
own trouble; and Nanny shall fetch her, however
it may put me to inconvenience to have my
chief counsellor away for three days. I suppose,
sister, you will put the child in the little
white attic, near the old nurseries. It will
be much the best place for her, so near Miss
Lee, and not far from the girls, and close
by the housemaids, who could either of them
help to dress her, you know, and take care
of her clothes, for I suppose you would not
think it fair to expect Ellis to wait on her
as well as the others. Indeed, I do not see
that you could possibly place her anywhere
else.”
Lady Bertram made no opposition.
“I hope she will prove a well-disposed girl,”
continued Mrs. Norris, “and be sensible
of her uncommon good fortune in having such
friends.”
“Should her disposition be really bad,”
said Sir Thomas, “we must not, for our own
children’s sake, continue her in the family;
but there is no reason to expect so great
an evil. We shall probably see much to wish
altered in her, and must prepare ourselves
for gross ignorance, some meanness of opinions,
and very distressing vulgarity of manner;
but these are not incurable faults; nor, I
trust, can they be dangerous for her associates.
Had my daughters been younger than herself,
I should have considered the introduction
of such a companion as a matter of very serious
moment; but, as it is, I hope there can be
nothing to fear for them, and everything to
hope for her, from the association.”
“That is exactly what I think,” cried
Mrs. Norris, “and what I was saying to my
husband this morning. It will be an education
for the child, said I, only being with her
cousins; if Miss Lee taught her nothing, she
would learn to be good and clever from them.”
“I hope she will not tease my poor pug,”
said Lady Bertram; “I have but just got
Julia to leave it alone.”
“There will be some difficulty in our way,
Mrs. Norris,” observed Sir Thomas, “as
to the distinction proper to be made between
the girls as they grow up: how to preserve
in the minds of my daughters the consciousness
of what they are, without making them think
too lowly of their cousin; and how, without
depressing her spirits too far, to make her
remember that she is not a Miss Bertram. I
should wish to see them very good friends,
and would, on no account, authorise in my
girls the smallest degree of arrogance towards
their relation; but still they cannot be equals.
Their rank, fortune, rights, and expectations
will always be different. It is a point of
great delicacy, and you must assist us in
our endeavours to choose exactly the right
line of conduct.”
Mrs. Norris was quite at his service; and
though she perfectly agreed with him as to
its being a most difficult thing, encouraged
him to hope that between them it would be
easily managed.
It will be readily believed that Mrs. Norris
did not write to her sister in vain. Mrs.
Price seemed rather surprised that a girl
should be fixed on, when she had so many fine
boys, but accepted the offer most thankfully,
assuring them of her daughter’s being a
very well-disposed, good-humoured girl, and
trusting they would never have cause to throw
her off. She spoke of her farther as somewhat
delicate and puny, but was sanguine in the
hope of her being materially better for change
of air. Poor woman! she probably thought change
of air might agree with many of her children.
CHAPTER II
The little girl performed her long journey
in safety; and at Northampton was met by Mrs.
Norris, who thus regaled in the credit of
being foremost to welcome her, and in the
importance of leading her in to the others,
and recommending her to their kindness.
Fanny Price was at this time just ten years
old, and though there might not be much in
her first appearance to captivate, there was,
at least, nothing to disgust her relations.
She was small of her age, with no glow of
complexion, nor any other striking beauty;
exceedingly timid and shy, and shrinking from
notice; but her air, though awkward, was not
vulgar, her voice was sweet, and when she
spoke her countenance was pretty. Sir Thomas
and Lady Bertram received her very kindly;
and Sir Thomas, seeing how much she needed
encouragement, tried to be all that was conciliating:
but he had to work against a most untoward
gravity of deportment; and Lady Bertram, without
taking half so much trouble, or speaking one
word where he spoke ten, by the mere aid of
a good-humoured smile, became immediately
the less awful character of the two.
The young people were all at home, and sustained
their share in the introduction very well,
with much good humour, and no embarrassment,
at least on the part of the sons, who, at
seventeen and sixteen, and tall of their age,
had all the grandeur of men in the eyes of
their little cousin. The two girls were more
at a loss from being younger and in greater
awe of their father, who addressed them on
the occasion with rather an injudicious particularity.
But they were too much used to company and
praise to have anything like natural shyness;
and their confidence increasing from their
cousin’s total want of it, they were soon
able to take a full survey of her face and
her frock in easy indifference.
They were a remarkably fine family, the sons
very well-looking, the daughters decidedly
handsome, and all of them well-grown and forward
of their age, which produced as striking a
difference between the cousins in person,
as education had given to their address; and
no one would have supposed the girls so nearly
of an age as they really were. There were
in fact but two years between the youngest
and Fanny. Julia Bertram was only twelve,
and Maria but a year older. The little visitor
meanwhile was as unhappy as possible. Afraid
of everybody, ashamed of herself, and longing
for the home she had left, she knew not how
to look up, and could scarcely speak to be
heard, or without crying. Mrs. Norris had
been talking to her the whole way from Northampton
of her wonderful good fortune, and the extraordinary
degree of gratitude and good behaviour which
it ought to produce, and her consciousness
of misery was therefore increased by the idea
of its being a wicked thing for her not to
be happy. The fatigue, too, of so long a journey,
became soon no trifling evil. In vain were
the well-meant condescensions of Sir Thomas,
and all the officious prognostications of
Mrs. Norris that she would be a good girl;
in vain did Lady Bertram smile and make her
sit on the sofa with herself and pug, and
vain was even the sight of a gooseberry tart
towards giving her comfort; she could scarcely
swallow two mouthfuls before tears interrupted
her, and sleep seeming to be her likeliest
friend, she was taken to finish her sorrows
in bed.
“This is not a very promising beginning,”
said Mrs. Norris, when Fanny had left the
room. “After all that I said to her as we
came along, I thought she would have behaved
better; I told her how much might depend upon
her acquitting herself well at first. I wish
there may not be a little sulkiness of temper—her
poor mother had a good deal; but we must make
allowances for such a child—and I do not
know that her being sorry to leave her home
is really against her, for, with all its faults,
it was her home, and she cannot as yet understand
how much she has changed for the better; but
then there is moderation in all things.”
It required a longer time, however, than Mrs.
Norris was inclined to allow, to reconcile
Fanny to the novelty of Mansfield Park, and
the separation from everybody she had been
used to. Her feelings were very acute, and
too little understood to be properly attended
to. Nobody meant to be unkind, but nobody
put themselves out of their way to secure
her comfort.
The holiday allowed to the Miss Bertrams the
next day, on purpose to afford leisure for
getting acquainted with, and entertaining
their young cousin, produced little union.
They could not but hold her cheap on finding
that she had but two sashes, and had never
learned French; and when they perceived her
to be little struck with the duet they were
so good as to play, they could do no more
than make her a generous present of some of
their least valued toys, and leave her to
herself, while they adjourned to whatever
might be the favourite holiday sport of the
moment, making artificial flowers or wasting
gold paper.
Fanny, whether near or from her cousins, whether
in the schoolroom, the drawing-room, or the
shrubbery, was equally forlorn, finding something
to fear in every person and place. She was
disheartened by Lady Bertram’s silence,
awed by Sir Thomas’s grave looks, and quite
overcome by Mrs. Norris’s admonitions. Her
elder cousins mortified her by reflections
on her size, and abashed her by noticing her
shyness: Miss Lee wondered at her ignorance,
and the maid-servants sneered at her clothes;
and when to these sorrows was added the idea
of the brothers and sisters among whom she
had always been important as playfellow, instructress,
and nurse, the despondence that sunk her little
heart was severe.
The grandeur of the house astonished, but
could not console her. The rooms were too
large for her to move in with ease: whatever
she touched she expected to injure, and she
crept about in constant terror of something
or other; often retreating towards her own
chamber to cry; and the little girl who was
spoken of in the drawing-room when she left
it at night as seeming so desirably sensible
of her peculiar good fortune, ended every
day’s sorrows by sobbing herself to sleep.
A week had passed in this way, and no suspicion
of it conveyed by her quiet passive manner,
when she was found one morning by her cousin
Edmund, the youngest of the sons, sitting
crying on the attic stairs.
“My dear little cousin,” said he, with
all the gentleness of an excellent nature,
“what can be the matter?” And sitting
down by her, he was at great pains to overcome
her shame in being so surprised, and persuade
her to speak openly. Was she ill? or was anybody
angry with her? or had she quarrelled with
Maria and Julia? or was she puzzled about
anything in her lesson that he could explain?
Did she, in short, want anything he could
possibly get her, or do for her? For a long
while no answer could be obtained beyond a
“no, no—not at all—no, thank you”;
but he still persevered; and no sooner had
he begun to revert to her own home, than her
increased sobs explained to him where the
grievance lay. He tried to console her.
“You are sorry to leave Mama, my dear little
Fanny,” said he, “which shows you to be
a very good girl; but you must remember that
you are with relations and friends, who all
love you, and wish to make you happy. Let
us walk out in the park, and you shall tell
me all about your brothers and sisters.”
On pursuing the subject, he found that, dear
as all these brothers and sisters generally
were, there was one among them who ran more
in her thoughts than the rest. It was William
whom she talked of most, and wanted most to
see. William, the eldest, a year older than
herself, her constant companion and friend;
her advocate with her mother (of whom he was
the darling) in every distress. “William
did not like she should come away; he had
told her he should miss her very much indeed.”
“But William will write to you, I dare say.”
“Yes, he had promised he would, but he had
told her to write first.” “And when shall
you do it?” She hung her head and answered
hesitatingly, “she did not know; she had
not any paper.”
“If that be all your difficulty, I will
furnish you with paper and every other material,
and you may write your letter whenever you
choose. Would it make you happy to write to
William?”
“Yes, very.”
“Then let it be done now. Come with me into
the breakfast-room, we shall find everything
there, and be sure of having the room to ourselves.”
“But, cousin, will it go to the post?”
“Yes, depend upon me it shall: it shall
go with the other letters; and, as your uncle
will frank it, it will cost William nothing.”
“My uncle!” repeated Fanny, with a frightened
look.
“Yes, when you have written the letter,
I will take it to my father to frank.”
Fanny thought it a bold measure, but offered
no further resistance; and they went together
into the breakfast-room, where Edmund prepared
her paper, and ruled her lines with all the
goodwill that her brother could himself have
felt, and probably with somewhat more exactness.
He continued with her the whole time of her
writing, to assist her with his penknife or
his orthography, as either were wanted; and
added to these attentions, which she felt
very much, a kindness to her brother which
delighted her beyond all the rest. He wrote
with his own hand his love to his cousin William,
and sent him half a guinea under the seal.
Fanny’s feelings on the occasion were such
as she believed herself incapable of expressing;
but her countenance and a few artless words
fully conveyed all their gratitude and delight,
and her cousin began to find her an interesting
object. He talked to her more, and, from all
that she said, was convinced of her having
an affectionate heart, and a strong desire
of doing right; and he could perceive her
to be farther entitled to attention by great
sensibility of her situation, and great timidity.
He had never knowingly given her pain, but
he now felt that she required more positive
kindness; and with that view endeavoured,
in the first place, to lessen her fears of
them all, and gave her especially a great
deal of good advice as to playing with Maria
and Julia, and being as merry as possible.
From this day Fanny grew more comfortable.
She felt that she had a friend, and the kindness
of her cousin Edmund gave her better spirits
with everybody else. The place became less
strange, and the people less formidable; and
if there were some amongst them whom she could
not cease to fear, she began at least to know
their ways, and to catch the best manner of
conforming to them. The little rusticities
and awkwardnesses which had at first made
grievous inroads on the tranquillity of all,
and not least of herself, necessarily wore
away, and she was no longer materially afraid
to appear before her uncle, nor did her aunt
Norris’s voice make her start very much.
To her cousins she became occasionally an
acceptable companion. Though unworthy, from
inferiority of age and strength, to be their
constant associate, their pleasures and schemes
were sometimes of a nature to make a third
very useful, especially when that third was
of an obliging, yielding temper; and they
could not but own, when their aunt inquired
into her faults, or their brother Edmund urged
her claims to their kindness, that “Fanny
was good-natured enough.”
Edmund was uniformly kind himself; and she
had nothing worse to endure on the part of
Tom than that sort of merriment which a young
man of seventeen will always think fair with
a child of ten. He was just entering into
life, full of spirits, and with all the liberal
dispositions of an eldest son, who feels born
only for expense and enjoyment. His kindness
to his little cousin was consistent with his
situation and rights: he made her some very
pretty presents, and laughed at her.
As her appearance and spirits improved, Sir
Thomas and Mrs. Norris thought with greater
satisfaction of their benevolent plan; and
it was pretty soon decided between them that,
though far from clever, she showed a tractable
disposition, and seemed likely to give them
little trouble. A mean opinion of her abilities
was not confined to them. Fanny could read,
work, and write, but she had been taught nothing
more; and as her cousins found her ignorant
of many things with which they had been long
familiar, they thought her prodigiously stupid,
and for the first two or three weeks were
continually bringing some fresh report of
it into the drawing-room. “Dear mama, only
think, my cousin cannot put the map of Europe
together—or my cousin cannot tell the principal
rivers in Russia—or, she never heard of
Asia Minor—or she does not know the difference
between water-colours and crayons!—How strange!—Did
you ever hear anything so stupid?”
“My dear,” their considerate aunt would
reply, “it is very bad, but you must not
expect everybody to be as forward and quick
at learning as yourself.”
“But, aunt, she is really so very ignorant!—Do
you know, we asked her last night which way
she would go to get to Ireland; and she said,
she should cross to the Isle of Wight. She
thinks of nothing but the Isle of Wight, and
she calls it the Island, as if there were
no other island in the world. I am sure I
should have been ashamed of myself, if I had
not known better long before I was so old
as she is. I cannot remember the time when
I did not know a great deal that she has not
the least notion of yet. How long ago it is,
aunt, since we used to repeat the chronological
order of the kings of England, with the dates
of their accession, and most of the principal
events of their reigns!”
“Yes,” added the other; “and of the
Roman emperors as low as Severus; besides
a great deal of the heathen mythology, and
all the metals, semi-metals, planets, and
distinguished philosophers.”
“Very true indeed, my dears, but you are
blessed with wonderful memories, and your
poor cousin has probably none at all. There
is a vast deal of difference in memories,
as well as in everything else, and therefore
you must make allowance for your cousin, and
pity her deficiency. And remember that, if
you are ever so forward and clever yourselves,
you should always be modest; for, much as
you know already, there is a great deal more
for you to learn.”
“Yes, I know there is, till I am seventeen.
But I must tell you another thing of Fanny,
so odd and so stupid. Do you know, she says
she does not want to learn either music or
drawing.”
“To be sure, my dear, that is very stupid
indeed, and shows a great want of genius and
emulation. But, all things considered, I do
not know whether it is not as well that it
should be so, for, though you know (owing
to me) your papa and mama are so good as to
bring her up with you, it is not at all necessary
that she should be as accomplished as you
are;—on the contrary, it is much more desirable
that there should be a difference.”
Such were the counsels by which Mrs. Norris
assisted to form her nieces’ minds; and
it is not very wonderful that, with all their
promising talents and early information, they
should be entirely deficient in the less common
acquirements of self-knowledge, generosity
and humility. In everything but disposition
they were admirably taught. Sir Thomas did
not know what was wanting, because, though
a truly anxious father, he was not outwardly
affectionate, and the reserve of his manner
repressed all the flow of their spirits before
him.
To the education of her daughters Lady Bertram
paid not the smallest attention. She had not
time for such cares. She was a woman who spent
her days in sitting, nicely dressed, on a
sofa, doing some long piece of needlework,
of little use and no beauty, thinking more
of her pug than her children, but very indulgent
to the latter when it did not put herself
to inconvenience, guided in everything important
by Sir Thomas, and in smaller concerns by
her sister. Had she possessed greater leisure
for the service of her girls, she would probably
have supposed it unnecessary, for they were
under the care of a governess, with proper
masters, and could want nothing more. As for
Fanny’s being stupid at learning, “she
could only say it was very unlucky, but some
people were stupid, and Fanny must take more
pains: she did not know what else was to be
done; and, except her being so dull, she must
add she saw no harm in the poor little thing,
and always found her very handy and quick
in carrying messages, and fetching what she
wanted.”
Fanny, with all her faults of ignorance and
timidity, was fixed at Mansfield Park, and
learning to transfer in its favour much of
her attachment to her former home, grew up
there not unhappily among her cousins. There
was no positive ill-nature in Maria or Julia;
and though Fanny was often mortified by their
treatment of her, she thought too lowly of
her own claims to feel injured by it.
From about the time of her entering the family,
Lady Bertram, in consequence of a little ill-health,
and a great deal of indolence, gave up the
house in town, which she had been used to
occupy every spring, and remained wholly in
the country, leaving Sir Thomas to attend
his duty in Parliament, with whatever increase
or diminution of comfort might arise from
her absence. In the country, therefore, the
Miss Bertrams continued to exercise their
memories, practise their duets, and grow tall
and womanly: and their father saw them becoming
in person, manner, and accomplishments, everything
that could satisfy his anxiety. His eldest
son was careless and extravagant, and had
already given him much uneasiness; but his
other children promised him nothing but good.
His daughters, he felt, while they retained
the name of Bertram, must be giving it new
grace, and in quitting it, he trusted, would
extend its respectable alliances; and the
character of Edmund, his strong good sense
and uprightness of mind, bid most fairly for
utility, honour, and happiness to himself
and all his connexions. He was to be a clergyman.
Amid the cares and the complacency which his
own children suggested, Sir Thomas did not
forget to do what he could for the children
of Mrs. Price: he assisted her liberally in
the education and disposal of her sons as
they became old enough for a determinate pursuit;
and Fanny, though almost totally separated
from her family, was sensible of the truest
satisfaction in hearing of any kindness towards
them, or of anything at all promising in their
situation or conduct. Once, and once only,
in the course of many years, had she the happiness
of being with William. Of the rest she saw
nothing: nobody seemed to think of her ever
going amongst them again, even for a visit,
nobody at home seemed to want her; but William
determining, soon after her removal, to be
a sailor, was invited to spend a week with
his sister in Northamptonshire before he went
to sea. Their eager affection in meeting,
their exquisite delight in being together,
their hours of happy mirth, and moments of
serious conference, may be imagined; as well
as the sanguine views and spirits of the boy
even to the last, and the misery of the girl
when he left her. Luckily the visit happened
in the Christmas holidays, when she could
directly look for comfort to her cousin Edmund;
and he told her such charming things of what
William was to do, and be hereafter, in consequence
of his profession, as made her gradually admit
that the separation might have some use. Edmund’s
friendship never failed her: his leaving Eton
for Oxford made no change in his kind dispositions,
and only afforded more frequent opportunities
of proving them. Without any display of doing
more than the rest, or any fear of doing too
much, he was always true to her interests,
and considerate of her feelings, trying to
make her good qualities understood, and to
conquer the diffidence which prevented their
being more apparent; giving her advice, consolation,
and encouragement.
Kept back as she was by everybody else, his
single support could not bring her forward;
but his attentions were otherwise of the highest
importance in assisting the improvement of
her mind, and extending its pleasures. He
knew her to be clever, to have a quick apprehension
as well as good sense, and a fondness for
reading, which, properly directed, must be
an education in itself. Miss Lee taught her
French, and heard her read the daily portion
of history; but he recommended the books which
charmed her leisure hours, he encouraged her
taste, and corrected her judgment: he made
reading useful by talking to her of what she
read, and heightened its attraction by judicious
praise. In return for such services she loved
him better than anybody in the world except
William: her heart was divided between the
two.
CHAPTER III
The first event of any importance in the family
was the death of Mr. Norris, which happened
when Fanny was about fifteen, and necessarily
introduced alterations and novelties. Mrs.
Norris, on quitting the Parsonage, removed
first to the Park, and afterwards to a small
house of Sir Thomas’s in the village, and
consoled herself for the loss of her husband
by considering that she could do very well
without him; and for her reduction of income
by the evident necessity of stricter economy.
The living was hereafter for Edmund; and,
had his uncle died a few years sooner, it
would have been duly given to some friend
to hold till he were old enough for orders.
But Tom’s extravagance had, previous to
that event, been so great as to render a different
disposal of the next presentation necessary,
and the younger brother must help to pay for
the pleasures of the elder. There was another
family living actually held for Edmund; but
though this circumstance had made the arrangement
somewhat easier to Sir Thomas’s conscience,
he could not but feel it to be an act of injustice,
and he earnestly tried to impress his eldest
son with the same conviction, in the hope
of its producing a better effect than anything
he had yet been able to say or do.
“I blush for you, Tom,” said he, in his
most dignified manner; “I blush for the
expedient which I am driven on, and I trust
I may pity your feelings as a brother on the
occasion. You have robbed Edmund for ten,
twenty, thirty years, perhaps for life, of
more than half the income which ought to be
his. It may hereafter be in my power, or in
yours (I hope it will), to procure him better
preferment; but it must not be forgotten that
no benefit of that sort would have been beyond
his natural claims on us, and that nothing
can, in fact, be an equivalent for the certain
advantage which he is now obliged to forego
through the urgency of your debts.”
Tom listened with some shame and some sorrow;
but escaping as quickly as possible, could
soon with cheerful selfishness reflect, firstly,
that he had not been half so much in debt
as some of his friends; secondly, that his
father had made a most tiresome piece of work
of it; and, thirdly, that the future incumbent,
whoever he might be, would, in all probability,
die very soon.
On Mr. Norris’s death the presentation became
the right of a Dr. Grant, who came consequently
to reside at Mansfield; and on proving to
be a hearty man of forty-five, seemed likely
to disappoint Mr. Bertram’s calculations.
But “no, he was a short-necked, apoplectic
sort of fellow, and, plied well with good
things, would soon pop off.”
He had a wife about fifteen years his junior,
but no children; and they entered the neighbourhood
with the usual fair report of being very respectable,
agreeable people.
The time was now come when Sir Thomas expected
his sister-in-law to claim her share in their
niece, the change in Mrs. Norris’s situation,
and the improvement in Fanny’s age, seeming
not merely to do away any former objection
to their living together, but even to give
it the most decided eligibility; and as his
own circumstances were rendered less fair
than heretofore, by some recent losses on
his West India estate, in addition to his
eldest son’s extravagance, it became not
undesirable to himself to be relieved from
the expense of her support, and the obligation
of her future provision. In the fullness of
his belief that such a thing must be, he mentioned
its probability to his wife; and the first
time of the subject’s occurring to her again
happening to be when Fanny was present, she
calmly observed to her, “So, Fanny, you
are going to leave us, and live with my sister.
How shall you like it?”
Fanny was too much surprised to do more than
repeat her aunt’s words, “Going to leave
you?”
“Yes, my dear; why should you be astonished?
You have been five years with us, and my sister
always meant to take you when Mr. Norris died.
But you must come up and tack on my patterns
all the same.”
The news was as disagreeable to Fanny as it
had been unexpected. She had never received
kindness from her aunt Norris, and could not
love her.
“I shall be very sorry to go away,” said
she, with a faltering voice.
“Yes, I dare say you will; that’s natural
enough. I suppose you have had as little to
vex you since you came into this house as
any creature in the world.”
“I hope I am not ungrateful, aunt,” said
Fanny modestly.
“No, my dear; I hope not. I have always
found you a very good girl.”
“And am I never to live here again?”
“Never, my dear; but you are sure of a comfortable
home. It can make very little difference to
you, whether you are in one house or the other.”
Fanny left the room with a very sorrowful
heart; she could not feel the difference to
be so small, she could not think of living
with her aunt with anything like satisfaction.
As soon as she met with Edmund she told him
her distress.
“Cousin,” said she, “something is going
to happen which I do not like at all; and
though you have often persuaded me into being
reconciled to things that I disliked at first,
you will not be able to do it now. I am going
to live entirely with my aunt Norris.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes; my aunt Bertram has just told me so.
It is quite settled. I am to leave Mansfield
Park, and go to the White House, I suppose,
as soon as she is removed there.”
“Well, Fanny, and if the plan were not unpleasant
to you, I should call it an excellent one.”
“Oh, cousin!”
“It has everything else in its favour. My
aunt is acting like a sensible woman in wishing
for you. She is choosing a friend and companion
exactly where she ought, and I am glad her
love of money does not interfere. You will
be what you ought to be to her. I hope it
does not distress you very much, Fanny?”
“Indeed it does: I cannot like it. I love
this house and everything in it: I shall love
nothing there. You know how uncomfortable
I feel with her.”
“I can say nothing for her manner to you
as a child; but it was the same with us all,
or nearly so. She never knew how to be pleasant
to children. But you are now of an age to
be treated better; I think she is behaving
better already; and when you are her only
companion, you must be important to her.”
“I can never be important to any one.”
“What is to prevent you?”
“Everything. My situation, my foolishness
and awkwardness.”
“As to your foolishness and awkwardness,
my dear Fanny, believe me, you never have
a shadow of either, but in using the words
so improperly. There is no reason in the world
why you should not be important where you
are known. You have good sense, and a sweet
temper, and I am sure you have a grateful
heart, that could never receive kindness without
wishing to return it. I do not know any better
qualifications for a friend and companion.”
“You are too kind,” said Fanny, colouring
at such praise; “how shall I ever thank
you as I ought, for thinking so well of me.
Oh! cousin, if I am to go away, I shall remember
your goodness to the last moment of my life.”
“Why, indeed, Fanny, I should hope to be
remembered at such a distance as the White
House. You speak as if you were going two
hundred miles off instead of only across the
park; but you will belong to us almost as
much as ever. The two families will be meeting
every day in the year. The only difference
will be that, living with your aunt, you will
necessarily be brought forward as you ought
to be. Here there are too many whom you can
hide behind; but with her you will be forced
to speak for yourself.”
“Oh! I do not say so.”
“I must say it, and say it with pleasure.
Mrs. Norris is much better fitted than my
mother for having the charge of you now. She
is of a temper to do a great deal for anybody
she really interests herself about, and she
will force you to do justice to your natural
powers.”
Fanny sighed, and said, “I cannot see things
as you do; but I ought to believe you to be
right rather than myself, and I am very much
obliged to you for trying to reconcile me
to what must be. If I could suppose my aunt
really to care for me, it would be delightful
to feel myself of consequence to anybody.
Here, I know, I am of none, and yet I love
the place so well.”
“The place, Fanny, is what you will not
quit, though you quit the house. You will
have as free a command of the park and gardens
as ever. Even your constant little heart need
not take fright at such a nominal change.
You will have the same walks to frequent,
the same library to choose from, the same
people to look at, the same horse to ride.”
“Very true. Yes, dear old grey pony! Ah!
cousin, when I remember how much I used to
dread riding, what terrors it gave me to hear
it talked of as likely to do me good (oh!
how I have trembled at my uncle’s opening
his lips if horses were talked of), and then
think of the kind pains you took to reason
and persuade me out of my fears, and convince
me that I should like it after a little while,
and feel how right you proved to be, I am
inclined to hope you may always prophesy as
well.”
“And I am quite convinced that your being
with Mrs. Norris will be as good for your
mind as riding has been for your health, and
as much for your ultimate happiness too.”
So ended their discourse, which, for any very
appropriate service it could render Fanny,
might as well have been spared, for Mrs. Norris
had not the smallest intention of taking her.
It had never occurred to her, on the present
occasion, but as a thing to be carefully avoided.
To prevent its being expected, she had fixed
on the smallest habitation which could rank
as genteel among the buildings of Mansfield
parish, the White House being only just large
enough to receive herself and her servants,
and allow a spare room for a friend, of which
she made a very particular point. The spare
rooms at the Parsonage had never been wanted,
but the absolute necessity of a spare room
for a friend was now never forgotten. Not
all her precautions, however, could save her
from being suspected of something better;
or, perhaps, her very display of the importance
of a spare room might have misled Sir Thomas
to suppose it really intended for Fanny. Lady
Bertram soon brought the matter to a certainty
by carelessly observing to Mrs. Norris—
“I think, sister, we need not keep Miss
Lee any longer, when Fanny goes to live with
you.”
Mrs. Norris almost started. “Live with me,
dear Lady Bertram! what do you mean?”
“Is she not to live with you? I thought
you had settled it with Sir Thomas.”
“Me! never. I never spoke a syllable about
it to Sir Thomas, nor he to me. Fanny live
with me! the last thing in the world for me
to think of, or for anybody to wish that really
knows us both. Good heaven! what could I do
with Fanny? Me! a poor, helpless, forlorn
widow, unfit for anything, my spirits quite
broke down; what could I do with a girl at
her time of life? A girl of fifteen! the very
age of all others to need most attention and
care, and put the cheerfullest spirits to
the test! Sure Sir Thomas could not seriously
expect such a thing! Sir Thomas is too much
my friend. Nobody that wishes me well, I am
sure, would propose it. How came Sir Thomas
to speak to you about it?”
“Indeed, I do not know. I suppose he thought
it best.”
“But what did he say? He could not say he
wished me to take Fanny. I am sure in his
heart he could not wish me to do it.”
“No; he only said he thought it very likely;
and I thought so too. We both thought it would
be a comfort to you. But if you do not like
it, there is no more to be said. She is no
encumbrance here.”
“Dear sister, if you consider my unhappy
state, how can she be any comfort to me? Here
am I, a poor desolate widow, deprived of the
best of husbands, my health gone in attending
and nursing him, my spirits still worse, all
my peace in this world destroyed, with hardly
enough to support me in the rank of a gentlewoman,
and enable me to live so as not to disgrace
the memory of the dear departed—what possible
comfort could I have in taking such a charge
upon me as Fanny? If I could wish it for my
own sake, I would not do so unjust a thing
by the poor girl. She is in good hands, and
sure of doing well. I must struggle through
my sorrows and difficulties as I can.”
“Then you will not mind living by yourself
quite alone?”
“Lady Bertram, I do not complain. I know
I cannot live as I have done, but I must retrench
where I can, and learn to be a better manager.
I have been a liberal housekeeper enough,
but I shall not be ashamed to practise economy
now. My situation is as much altered as my
income. A great many things were due from
poor Mr. Norris, as clergyman of the parish,
that cannot be expected from me. It is unknown
how much was consumed in our kitchen by odd
comers and goers. At the White House, matters
must be better looked after. I must live within
my income, or I shall be miserable; and I
own it would give me great satisfaction to
be able to do rather more, to lay by a little
at the end of the year.”
“I dare say you will. You always do, don’t
you?”
“My object, Lady Bertram, is to be of use
to those that come after me. It is for your
children’s good that I wish to be richer.
I have nobody else to care for, but I should
be very glad to think I could leave a little
trifle among them worth their having.”
“You are very good, but do not trouble yourself
about them. They are sure of being well provided
for. Sir Thomas will take care of that.”
“Why, you know, Sir Thomas’s means will
be rather straitened if the Antigua estate
is to make such poor returns.”
“Oh! that will soon be settled. Sir Thomas
has been writing about it, I know.”
“Well, Lady Bertram,” said Mrs. Norris,
moving to go, “I can only say that my sole
desire is to be of use to your family: and
so, if Sir Thomas should ever speak again
about my taking Fanny, you will be able to
say that my health and spirits put it quite
out of the question; besides that, I really
should not have a bed to give her, for I must
keep a spare room for a friend.”
Lady Bertram repeated enough of this conversation
to her husband to convince him how much he
had mistaken his sister-in-law’s views;
and she was from that moment perfectly safe
from all expectation, or the slightest allusion
to it from him. He could not but wonder at
her refusing to do anything for a niece whom
she had been so forward to adopt; but, as
she took early care to make him, as well as
Lady Bertram, understand that whatever she
possessed was designed for their family, he
soon grew reconciled to a distinction which,
at the same time that it was advantageous
and complimentary to them, would enable him
better to provide for Fanny himself.
Fanny soon learnt how unnecessary had been
her fears of a removal; and her spontaneous,
untaught felicity on the discovery, conveyed
some consolation to Edmund for his disappointment
in what he had expected to be so essentially
serviceable to her. Mrs. Norris took possession
of the White House, the Grants arrived at
the Parsonage, and these events over, everything
at Mansfield went on for some time as usual.
The Grants showing a disposition to be friendly
and sociable, gave great satisfaction in the
main among their new acquaintance. They had
their faults, and Mrs. Norris soon found them
out. The Doctor was very fond of eating, and
would have a good dinner every day; and Mrs.
Grant, instead of contriving to gratify him
at little expense, gave her cook as high wages
as they did at Mansfield Park, and was scarcely
ever seen in her offices. Mrs. Norris could
not speak with any temper of such grievances,
nor of the quantity of butter and eggs that
were regularly consumed in the house. “Nobody
loved plenty and hospitality more than herself;
nobody more hated pitiful doings; the Parsonage,
she believed, had never been wanting in comforts
of any sort, had never borne a bad character
in her time, but this was a way of going on
that she could not understand. A fine lady
in a country parsonage was quite out of place.
Her store-room, she thought, might have been
good enough for Mrs. Grant to go into. Inquire
where she would, she could not find out that
Mrs. Grant had ever had more than five thousand
pounds.”
Lady Bertram listened without much interest
to this sort of invective. She could not enter
into the wrongs of an economist, but she felt
all the injuries of beauty in Mrs. Grant’s
being so well settled in life without being
handsome, and expressed her astonishment on
that point almost as often, though not so
diffusely, as Mrs. Norris discussed the other.
These opinions had been hardly canvassed a
year before another event arose of such importance
in the family, as might fairly claim some
place in the thoughts and conversation of
the ladies. Sir Thomas found it expedient
to go to Antigua himself, for the better arrangement
of his affairs, and he took his eldest son
with him, in the hope of detaching him from
some bad connexions at home. They left England
with the probability of being nearly a twelvemonth
absent.
The necessity of the measure in a pecuniary
light, and the hope of its utility to his
son, reconciled Sir Thomas to the effort of
quitting the rest of his family, and of leaving
his daughters to the direction of others at
their present most interesting time of life.
He could not think Lady Bertram quite equal
to supply his place with them, or rather,
to perform what should have been her own;
but, in Mrs. Norris’s watchful attention,
and in Edmund’s judgment, he had sufficient
confidence to make him go without fears for
their conduct.
Lady Bertram did not at all like to have her
husband leave her; but she was not disturbed
by any alarm for his safety, or solicitude
for his comfort, being one of those persons
who think nothing can be dangerous, or difficult,
or fatiguing to anybody but themselves.
The Miss Bertrams were much to be pitied on
the occasion: not for their sorrow, but for
their want of it. Their father was no object
of love to them; he had never seemed the friend
of their pleasures, and his absence was unhappily
most welcome. They were relieved by it from
all restraint; and without aiming at one gratification
that would probably have been forbidden by
Sir Thomas, they felt themselves immediately
at their own disposal, and to have every indulgence
within their reach. Fanny’s relief, and
her consciousness of it, were quite equal
to her cousins’; but a more tender nature
suggested that her feelings were ungrateful,
and she really grieved because she could not
grieve. “Sir Thomas, who had done so much
for her and her brothers, and who was gone
perhaps never to return! that she should see
him go without a tear! it was a shameful insensibility.”
He had said to her, moreover, on the very
last morning, that he hoped she might see
William again in the course of the ensuing
winter, and had charged her to write and invite
him to Mansfield as soon as the squadron to
which he belonged should be known to be in
England. “This was so thoughtful and kind!”
and would he only have smiled upon her, and
called her “my dear Fanny,” while he said
it, every former frown or cold address might
have been forgotten. But he had ended his
speech in a way to sink her in sad mortification,
by adding, “If William does come to Mansfield,
I hope you may be able to convince him that
the many years which have passed since you
parted have not been spent on your side entirely
without improvement; though, I fear, he must
find his sister at sixteen in some respects
too much like his sister at ten.” She cried
bitterly over this reflection when her uncle
was gone; and her cousins, on seeing her with
red eyes, set her down as a hypocrite.
CHAPTER IV
Tom Bertram had of late spent so little of
his time at home that he could be only nominally
missed; and Lady Bertram was soon astonished
to find how very well they did even without
his father, how well Edmund could supply his
place in carving, talking to the steward,
writing to the attorney, settling with the
servants, and equally saving her from all
possible fatigue or exertion in every particular
but that of directing her letters.
The earliest intelligence of the travellers’
safe arrival at Antigua, after a favourable
voyage, was received; though not before Mrs.
Norris had been indulging in very dreadful
fears, and trying to make Edmund participate
them whenever she could get him alone; and
as she depended on being the first person
made acquainted with any fatal catastrophe,
she had already arranged the manner of breaking
it to all the others, when Sir Thomas’s
assurances of their both being alive and well
made it necessary to lay by her agitation
and affectionate preparatory speeches for
a while.
The winter came and passed without their being
called for; the accounts continued perfectly
good; and Mrs. Norris, in promoting gaieties
for her nieces, assisting their toilets, displaying
their accomplishments, and looking about for
their future husbands, had so much to do as,
in addition to all her own household cares,
some interference in those of her sister,
and Mrs. Grant’s wasteful doings to overlook,
left her very little occasion to be occupied
in fears for the absent.
The Miss Bertrams were now fully established
among the belles of the neighbourhood; and
as they joined to beauty and brilliant acquirements
a manner naturally easy, and carefully formed
to general civility and obligingness, they
possessed its favour as well as its admiration.
Their vanity was in such good order that they
seemed to be quite free from it, and gave
themselves no airs; while the praises attending
such behaviour, secured and brought round
by their aunt, served to strengthen them in
believing they had no faults.
Lady Bertram did not go into public with her
daughters. She was too indolent even to accept
a mother’s gratification in witnessing their
success and enjoyment at the expense of any
personal trouble, and the charge was made
over to her sister, who desired nothing better
than a post of such honourable representation,
and very thoroughly relished the means it
afforded her of mixing in society without
having horses to hire.
Fanny had no share in the festivities of the
season; but she enjoyed being avowedly useful
as her aunt’s companion when they called
away the rest of the family; and, as Miss
Lee had left Mansfield, she naturally became
everything to Lady Bertram during the night
of a ball or a party. She talked to her, listened
to her, read to her; and the tranquillity
of such evenings, her perfect security in
such a tete-a-tete from any sound of unkindness,
was unspeakably welcome to a mind which had
seldom known a pause in its alarms or embarrassments.
As to her cousins’ gaieties, she loved to
hear an account of them, especially of the
balls, and whom Edmund had danced with; but
thought too lowly of her own situation to
imagine she should ever be admitted to the
same, and listened, therefore, without an
idea of any nearer concern in them. Upon the
whole, it was a comfortable winter to her;
for though it brought no William to England,
the never-failing hope of his arrival was
worth much.
The ensuing spring deprived her of her valued
friend, the old grey pony; and for some time
she was in danger of feeling the loss in her
health as well as in her affections; for in
spite of the acknowledged importance of her
riding on horse-back, no measures were taken
for mounting her again, “because,” as
it was observed by her aunts, “she might
ride one of her cousin’s horses at any time
when they did not want them,” and as the
Miss Bertrams regularly wanted their horses
every fine day, and had no idea of carrying
their obliging manners to the sacrifice of
any real pleasure, that time, of course, never
came. They took their cheerful rides in the
fine mornings of April and May; and Fanny
either sat at home the whole day with one
aunt, or walked beyond her strength at the
instigation of the other: Lady Bertram holding
exercise to be as unnecessary for everybody
as it was unpleasant to herself; and Mrs.
Norris, who was walking all day, thinking
everybody ought to walk as much. Edmund was
absent at this time, or the evil would have
been earlier remedied. When he returned, to
understand how Fanny was situated, and perceived
its ill effects, there seemed with him but
one thing to be done; and that “Fanny must
have a horse” was the resolute declaration
with which he opposed whatever could be urged
by the supineness of his mother, or the economy
of his aunt, to make it appear unimportant.
Mrs. Norris could not help thinking that some
steady old thing might be found among the
numbers belonging to the Park that would do
vastly well; or that one might be borrowed
of the steward; or that perhaps Dr. Grant
might now and then lend them the pony he sent
to the post. She could not but consider it
as absolutely unnecessary, and even improper,
that Fanny should have a regular lady’s
horse of her own, in the style of her cousins.
She was sure Sir Thomas had never intended
it: and she must say that, to be making such
a purchase in his absence, and adding to the
great expenses of his stable, at a time when
a large part of his income was unsettled,
seemed to her very unjustifiable. “Fanny
must have a horse,” was Edmund’s only
reply. Mrs. Norris could not see it in the
same light. Lady Bertram did: she entirely
agreed with her son as to the necessity of
it, and as to its being considered necessary
by his father; she only pleaded against there
being any hurry; she only wanted him to wait
till Sir Thomas’s return, and then Sir Thomas
might settle it all himself. He would be at
home in September, and where would be the
harm of only waiting till September?
Though Edmund was much more displeased with
his aunt than with his mother, as evincing
least regard for her niece, he could not help
paying more attention to what she said; and
at length determined on a method of proceeding
which would obviate the risk of his father’s
thinking he had done too much, and at the
same time procure for Fanny the immediate
means of exercise, which he could not bear
she should be without. He had three horses
of his own, but not one that would carry a
woman. Two of them were hunters; the third,
a useful road-horse: this third he resolved
to exchange for one that his cousin might
ride; he knew where such a one was to be met
with; and having once made up his mind, the
whole business was soon completed. The new
mare proved a treasure; with a very little
trouble she became exactly calculated for
the purpose, and Fanny was then put in almost
full possession of her. She had not supposed
before that anything could ever suit her like
the old grey pony; but her delight in Edmund’s
mare was far beyond any former pleasure of
the sort; and the addition it was ever receiving
in the consideration of that kindness from
which her pleasure sprung, was beyond all
her words to express. She regarded her cousin
as an example of everything good and great,
as possessing worth which no one but herself
could ever appreciate, and as entitled to
such gratitude from her as no feelings could
be strong enough to pay. Her sentiments towards
him were compounded of all that was respectful,
grateful, confiding, and tender.
As the horse continued in name, as well as
fact, the property of Edmund, Mrs. Norris
could tolerate its being for Fanny’s use;
and had Lady Bertram ever thought about her
own objection again, he might have been excused
in her eyes for not waiting till Sir Thomas’s
return in September, for when September came
Sir Thomas was still abroad, and without any
near prospect of finishing his business. Unfavourable
circumstances had suddenly arisen at a moment
when he was beginning to turn all his thoughts
towards England; and the very great uncertainty
in which everything was then involved determined
him on sending home his son, and waiting the
final arrangement by himself. Tom arrived
safely, bringing an excellent account of his
father’s health; but to very little purpose,
as far as Mrs. Norris was concerned. Sir Thomas’s
sending away his son seemed to her so like
a parent’s care, under the influence of
a foreboding of evil to himself, that she
could not help feeling dreadful presentiments;
and as the long evenings of autumn came on,
was so terribly haunted by these ideas, in
the sad solitariness of her cottage, as to
be obliged to take daily refuge in the dining-room
of the Park. The return of winter engagements,
however, was not without its effect; and in
the course of their progress, her mind became
so pleasantly occupied in superintending the
fortunes of her eldest niece, as tolerably
to quiet her nerves. “If poor Sir Thomas
were fated never to return, it would be peculiarly
consoling to see their dear Maria well married,”
she very often thought; always when they were
in the company of men of fortune, and particularly
on the introduction of a young man who had
recently succeeded to one of the largest estates
and finest places in the country.
Mr. Rushworth was from the first struck with
the beauty of Miss Bertram, and, being inclined
to marry, soon fancied himself in love. He
was a heavy young man, with not more than
common sense; but as there was nothing disagreeable
in his figure or address, the young lady was
well pleased with her conquest. Being now
in her twenty-first year, Maria Bertram was
beginning to think matrimony a duty; and as
a marriage with Mr. Rushworth would give her
the enjoyment of a larger income than her
father’s, as well as ensure her the house
in town, which was now a prime object, it
became, by the same rule of moral obligation,
her evident duty to marry Mr. Rushworth if
she could. Mrs. Norris was most zealous in
promoting the match, by every suggestion and
contrivance likely to enhance its desirableness
to either party; and, among other means, by
seeking an intimacy with the gentleman’s
mother, who at present lived with him, and
to whom she even forced Lady Bertram to go
through ten miles of indifferent road to pay
a morning visit. It was not long before a
good understanding took place between this
lady and herself. Mrs. Rushworth acknowledged
herself very desirous that her son should
marry, and declared that of all the young
ladies she had ever seen, Miss Bertram seemed,
by her amiable qualities and accomplishments,
the best adapted to make him happy. Mrs. Norris
accepted the compliment, and admired the nice
discernment of character which could so well
distinguish merit. Maria was indeed the pride
and delight of them all—perfectly faultless—an
angel; and, of course, so surrounded by admirers,
must be difficult in her choice: but yet,
as far as Mrs. Norris could allow herself
to decide on so short an acquaintance, Mr.
Rushworth appeared precisely the young man
to deserve and attach her.
After dancing with each other at a proper
number of balls, the young people justified
these opinions, and an engagement, with a
due reference to the absent Sir Thomas, was
entered into, much to the satisfaction of
their respective families, and of the general
lookers-on of the neighbourhood, who had,
for many weeks past, felt the expediency of
Mr. Rushworth’s marrying Miss Bertram.
It was some months before Sir Thomas’s consent
could be received; but, in the meanwhile,
as no one felt a doubt of his most cordial
pleasure in the connexion, the intercourse
of the two families was carried on without
restraint, and no other attempt made at secrecy
than Mrs. Norris’s talking of it everywhere
as a matter not to be talked of at present.
Edmund was the only one of the family who
could see a fault in the business; but no
representation of his aunt’s could induce
him to find Mr. Rushworth a desirable companion.
He could allow his sister to be the best judge
of her own happiness, but he was not pleased
that her happiness should centre in a large
income; nor could he refrain from often saying
to himself, in Mr. Rushworth’s company—“If
this man had not twelve thousand a year, he
would be a very stupid fellow.”
Sir Thomas, however, was truly happy in the
prospect of an alliance so unquestionably
advantageous, and of which he heard nothing
but the perfectly good and agreeable. It was
a connexion exactly of the right sort—in
the same county, and the same interest—and
his most hearty concurrence was conveyed as
soon as possible. He only conditioned that
the marriage should not take place before
his return, which he was again looking eagerly
forward to. He wrote in April, and had strong
hopes of settling everything to his entire
satisfaction, and leaving Antigua before the
end of the summer.
Such was the state of affairs in the month
of July; and Fanny had just reached her eighteenth
year, when the society of the village received
an addition in the brother and sister of Mrs.
Grant, a Mr. and Miss Crawford, the children
of her mother by a second marriage. They were
young people of fortune. The son had a good
estate in Norfolk, the daughter twenty thousand
pounds. As children, their sister had been
always very fond of them; but, as her own
marriage had been soon followed by the death
of their common parent, which left them to
the care of a brother of their father, of
whom Mrs. Grant knew nothing, she had scarcely
seen them since. In their uncle’s house
they had found a kind home. Admiral and Mrs.
Crawford, though agreeing in nothing else,
were united in affection for these children,
or, at least, were no farther adverse in their
feelings than that each had their favourite,
to whom they showed the greatest fondness
of the two. The Admiral delighted in the boy,
Mrs. Crawford doted on the girl; and it was
the lady’s death which now obliged her protegee,
after some months’ further trial at her
uncle’s house, to find another home. Admiral
Crawford was a man of vicious conduct, who
chose, instead of retaining his niece, to
bring his mistress under his own roof; and
to this Mrs. Grant was indebted for her sister’s
proposal of coming to her, a measure quite
as welcome on one side as it could be expedient
on the other; for Mrs. Grant, having by this
time run through the usual resources of ladies
residing in the country without a family of
children—having more than filled her favourite
sitting-room with pretty furniture, and made
a choice collection of plants and poultry—was
very much in want of some variety at home.
The arrival, therefore, of a sister whom she
had always loved, and now hoped to retain
with her as long as she remained single, was
highly agreeable; and her chief anxiety was
lest Mansfield should not satisfy the habits
of a young woman who had been mostly used
to London.
Miss Crawford was not entirely free from similar
apprehensions, though they arose principally
from doubts of her sister’s style of living
and tone of society; and it was not till after
she had tried in vain to persuade her brother
to settle with her at his own country house,
that she could resolve to hazard herself among
her other relations. To anything like a permanence
of abode, or limitation of society, Henry
Crawford had, unluckily, a great dislike:
he could not accommodate his sister in an
article of such importance; but he escorted
her, with the utmost kindness, into Northamptonshire,
and as readily engaged to fetch her away again,
at half an hour’s notice, whenever she were
weary of the place.
The meeting was very satisfactory on each
side. Miss Crawford found a sister without
preciseness or rusticity, a sister’s husband
who looked the gentleman, and a house commodious
and well fitted up; and Mrs. Grant received
in those whom she hoped to love better than
ever a young man and woman of very prepossessing
appearance. Mary Crawford was remarkably pretty;
Henry, though not handsome, had air and countenance;
the manners of both were lively and pleasant,
and Mrs. Grant immediately gave them credit
for everything else. She was delighted with
each, but Mary was her dearest object; and
having never been able to glory in beauty
of her own, she thoroughly enjoyed the power
of being proud of her sister’s. She had
not waited her arrival to look out for a suitable
match for her: she had fixed on Tom Bertram;
the eldest son of a baronet was not too good
for a girl of twenty thousand pounds, with
all the elegance and accomplishments which
Mrs. Grant foresaw in her; and being a warm-hearted,
unreserved woman, Mary had not been three
hours in the house before she told her what
she had planned.
Miss Crawford was glad to find a family of
such consequence so very near them, and not
at all displeased either at her sister’s
early care, or the choice it had fallen on.
Matrimony was her object, provided she could
marry well: and having seen Mr. Bertram in
town, she knew that objection could no more
be made to his person than to his situation
in life. While she treated it as a joke, therefore,
she did not forget to think of it seriously.
The scheme was soon repeated to Henry.
“And now,” added Mrs. Grant, “I have
thought of something to make it complete.
I should dearly love to settle you both in
this country; and therefore, Henry, you shall
marry the youngest Miss Bertram, a nice, handsome,
good-humoured, accomplished girl, who will
make you very happy.”
Henry bowed and thanked her.
“My dear sister,” said Mary, “if you
can persuade him into anything of the sort,
it will be a fresh matter of delight to me
to find myself allied to anybody so clever,
and I shall only regret that you have not
half a dozen daughters to dispose of. If you
can persuade Henry to marry, you must have
the address of a Frenchwoman. All that English
abilities can do has been tried already. I
have three very particular friends who have
been all dying for him in their turn; and
the pains which they, their mothers (very
clever women), as well as my dear aunt and
myself, have taken to reason, coax, or trick
him into marrying, is inconceivable! He is
the most horrible flirt that can be imagined.
If your Miss Bertrams do not like to have
their hearts broke, let them avoid Henry.”
“My dear brother, I will not believe this
of you.”
“No, I am sure you are too good. You will
be kinder than Mary. You will allow for the
doubts of youth and inexperience. I am of
a cautious temper, and unwilling to risk my
happiness in a hurry. Nobody can think more
highly of the matrimonial state than myself.
I consider the blessing of a wife as most
justly described in those discreet lines of
the poet—‘Heaven’s last best gift.’”
“There, Mrs. Grant, you see how he dwells
on one word, and only look at his smile. I
assure you he is very detestable; the Admiral’s
lessons have quite spoiled him.”
“I pay very little regard,” said Mrs.
Grant, “to what any young person says on
the subject of marriage. If they profess a
disinclination for it, I only set it down
that they have not yet seen the right person.”
Dr. Grant laughingly congratulated Miss Crawford
on feeling no disinclination to the state
herself.
“Oh yes! I am not at all ashamed of it.
I would have everybody marry if they can do
it properly: I do not like to have people
throw themselves away; but everybody should
marry as soon as they can do it 
to advantage.”
CHAPTER V
The young people were pleased with each other
from the first. On each side there was much
to attract, and their acquaintance soon promised
as early an intimacy as good manners would
warrant. Miss Crawford’s beauty did her
no disservice with the Miss Bertrams. They
were too handsome themselves to dislike any
woman for being so too, and were almost as
much charmed as their brothers with her lively
dark eye, clear brown complexion, and general
prettiness. Had she been tall, full formed,
and fair, it might have been more of a trial:
but as it was, there could be no comparison;
and she was most allowably a sweet, pretty
girl, while they were the finest young women
in the country.
Her brother was not handsome: no, when they
first saw him he was absolutely plain, black
and plain; but still he was the gentleman,
with a pleasing address. The second meeting
proved him not so very plain: he was plain,
to be sure, but then he had so much countenance,
and his teeth were so good, and he was so
well made, that one soon forgot he was plain;
and after a third interview, after dining
in company with him at the Parsonage, he was
no longer allowed to be called so by anybody.
He was, in fact, the most agreeable young
man the sisters had ever known, and they were
equally delighted with him. Miss Bertram’s
engagement made him in equity the property
of Julia, of which Julia was fully aware;
and before he had been at Mansfield a week,
she was quite ready to be fallen in love with.
Maria’s notions on the subject were more
confused and indistinct. She did not want
to see or understand. “There could be no
harm in her liking an agreeable man—everybody
knew her situation—Mr. Crawford must take
care of himself.” Mr. Crawford did not mean
to be in any danger! the Miss Bertrams were
worth pleasing, and were ready to be pleased;
and he began with no object but of making
them like him. He did not want them to die
of love; but with sense and temper which ought
to have made him judge and feel better, he
allowed himself great latitude on such points.
“I like your Miss Bertrams exceedingly,
sister,” said he, as he returned from attending
them to their carriage after the said dinner
visit; “they are very elegant, agreeable
girls.”
“So they are indeed, and I am delighted
to hear you say it. But you like Julia best.”
“Oh yes! I like Julia best.”
“But do you really? for Miss Bertram is
in general thought the handsomest.”
“So I should suppose. She has the advantage
in every feature, and I prefer her countenance;
but I like Julia best; Miss Bertram is certainly
the handsomest, and I have found her the most
agreeable, but I shall always like Julia best,
because you order me.”
“I shall not talk to you, Henry, but I know
you will like her best at last.”
“Do not I tell you that I like her best
at first?”
“And besides, Miss Bertram is engaged. Remember
that, my dear brother. Her choice is made.”
“Yes, and I like her the better for it.
An engaged woman is always more agreeable
than a disengaged. She is satisfied with herself.
Her cares are over, and she feels that she
may exert all her powers of pleasing without
suspicion. All is safe with a lady engaged:
no harm can be done.”
“Why, as to that, Mr. Rushworth is a very
good sort of young man, and it is a great
match for her.”
“But Miss Bertram does not care three straws
for him; that is your opinion of your intimate
friend. I do not subscribe to it. I am sure
Miss Bertram is very much attached to Mr.
Rushworth. I could see it in her eyes, when
he was mentioned. I think too well of Miss
Bertram to suppose she would ever give her
hand without her heart.”
“Mary, how shall we manage him?”
“We must leave him to himself, I believe.
Talking does no good. He will be taken in
at last.”
“But I would not have him taken in; I would
not have him duped; I would have it all fair
and honourable.”
“Oh dear! let him stand his chance and be
taken in. It will do just as well. Everybody
is taken in at some period or other.”
“Not always in marriage, dear Mary.”
“In marriage especially. With all due respect
to such of the present company as chance to
be married, my dear Mrs. Grant, there is not
one in a hundred of either sex who is not
taken in when they marry. Look where I will,
I see that it is so; and I feel that it must
be so, when I consider that it is, of all
transactions, the one in which people expect
most from others, and are least honest themselves.”
“Ah! You have been in a bad school for matrimony,
in Hill Street.”
“My poor aunt had certainly little cause
to love the state; but, however, speaking
from my own observation, it is a manoeuvring
business. I know so many who have married
in the full expectation and confidence of
some one particular advantage in the connexion,
or accomplishment, or good quality in the
person, who have found themselves entirely
deceived, and been obliged to put up with
exactly the reverse. What is this but a take
in?”
“My dear child, there must be a little imagination
here. I beg your pardon, but I cannot quite
believe you. Depend upon it, you see but half.
You see the evil, but you do not see the consolation.
There will be little rubs and disappointments
everywhere, and we are all apt to expect too
much; but then, if one scheme of happiness
fails, human nature turns to another; if the
first calculation is wrong, we make a second
better: we find comfort somewhere—and those
evil-minded observers, dearest Mary, who make
much of a little, are more taken in and deceived
than the parties themselves.”
“Well done, sister! I honour your esprit
du corps. When I am a wife, I mean to be just
as staunch myself; and I wish my friends in
general would be so too. It would save me
many a heartache.”
“You are as bad as your brother, Mary; but
we will cure you both. Mansfield shall cure
you both, and without any taking in. Stay
with us, and we will cure you.”
The Crawfords, without wanting to be cured,
were very willing to stay. Mary was satisfied
with the Parsonage as a present home, and
Henry equally ready to lengthen his visit.
He had come, intending to spend only a few
days with them; but Mansfield promised well,
and there was nothing to call him elsewhere.
It delighted Mrs. Grant to keep them both
with her, and Dr. Grant was exceedingly well
contented to have it so: a talking pretty
young woman like Miss Crawford is always pleasant
society to an indolent, stay-at-home man;
and Mr. Crawford’s being his guest was an
excuse for drinking claret every day.
The Miss Bertrams’ admiration of Mr. Crawford
was more rapturous than anything which Miss
Crawford’s habits made her likely to feel.
She acknowledged, however, that the Mr. Bertrams
were very fine young men, that two such young
men were not often seen together even in London,
and that their manners, particularly those
of the eldest, were very good. He had been
much in London, and had more liveliness and
gallantry than Edmund, and must, therefore,
be preferred; and, indeed, his being the eldest
was another strong claim. She had felt an
early presentiment that she should like the
eldest best. She knew it was her way.
Tom Bertram must have been thought pleasant,
indeed, at any rate; he was the sort of young
man to be generally liked, his agreeableness
was of the kind to be oftener found agreeable
than some endowments of a higher stamp, for
he had easy manners, excellent spirits, a
large acquaintance, and a great deal to say;
and the reversion of Mansfield Park, and a
baronetcy, did no harm to all this. Miss Crawford
soon felt that he and his situation might
do. She looked about her with due consideration,
and found almost everything in his favour:
a park, a real park, five miles round, a spacious
modern-built house, so well placed and well
screened as to deserve to be in any collection
of engravings of gentlemen’s seats in the
kingdom, and wanting only to be completely
new furnished—pleasant sisters, a quiet
mother, and an agreeable man himself—with
the advantage of being tied up from much gaming
at present by a promise to his father, and
of being Sir Thomas hereafter. It might do
very well; she believed she should accept
him; and she began accordingly to interest
herself a little about the horse which he
had to run at the B—— races.
These races were to call him away not long
after their acquaintance began; and as it
appeared that the family did not, from his
usual goings on, expect him back again for
many weeks, it would bring his passion to
an early proof. Much was said on his side
to induce her to attend the races, and schemes
were made for a large party to them, with
all the eagerness of inclination, but it would
only do to be talked of.
And Fanny, what was she doing and thinking
all this while? and what was her opinion of
the newcomers? Few young ladies of eighteen
could be less called on to speak their opinion
than Fanny. In a quiet way, very little attended
to, she paid her tribute of admiration to
Miss Crawford’s beauty; but as she still
continued to think Mr. Crawford very plain,
in spite of her two cousins having repeatedly
proved the contrary, she never mentioned him.
The notice, which she excited herself, was
to this effect. “I begin now to understand
you all, except Miss Price,” said Miss Crawford,
as she was walking with the Mr. Bertrams.
“Pray, is she out, or is she not? I am puzzled.
She dined at the Parsonage, with the rest
of you, which seemed like being out; and yet
she says so little, that I can hardly suppose
she is.”
Edmund, to whom this was chiefly addressed,
replied, “I believe I know what you mean,
but I will not undertake to answer the question.
My cousin is grown up. She has the age and
sense of a woman, but the outs and not outs
are beyond me.”
“And yet, in general, nothing can be more
easily ascertained. The distinction is so
broad. Manners as well as appearance are,
generally speaking, so totally different.
Till now, I could not have supposed it possible
to be mistaken as to a girl’s being out
or not. A girl not out has always the same
sort of dress: a close bonnet, for instance;
looks very demure, and never says a word.
You may smile, but it is so, I assure you;
and except that it is sometimes carried a
little too far, it is all very proper. Girls
should be quiet and modest. The most objectionable
part is, that the alteration of manners on
being introduced into company is frequently
too sudden. They sometimes pass in such very
little time from reserve to quite the opposite—to
confidence! That is the faulty part of the
present system. One does not like to see a
girl of eighteen or nineteen so immediately
up to every thing—and perhaps when one has
seen her hardly able to speak the year before.
Mr. Bertram, I dare say you have sometimes
met with such changes.”
“I believe I have, but this is hardly fair;
I see what you are at. You are quizzing me
and Miss Anderson.”
“No, indeed. Miss Anderson! I do not know
who or what you mean. I am quite in the dark.
But I will quiz you with a great deal of pleasure,
if you will tell me what about.”
“Ah! you carry it off very well, but I cannot
be quite so far imposed on. You must have
had Miss Anderson in your eye, in describing
an altered young lady. You paint too accurately
for mistake. It was exactly so. The Andersons
of Baker Street. We were speaking of them
the other day, you know. Edmund, you have
heard me mention Charles Anderson. The circumstance
was precisely as this lady has represented
it. When Anderson first introduced me to his
family, about two years ago, his sister was
not out, and I could not get her to speak
to me. I sat there an hour one morning waiting
for Anderson, with only her and a little girl
or two in the room, the governess being sick
or run away, and the mother in and out every
moment with letters of business, and I could
hardly get a word or a look from the young
lady—nothing like a civil answer—she screwed
up her mouth, and turned from me with such
an air! I did not see her again for a twelvemonth.
She was then out. I met her at Mrs. Holford’s,
and did not recollect her. She came up to
me, claimed me as an acquaintance, stared
me out of countenance; and talked and laughed
till I did not know which way to look. I felt
that I must be the jest of the room at the
time, and Miss Crawford, it is plain, has
heard the story.”
“And a very pretty story it is, and with
more truth in it, I dare say, than does credit
to Miss Anderson. It is too common a fault.
Mothers certainly have not yet got quite the
right way of managing their daughters. I do
not know where the error lies. I do not pretend
to set people right, but I do see that they
are often wrong.”
“Those who are showing the world what female
manners should be,” said Mr. Bertram gallantly,
“are doing a great deal to set them right.”
“The error is plain enough,” said the
less courteous Edmund; “such girls are ill
brought up. They are given wrong notions from
the beginning. They are always acting upon
motives of vanity, and there is no more real
modesty in their behaviour before they appear
in public than afterwards.”
“I do not know,” replied Miss Crawford
hesitatingly. “Yes, I cannot agree with
you there. It is certainly the modestest part
of the business. It is much worse to have
girls not out give themselves the same airs
and take the same liberties as if they were,
which I have seen done. That is worse than
anything—quite disgusting!”
“Yes, that is very inconvenient indeed,”
said Mr. Bertram. “It leads one astray;
one does not know what to do. The close bonnet
and demure air you describe so well (and nothing
was ever juster), tell one what is expected;
but I got into a dreadful scrape last year
from the want of them. I went down to Ramsgate
for a week with a friend last September, just
after my return from the West Indies. My friend
Sneyd—you have heard me speak of Sneyd,
Edmund—his father, and mother, and sisters,
were there, all new to me. When we reached
Albion Place they were out; we went after
them, and found them on the pier: Mrs. and
the two Miss Sneyds, with others of their
acquaintance. I made my bow in form; and as
Mrs. Sneyd was surrounded by men, attached
myself to one of her daughters, walked by
her side all the way home, and made myself
as agreeable as I could; the young lady perfectly
easy in her manners, and as ready to talk
as to listen. I had not a suspicion that I
could be doing anything wrong. They looked
just the same: both well-dressed, with veils
and parasols like other girls; but I afterwards
found that I had been giving all my attention
to the youngest, who was not out, and had
most excessively offended the eldest. Miss
Augusta ought not to have been noticed for
the next six months; and Miss Sneyd, I believe,
has never forgiven me.”
“That was bad indeed. Poor Miss Sneyd. Though
I have no younger sister, I feel for her.
To be neglected before one’s time must be
very vexatious; but it was entirely the mother’s
fault. Miss Augusta should have been with
her governess. Such half-and-half doings never
prosper. But now I must be satisfied about
Miss Price. Does she go to balls? Does she
dine out every where, as well as at my sister’s?”
“No,” replied Edmund; “I do not think
she has ever been to a ball. My mother seldom
goes into company herself, and dines nowhere
but with Mrs. Grant, and Fanny stays at home
with her.”
“Oh! then the point is clear. Miss Price
is not out.”
CHAPTER VI
Mr. Bertram set off for————, and Miss
Crawford was prepared to find a great chasm
in their society, and to miss him decidedly
in the meetings which were now becoming almost
daily between the families; and on their all
dining together at the Park soon after his
going, she retook her chosen place near the
bottom of the table, fully expecting to feel
a most melancholy difference in the change
of masters. It would be a very flat business,
she was sure. In comparison with his brother,
Edmund would have nothing to say. The soup
would be sent round in a most spiritless manner,
wine drank without any smiles or agreeable
trifling, and the venison cut up without supplying
one pleasant anecdote of any former haunch,
or a single entertaining story, about “my
friend such a one.” She must try to find
amusement in what was passing at the upper
end of the table, and in observing Mr. Rushworth,
who was now making his appearance at Mansfield
for the first time since the Crawfords’
arrival. He had been visiting a friend in
the neighbouring county, and that friend having
recently had his grounds laid out by an improver,
Mr. Rushworth was returned with his head full
of the subject, and very eager to be improving
his own place in the same way; and though
not saying much to the purpose, could talk
of nothing else. The subject had been already
handled in the drawing-room; it was revived
in the dining-parlour. Miss Bertram’s attention
and opinion was evidently his chief aim; and
though her deportment showed rather conscious
superiority than any solicitude to oblige
him, the mention of Sotherton Court, and the
ideas attached to it, gave her a feeling of
complacency, which prevented her from being
very ungracious.
“I wish you could see Compton,” said he;
“it is the most complete thing! I never
saw a place so altered in my life. I told
Smith I did not know where I was. The approach
now, is one of the finest things in the country:
you see the house in the most surprising manner.
I declare, when I got back to Sotherton yesterday,
it looked like a prison—quite a dismal old
prison.”
“Oh, for shame!” cried Mrs. Norris. “A
prison indeed? Sotherton Court is the noblest
old place in the world.”
“It wants improvement, ma’am, beyond anything.
I never saw a place that wanted so much improvement
in my life; and it is so forlorn that I do
not know what can be done with it.”
“No wonder that Mr. Rushworth should think
so at present,” said Mrs. Grant to Mrs.
Norris, with a smile; “but depend upon it,
Sotherton will have every improvement in time
which his heart can desire.”
“I must try to do something with it,”
said Mr. Rushworth, “but I do not know what.
I hope I shall have some good friend to help
me.”
“Your best friend upon such an occasion,”
said Miss Bertram calmly, “would be Mr.
Repton, I imagine.”
“That is what I was thinking of. As he has
done so well by Smith, I think I had better
have him at once. His terms are five guineas
a day.”
“Well, and if they were ten,” cried Mrs.
Norris, “I am sure you need not regard it.
The expense need not be any impediment. If
I were you, I should not think of the expense.
I would have everything done in the best style,
and made as nice as possible. Such a place
as Sotherton Court deserves everything that
taste and money can do. You have space to
work upon there, and grounds that will well
reward you. For my own part, if I had anything
within the fiftieth part of the size of Sotherton,
I should be always planting and improving,
for naturally I am excessively fond of it.
It would be too ridiculous for me to attempt
anything where I am now, with my little half
acre. It would be quite a burlesque. But if
I had more room, I should take a prodigious
delight in improving and planting. We did
a vast deal in that way at the Parsonage:
we made it quite a different place from what
it was when we first had it. You young ones
do not remember much about it, perhaps; but
if dear Sir Thomas were here, he could tell
you what improvements we made: and a great
deal more would have been done, but for poor
Mr. Norris’s sad state of health. He could
hardly ever get out, poor man, to enjoy anything,
and that disheartened me from doing several
things that Sir Thomas and I used to talk
of. If it had not been for that, we should
have carried on the garden wall, and made
the plantation to shut out the churchyard,
just as Dr. Grant has done. We were always
doing something as it was. It was only the
spring twelvemonth before Mr. Norris’s death
that we put in the apricot against the stable
wall, which is now grown such a noble tree,
and getting to such perfection, sir,” addressing
herself then to Dr. Grant.
“The tree thrives well, beyond a doubt,
madam,” replied Dr. Grant. “The soil is
good; and I never pass it without regretting
that the fruit should be so little worth the
trouble of gathering.”
“Sir, it is a Moor Park, we bought it as
a Moor Park, and it cost us—that is, it
was a present from Sir Thomas, but I saw the
bill—and I know it cost seven shillings,
and was charged as a Moor Park.”
“You were imposed on, ma’am,” replied
Dr. Grant: “these potatoes have as much
the flavour of a Moor Park apricot as the
fruit from that tree. It is an insipid fruit
at the best; but a good apricot is eatable,
which none from my garden are.”
“The truth is, ma’am,” said Mrs. Grant,
pretending to whisper across the table to
Mrs. Norris, “that Dr. Grant hardly knows
what the natural taste of our apricot is:
he is scarcely ever indulged with one, for
it is so valuable a fruit; with a little assistance,
and ours is such a remarkably large, fair
sort, that what with early tarts and preserves,
my cook contrives to get them all.”
Mrs. Norris, who had begun to redden, was
appeased; and, for a little while, other subjects
took place of the improvements of Sotherton.
Dr. Grant and Mrs. Norris were seldom good
friends; their acquaintance had begun in dilapidations,
and their habits were totally dissimilar.
After a short interruption Mr. Rushworth began
again. “Smith’s place is the admiration
of all the country; and it was a mere nothing
before Repton took it in hand. I think I shall
have Repton.”
“Mr. Rushworth,” said Lady Bertram, “if
I were you, I would have a very pretty shrubbery.
One likes to get out into a shrubbery in fine
weather.”
Mr. Rushworth was eager to assure her ladyship
of his acquiescence, and tried to make out
something complimentary; but, between his
submission to her taste, and his having always
intended the same himself, with the superadded
objects of professing attention to the comfort
of ladies in general, and of insinuating that
there was one only whom he was anxious to
please, he grew puzzled, and Edmund was glad
to put an end to his speech by a proposal
of wine. Mr. Rushworth, however, though not
usually a great talker, had still more to
say on the subject next his heart. “Smith
has not much above a hundred acres altogether
in his grounds, which is little enough, and
makes it more surprising that the place can
have been so improved. Now, at Sotherton we
have a good seven hundred, without reckoning
the water meadows; so that I think, if so
much could be done at Compton, we need not
despair. There have been two or three fine
old trees cut down, that grew too near the
house, and it opens the prospect amazingly,
which makes me think that Repton, or anybody
of that sort, would certainly have the avenue
at Sotherton down: the avenue that leads from
the west front to the top of the hill, you
know,” turning to Miss Bertram particularly
as he spoke. But Miss Bertram thought it most
becoming to reply—
“The avenue! Oh! I do not recollect it.
I really know very little of Sotherton.”
Fanny, who was sitting on the other side of
Edmund, exactly opposite Miss Crawford, and
who had been attentively listening, now looked
at him, and said in a low voice—
“Cut down an avenue! What a pity! Does it
not make you think of Cowper? ‘Ye fallen
avenues, once more I mourn your fate unmerited.’”
He smiled as he answered, “I am afraid the
avenue stands a bad chance, Fanny.”
“I should like to see Sotherton before it
is cut down, to see the place as it is now,
in its old state; but I do not suppose I shall.”
“Have you never been there? No, you never
can; and, unluckily, it is out of distance
for a ride. I wish we could contrive it.”
“Oh! it does not signify. Whenever I do
see it, you will tell me how it has been altered.”
“I collect,” said Miss Crawford, “that
Sotherton is an old place, and a place of
some grandeur. In any particular style of
building?”
“The house was built in Elizabeth’s time,
and is a large, regular, brick building; heavy,
but respectable looking, and has many good
rooms. It is ill placed. It stands in one
of the lowest spots of the park; in that respect,
unfavourable for improvement. But the woods
are fine, and there is a stream, which, I
dare say, might be made a good deal of. Mr.
Rushworth is quite right, I think, in meaning
to give it a modern dress, and I have no doubt
that it will be all done extremely well.”
Miss Crawford listened with submission, and
said to herself, “He is a well-bred man;
he makes the best of it.”
“I do not wish to influence Mr. Rushworth,”
he continued; “but, had I a place to new
fashion, I should not put myself into the
hands of an improver. I would rather have
an inferior degree of beauty, of my own choice,
and acquired progressively. I would rather
abide by my own blunders than by his.”
“You would know what you were about, of
course; but that would not suit me. I have
no eye or ingenuity for such matters, but
as they are before me; and had I a place of
my own in the country, I should be most thankful
to any Mr. Repton who would undertake it,
and give me as much beauty as he could for
my money; and I should never look at it till
it was complete.”
“It would be delightful to me to see the
progress of it all,” said Fanny.
“Ay, you have been brought up to it. It
was no part of my education; and the only
dose I ever had, being administered by not
the first favourite in the world, has made
me consider improvements in hand as the greatest
of nuisances. Three years ago the Admiral,
my honoured uncle, bought a cottage at Twickenham
for us all to spend our summers in; and my
aunt and I went down to it quite in raptures;
but it being excessively pretty, it was soon
found necessary to be improved, and for three
months we were all dirt and confusion, without
a gravel walk to step on, or a bench fit for
use. I would have everything as complete as
possible in the country, shrubberies and flower-gardens,
and rustic seats innumerable: but it must
all be done without my care. Henry is different;
he loves to be doing.”
Edmund was sorry to hear Miss Crawford, whom
he was much disposed to admire, speak so freely
of her uncle. It did not suit his sense of
propriety, and he was silenced, till induced
by further smiles and liveliness to put the
matter by for the present.
“Mr. Bertram,” said she, “I have tidings
of my harp at last. I am assured that it is
safe at Northampton; and there it has probably
been these ten days, in spite of the solemn
assurances we have so often received to the
contrary.” Edmund expressed his pleasure
and surprise. “The truth is, that our inquiries
were too direct; we sent a servant, we went
ourselves: this will not do seventy miles
from London; but this morning we heard of
it in the right way. It was seen by some farmer,
and he told the miller, and the miller told
the butcher, and the butcher’s son-in-law
left word at the shop.”
“I am very glad that you have heard of it,
by whatever means, and hope there will be
no further delay.”
“I am to have it to-morrow; but how do you
think it is to be conveyed? Not by a wagon
or cart: oh no! nothing of that kind could
be hired in the village. I might as well have
asked for porters and a handbarrow.”
“You would find it difficult, I dare say,
just now, in the middle of a very late hay
harvest, to hire a horse and cart?”
“I was astonished to find what a piece of
work was made of it! To want a horse and cart
in the country seemed impossible, so I told
my maid to speak for one directly; and as
I cannot look out of my dressing-closet without
seeing one farmyard, nor walk in the shrubbery
without passing another, I thought it would
be only ask and have, and was rather grieved
that I could not give the advantage to all.
Guess my surprise, when I found that I had
been asking the most unreasonable, most impossible
thing in the world; had offended all the farmers,
all the labourers, all the hay in the parish!
As for Dr. Grant’s bailiff, I believe I
had better keep out of his way; and my brother-in-law
himself, who is all kindness in general, looked
rather black upon me when he found what I
had been at.”
“You could not be expected to have thought
on the subject before; but when you do think
of it, you must see the importance of getting
in the grass. The hire of a cart at any time
might not be so easy as you suppose: our farmers
are not in the habit of letting them out;
but, in harvest, it must be quite out of their
power to spare a horse.”
“I shall understand all your ways in time;
but, coming down with the true London maxim,
that everything is to be got with money, I
was a little embarrassed at first by the sturdy
independence of your country customs. However,
I am to have my harp fetched to-morrow. Henry,
who is good-nature itself, has offered to
fetch it in his barouche. Will it not be honourably
conveyed?”
Edmund spoke of the harp as his favourite
instrument, and hoped to be soon allowed to
hear her. Fanny had never heard the harp at
all, and wished for it very much.
“I shall be most happy to play to you both,”
said Miss Crawford; “at least as long as
you can like to listen: probably much longer,
for I dearly love music myself, and where
the natural taste is equal the player must
always be best off, for she is gratified in
more ways than one. Now, Mr. Bertram, if you
write to your brother, I entreat you to tell
him that my harp is come: he heard so much
of my misery about it. And you may say, if
you please, that I shall prepare my most plaintive
airs against his return, in compassion to
his feelings, as I know his horse will lose.”
“If I write, I will say whatever you wish
me; but I do not, at present, foresee any
occasion for writing.”
“No, I dare say, nor if he were to be gone
a twelvemonth, would you ever write to him,
nor he to you, if it could be helped. The
occasion would never be foreseen. What strange
creatures brothers are! You would not write
to each other but upon the most urgent necessity
in the world; and when obliged to take up
the pen to say that such a horse is ill, or
such a relation dead, it is done in the fewest
possible words. You have but one style among
you. I know it perfectly. Henry, who is in
every other respect exactly what a brother
should be, who loves me, consults me, confides
in me, and will talk to me by the hour together,
has never yet turned the page in a letter;
and very often it is nothing more than—‘Dear
Mary, I am just arrived. Bath seems full,
and everything as usual. Yours sincerely.’
That is the true manly style; that is a complete
brother’s letter.”
“When they are at a distance from all their
family,” said Fanny, colouring for William’s
sake, “they can write long letters.”
“Miss Price has a brother at sea,” said
Edmund, “whose excellence as a correspondent
makes her think you too severe upon us.”
“At sea, has she? In the king’s service,
of course?”
Fanny would rather have had Edmund tell the
story, but his determined silence obliged
her to relate her brother’s situation: her
voice was animated in speaking of his profession,
and the foreign stations he had been on; but
she could not mention the number of years
that he had been absent without tears in her
eyes. Miss Crawford civilly wished him an
early promotion.
“Do you know anything of my cousin’s captain?”
said Edmund; “Captain Marshall? You have
a large acquaintance in the navy, I conclude?”
“Among admirals, large enough; but,” with
an air of grandeur, “we know very little
of the inferior ranks. Post-captains may be
very good sort of men, but they do not belong
to us. Of various admirals I could tell you
a great deal: of them and their flags, and
the gradation of their pay, and their bickerings
and jealousies. But, in general, I can assure
you that they are all passed over, and all
very ill used. Certainly, my home at my uncle’s
brought me acquainted with a circle of admirals.
Of Rears and Vices I saw enough. Now do not
be suspecting me of a pun, I entreat.”
Edmund again felt grave, and only replied,
“It is a noble profession.”
“Yes, the profession is well enough under
two circumstances: if it make the fortune,
and there be discretion in spending it; but,
in short, it is not a favourite profession
of mine. It has never worn an amiable form
to me.”
Edmund reverted to the harp, and was again
very happy in the prospect of hearing her
play.
The subject of improving grounds, meanwhile,
was still under consideration among the others;
and Mrs. Grant could not help addressing her
brother, though it was calling his attention
from Miss Julia Bertram.
“My dear Henry, have you nothing to say?
You have been an improver yourself, and from
what I hear of Everingham, it may vie with
any place in England. Its natural beauties,
I am sure, are great. Everingham, as it used
to be, was perfect in my estimation: such
a happy fall of ground, and such timber! What
would I not give to see it again?”
“Nothing could be so gratifying to me as
to hear your opinion of it,” was his answer;
“but I fear there would be some disappointment:
you would not find it equal to your present
ideas. In extent, it is a mere nothing; you
would be surprised at its insignificance;
and, as for improvement, there was very little
for me to do—too little: I should like to
have been busy much longer.”
“You are fond of the sort of thing?” said
Julia.
“Excessively; but what with the natural
advantages of the ground, which pointed out,
even to a very young eye, what little remained
to be done, and my own consequent resolutions,
I had not been of age three months before
Everingham was all that it is now. My plan
was laid at Westminster, a little altered,
perhaps, at Cambridge, and at one-and-twenty
executed. I am inclined to envy Mr. Rushworth
for having so much happiness yet before him.
I have been a devourer of my own.”
“Those who see quickly, will resolve quickly,
and act quickly,” said Julia. “You can
never want employment. Instead of envying
Mr. Rushworth, you should assist him with
your opinion.”
Mrs. Grant, hearing the latter part of this
speech, enforced it warmly, persuaded that
no judgment could be equal to her brother’s;
and as Miss Bertram caught at the idea likewise,
and gave it her full support, declaring that,
in her opinion, it was infinitely better to
consult with friends and disinterested advisers,
than immediately to throw the business into
the hands of a professional man, Mr. Rushworth
was very ready to request the favour of Mr.
Crawford’s assistance; and Mr. Crawford,
after properly depreciating his own abilities,
was quite at his service in any way that could
be useful. Mr. Rushworth then began to propose
Mr. Crawford’s doing him the honour of coming
over to Sotherton, and taking a bed there;
when Mrs. Norris, as if reading in her two
nieces’ minds their little approbation of
a plan which was to take Mr. Crawford away,
interposed with an amendment.
“There can be no doubt of Mr. Crawford’s
willingness; but why should not more of us
go? Why should not we make a little party?
Here are many that would be interested in
your improvements, my dear Mr. Rushworth,
and that would like to hear Mr. Crawford’s
opinion on the spot, and that might be of
some small use to you with their opinions;
and, for my own part, I have been long wishing
to wait upon your good mother again; nothing
but having no horses of my own could have
made me so remiss; but now I could go and
sit a few hours with Mrs. Rushworth, while
the rest of you walked about and settled things,
and then we could all return to a late dinner
here, or dine at Sotherton, just as might
be most agreeable to your mother, and have
a pleasant drive home by moonlight. I dare
say Mr. Crawford would take my two nieces
and me in his barouche, and Edmund can go
on horseback, you know, sister, and Fanny
will stay at home with you.”
Lady Bertram made no objection; and every
one concerned in the going was forward in
expressing their ready concurrence, excepting
Edmund, who heard it all and said nothing.
CHAPTER VII
“Well, Fanny, and how do you like Miss Crawford
now?” said Edmund the next day, after thinking
some time on the subject himself. “How did
you like her yesterday?”
“Very well—very much. I like to hear her
talk. She entertains me; and she is so extremely
pretty, that I have great pleasure in looking
at her.”
“It is her countenance that is so attractive.
She has a wonderful play of feature! But was
there nothing in her conversation that struck
you, Fanny, as not quite right?”
“Oh yes! she ought not to have spoken of
her uncle as she did. I was quite astonished.
An uncle with whom she has been living so
many years, and who, whatever his faults may
be, is so very fond of her brother, treating
him, they say, quite like a son. I could not
have believed it!”
“I thought you would be struck. It was very
wrong; very indecorous.”
“And very ungrateful, I think.”
“Ungrateful is a strong word. I do not know
that her uncle has any claim to her gratitude;
his wife certainly had; and it is the warmth
of her respect for her aunt’s memory which
misleads her here. She is awkwardly circumstanced.
With such warm feelings and lively spirits
it must be difficult to do justice to her
affection for Mrs. Crawford, without throwing
a shade on the Admiral. I do not pretend to
know which was most to blame in their disagreements,
though the Admiral’s present conduct might
incline one to the side of his wife; but it
is natural and amiable that Miss Crawford
should acquit her aunt entirely. I do not
censure her opinions; but there certainly
is impropriety in making them public.”
“Do not you think,” said Fanny, after
a little consideration, “that this impropriety
is a reflection itself upon Mrs. Crawford,
as her niece has been entirely brought up
by her? She cannot have given her right notions
of what was due to the Admiral.”
“That is a fair remark. Yes, we must suppose
the faults of the niece to have been those
of the aunt; and it makes one more sensible
of the disadvantages she has been under. But
I think her present home must do her good.
Mrs. Grant’s manners are just what they
ought to be. She speaks of her brother with
a very pleasing affection.”
“Yes, except as to his writing her such
short letters. She made me almost laugh; but
I cannot rate so very highly the love or good-nature
of a brother who will not give himself the
trouble of writing anything worth reading
to his sisters, when they are separated. I
am sure William would never have used me so,
under any circumstances. And what right had
she to suppose that you would not write long
letters when you were absent?”
“The right of a lively mind, Fanny, seizing
whatever may contribute to its own amusement
or that of others; perfectly allowable, when
untinctured by ill-humour or roughness; and
there is not a shadow of either in the countenance
or manner of Miss Crawford: nothing sharp,
or loud, or coarse. She is perfectly feminine,
except in the instances we have been speaking
of. There she cannot be justified. I am glad
you saw it all as I did.”
Having formed her mind and gained her affections,
he had a good chance of her thinking like
him; though at this period, and on this subject,
there began now to be some danger of dissimilarity,
for he was in a line of admiration of Miss
Crawford, which might lead him where Fanny
could not follow. Miss Crawford’s attractions
did not lessen. The harp arrived, and rather
added to her beauty, wit, and good-humour;
for she played with the greatest obligingness,
with an expression and taste which were peculiarly
becoming, and there was something clever to
be said at the close of every air. Edmund
was at the Parsonage every day, to be indulged
with his favourite instrument: one morning
secured an invitation for the next; for the
lady could not be unwilling to have a listener,
and every thing was soon in a fair train.
A young woman, pretty, lively, with a harp
as elegant as herself, and both placed near
a window, cut down to the ground, and opening
on a little lawn, surrounded by shrubs in
the rich foliage of summer, was enough to
catch any man’s heart. The season, the scene,
the air, were all favourable to tenderness
and sentiment. Mrs. Grant and her tambour
frame were not without their use: it was all
in harmony; and as everything will turn to
account when love is once set going, even
the sandwich tray, and Dr. Grant doing the
honours of it, were worth looking at. Without
studying the business, however, or knowing
what he was about, Edmund was beginning, at
the end of a week of such intercourse, to
be a good deal in love; and to the credit
of the lady it may be added that, without
his being a man of the world or an elder brother,
without any of the arts of flattery or the
gaieties of small talk, he began to be agreeable
to her. She felt it to be so, though she had
not foreseen, and could hardly understand
it; for he was not pleasant by any common
rule: he talked no nonsense; he paid no compliments;
his opinions were unbending, his attentions
tranquil and simple. There was a charm, perhaps,
in his sincerity, his steadiness, his integrity,
which Miss Crawford might be equal to feel,
though not equal to discuss with herself.
She did not think very much about it, however:
he pleased her for the present; she liked
to have him near her; it was enough.
Fanny could not wonder that Edmund was at
the Parsonage every morning; she would gladly
have been there too, might she have gone in
uninvited and unnoticed, to hear the harp;
neither could she wonder that, when the evening
stroll was over, and the two families parted
again, he should think it right to attend
Mrs. Grant and her sister to their home, while
Mr. Crawford was devoted to the ladies of
the Park; but she thought it a very bad exchange;
and if Edmund were not there to mix the wine
and water for her, would rather go without
it than not. She was a little surprised that
he could spend so many hours with Miss Crawford,
and not see more of the sort of fault which
he had already observed, and of which she
was almost always reminded by a something
of the same nature whenever she was in her
company; but so it was. Edmund was fond of
speaking to her of Miss Crawford, but he seemed
to think it enough that the Admiral had since
been spared; and she scrupled to point out
her own remarks to him, lest it should appear
like ill-nature. The first actual pain which
Miss Crawford occasioned her was the consequence
of an inclination to learn to ride, which
the former caught, soon after her being settled
at Mansfield, from the example of the young
ladies at the Park, and which, when Edmund’s
acquaintance with her increased, led to his
encouraging the wish, and the offer of his
own quiet mare for the purpose of her first
attempts, as the best fitted for a beginner
that either stable could furnish. No pain,
no injury, however, was designed by him to
his cousin in this offer: she was not to lose
a day’s exercise by it. The mare was only
to be taken down to the Parsonage half an
hour before her ride were to begin; and Fanny,
on its being first proposed, so far from feeling
slighted, was almost over-powered with gratitude
that he should be asking her leave for it.
Miss Crawford made her first essay with great
credit to herself, and no inconvenience to
Fanny. Edmund, who had taken down the mare
and presided at the whole, returned with it
in excellent time, before either Fanny or
the steady old coachman, who always attended
her when she rode without her cousins, were
ready to set forward. The second day’s trial
was not so guiltless. Miss Crawford’s enjoyment
of riding was such that she did not know how
to leave off. Active and fearless, and though
rather small, strongly made, she seemed formed
for a horsewoman; and to the pure genuine
pleasure of the exercise, something was probably
added in Edmund’s attendance and instructions,
and something more in the conviction of very
much surpassing her sex in general by her
early progress, to make her unwilling to dismount.
Fanny was ready and waiting, and Mrs. Norris
was beginning to scold her for not being gone,
and still no horse was announced, no Edmund
appeared. To avoid her aunt, and look for
him, she went out.
The houses, though scarcely half a mile apart,
were not within sight of each other; but,
by walking fifty yards from the hall door,
she could look down the park, and command
a view of the Parsonage and all its demesnes,
gently rising beyond the village road; and
in Dr. Grant’s meadow she immediately saw
the group—Edmund and Miss Crawford both
on horse-back, riding side by side, Dr. and
Mrs. Grant, and Mr. Crawford, with two or
three grooms, standing about and looking on.
A happy party it appeared to her, all interested
in one object: cheerful beyond a doubt, for
the sound of merriment ascended even to her.
It was a sound which did not make her cheerful;
she wondered that Edmund should forget her,
and felt a pang. She could not turn her eyes
from the meadow; she could not help watching
all that passed. At first Miss Crawford and
her companion made the circuit of the field,
which was not small, at a foot’s pace; then,
at her apparent suggestion, they rose into
a canter; and to Fanny’s timid nature it
was most astonishing to see how well she sat.
After a few minutes they stopped entirely.
Edmund was close to her; he was speaking to
her; he was evidently directing her management
of the bridle; he had hold of her hand; she
saw it, or the imagination supplied what the
eye could not reach. She must not wonder at
all this; what could be more natural than
that Edmund should be making himself useful,
and proving his good-nature by any one? She
could not but think, indeed, that Mr. Crawford
might as well have saved him the trouble;
that it would have been particularly proper
and becoming in a brother to have done it
himself; but Mr. Crawford, with all his boasted
good-nature, and all his coachmanship, probably
knew nothing of the matter, and had no active
kindness in comparison of Edmund. She began
to think it rather hard upon the mare to have
such double duty; if she were forgotten, the
poor mare should be remembered.
Her feelings for one and the other were soon
a little tranquillised by seeing the party
in the meadow disperse, and Miss Crawford
still on horseback, but attended by Edmund
on foot, pass through a gate into the lane,
and so into the park, and make towards the
spot where she stood. She began then to be
afraid of appearing rude and impatient; and
walked to meet them with a great anxiety to
avoid the suspicion.
“My dear Miss Price,” said Miss Crawford,
as soon as she was at all within hearing,
“I am come to make my own apologies for
keeping you waiting; but I have nothing in
the world to say for myself—I knew it was
very late, and that I was behaving extremely
ill; and therefore, if you please, you must
forgive me. Selfishness must always be forgiven,
you know, because there is no hope of a cure.”
Fanny’s answer was extremely civil, and
Edmund added his conviction that she could
be in no hurry. “For there is more than
time enough for my cousin to ride twice as
far as she ever goes,” said he, “and you
have been promoting her comfort by preventing
her from setting off half an hour sooner:
clouds are now coming up, and she will not
suffer from the heat as she would have done
then. I wish you may not be fatigued by so
much exercise. I wish you had saved yourself
this walk home.”
“No part of it fatigues me but getting off
this horse, I assure you,” said she, as
she sprang down with his help; “I am very
strong. Nothing ever fatigues me but doing
what I do not like. Miss Price, I give way
to you with a very bad grace; but I sincerely
hope you will have a pleasant ride, and that
I may have nothing but good to hear of this
dear, delightful, beautiful animal.”
The old coachman, who had been waiting about
with his own horse, now joining them, Fanny
was lifted on hers, and they set off across
another part of the park; her feelings of
discomfort not lightened by seeing, as she
looked back, that the others were walking
down the hill together to the village; nor
did her attendant do her much good by his
comments on Miss Crawford’s great cleverness
as a horse-woman, which he had been watching
with an interest almost equal to her own.
“It is a pleasure to see a lady with such
a good heart for riding!” said he. “I
never see one sit a horse better. She did
not seem to have a thought of fear. Very different
from you, miss, when you first began, six
years ago come next Easter. Lord bless you!
how you did tremble when Sir Thomas first
had you put on!”
In the drawing-room Miss Crawford was also
celebrated. Her merit in being gifted by Nature
with strength and courage was fully appreciated
by the Miss Bertrams; her delight in riding
was like their own; her early excellence in
it was like their own, and they had great
pleasure in praising it.
“I was sure she would ride well,” said
Julia; “she has the make for it. Her figure
is as neat as her brother’s.”
“Yes,” added Maria, “and her spirits
are as good, and she has the same energy of
character. I cannot but think that good horsemanship
has a great deal to do with the mind.”
When they parted at night Edmund asked Fanny
whether she meant to ride the next day.
“No, I do not know—not if you want the
mare,” was her answer.
“I do not want her at all for myself,”
said he; “but whenever you are next inclined
to stay at home, I think Miss Crawford would
be glad to have her a longer time—for a
whole morning, in short. She has a great desire
to get as far as Mansfield Common: Mrs. Grant
has been telling her of its fine views, and
I have no doubt of her being perfectly equal
to it. But any morning will do for this. She
would be extremely sorry to interfere with
you. It would be very wrong if she did. She
rides only for pleasure; you for health.”
“I shall not ride to-morrow, certainly,”
said Fanny; “I have been out very often
lately, and would rather stay at home. You
know I am strong enough now to walk very well.”
Edmund looked pleased, which must be Fanny’s
comfort, and the ride to Mansfield Common
took place the next morning: the party included
all the young people but herself, and was
much enjoyed at the time, and doubly enjoyed
again in the evening discussion. A successful
scheme of this sort generally brings on another;
and the having been to Mansfield Common disposed
them all for going somewhere else the day
after. There were many other views to be shewn;
and though the weather was hot, there were
shady lanes wherever they wanted to go. A
young party is always provided with a shady
lane. Four fine mornings successively were
spent in this manner, in shewing the Crawfords
the country, and doing the honours of its
finest spots. Everything answered; it was
all gaiety and good-humour, the heat only
supplying inconvenience enough to be talked
of with pleasure—till the fourth day, when
the happiness of one of the party was exceedingly
clouded. Miss Bertram was the one. Edmund
and Julia were invited to dine at the Parsonage,
and she was excluded. It was meant and done
by Mrs. Grant, with perfect good-humour, on
Mr. Rushworth’s account, who was partly
expected at the Park that day; but it was
felt as a very grievous injury, and her good
manners were severely taxed to conceal her
vexation and anger till she reached home.
As Mr. Rushworth did not come, the injury
was increased, and she had not even the relief
of shewing her power over him; she could only
be sullen to her mother, aunt, and cousin,
and throw as great a gloom as possible over
their dinner and dessert.
Between ten and eleven Edmund and Julia walked
into the drawing-room, fresh with the evening
air, glowing and cheerful, the very reverse
of what they found in the three ladies sitting
there, for Maria would scarcely raise her
eyes from her book, and Lady Bertram was half-asleep;
and even Mrs. Norris, discomposed by her niece’s
ill-humour, and having asked one or two questions
about the dinner, which were not immediately
attended to, seemed almost determined to say
no more. For a few minutes the brother and
sister were too eager in their praise of the
night and their remarks on the stars, to think
beyond themselves; but when the first pause
came, Edmund, looking around, said, “But
where is Fanny? Is she gone to bed?”
“No, not that I know of,” replied Mrs.
Norris; “she was here a moment ago.”
Her own gentle voice speaking from the other
end of the room, which was a very long one,
told them that she was on the sofa. Mrs. Norris
began scolding.
“That is a very foolish trick, Fanny, to
be idling away all the evening upon a sofa.
Why cannot you come and sit here, and employ
yourself as we do? If you have no work of
your own, I can supply you from the poor basket.
There is all the new calico, that was bought
last week, not touched yet. I am sure I almost
broke my back by cutting it out. You should
learn to think of other people; and, take
my word for it, it is a shocking trick for
a young person to be always lolling upon a
sofa.”
Before half this was said, Fanny was returned
to her seat at the table, and had taken up
her work again; and Julia, who was in high
good-humour, from the pleasures of the day,
did her the justice of exclaiming, “I must
say, ma’am, that Fanny is as little upon
the sofa as anybody in the house.”
“Fanny,” said Edmund, after looking at
her attentively, “I am sure you have the
headache.”
She could not deny it, but said it was not
very bad.
“I can hardly believe you,” he replied;
“I know your looks too well. How long have
you had it?”
“Since a little before dinner. It is nothing
but the heat.”
“Did you go out in the heat?”
“Go out! to be sure she did,” said Mrs.
Norris: “would you have her stay within
such a fine day as this? Were not we all out?
Even your mother was out to-day for above
an hour.”
“Yes, indeed, Edmund,” added her ladyship,
who had been thoroughly awakened by Mrs. Norris’s
sharp reprimand to Fanny; “I was out above
an hour. I sat three-quarters of an hour in
the flower-garden, while Fanny cut the roses;
and very pleasant it was, I assure you, but
very hot. It was shady enough in the alcove,
but I declare I quite dreaded the coming home
again.”
“Fanny has been cutting roses, has she?”
“Yes, and I am afraid they will be the last
this year. Poor thing! She found it hot enough;
but they were so full-blown that one could
not wait.”
“There was no help for it, certainly,”
rejoined Mrs. Norris, in a rather softened
voice; “but I question whether her headache
might not be caught then, sister. There is
nothing so likely to give it as standing and
stooping in a hot sun; but I dare say it will
be well to-morrow. Suppose you let her have
your aromatic vinegar; I always forget to
have mine filled.”
“She has got it,” said Lady Bertram; “she
has had it ever since she came back from your
house the second time.”
“What!” cried Edmund; “has she been
walking as well as cutting roses; walking
across the hot park to your house, and doing
it twice, ma’am? No wonder her head aches.”
Mrs. Norris was talking to Julia, and did
not hear.
“I was afraid it would be too much for her,”
said Lady Bertram; “but when the roses were
gathered, your aunt wished to have them, and
then you know they must be taken home.”
“But were there roses enough to oblige her
to go twice?”
“No; but they were to be put into the spare
room to dry; and, unluckily, Fanny forgot
to lock the door of the room and bring away
the key, so she was obliged to go again.”
Edmund got up and walked about the room, saying,
“And could nobody be employed on such an
errand but Fanny? Upon my word, ma’am, it
has been a very ill-managed business.”
“I am sure I do not know how it was to have
been done better,” cried Mrs. Norris, unable
to be longer deaf; “unless I had gone myself,
indeed; but I cannot be in two places at once;
and I was talking to Mr. Green at that very
time about your mother’s dairymaid, by her
desire, and had promised John Groom to write
to Mrs. Jefferies about his son, and the poor
fellow was waiting for me half an hour. I
think nobody can justly accuse me of sparing
myself upon any occasion, but really I cannot
do everything at once. And as for Fanny’s
just stepping down to my house for me—it
is not much above a quarter of a mile—I
cannot think I was unreasonable to ask it.
How often do I pace it three times a day,
early and late, ay, and in all weathers too,
and say nothing about it?”
“I wish Fanny had half your strength, ma’am.”
“If Fanny would be more regular in her exercise,
she would not be knocked up so soon. She has
not been out on horseback now this long while,
and I am persuaded that, when she does not
ride, she ought to walk. If she had been riding
before, I should not have asked it of her.
But I thought it would rather do her good
after being stooping among the roses; for
there is nothing so refreshing as a walk after
a fatigue of that kind; and though the sun
was strong, it was not so very hot. Between
ourselves, Edmund,” nodding significantly
at his mother, “it was cutting the roses,
and dawdling about in the flower-garden, that
did the mischief.”
“I am afraid it was, indeed,” said the
more candid Lady Bertram, who had overheard
her; “I am very much afraid she caught the
headache there, for the heat was enough to
kill anybody. It was as much as I could bear
myself. Sitting and calling to Pug, and trying
to keep him from the flower-beds, was almost
too much for me.”
Edmund said no more to either lady; but going
quietly to another table, on which the supper-tray
yet remained, brought a glass of Madeira to
Fanny, and obliged her to drink the greater
part. She wished to be able to decline it;
but the tears, which a variety of feelings
created, made it easier to swallow than to
speak.
Vexed as Edmund was with his mother and aunt,
he was still more angry with himself. His
own forgetfulness of her was worse than anything
which they had done. Nothing of this would
have happened had she been properly considered;
but she had been left four days together without
any choice of companions or exercise, and
without any excuse for avoiding whatever her
unreasonable aunts might require. He was ashamed
to think that for four days together she had
not had the power of riding, and very seriously
resolved, however unwilling he must be to
check a pleasure of Miss Crawford’s, that
it should never happen again.
Fanny went to bed with her heart as full as
on the first evening of her arrival at the
Park. The state of her spirits had probably
had its share in her indisposition; for she
had been feeling neglected, and been struggling
against discontent and envy for some days
past. As she leant on the sofa, to which she
had retreated that she might not be seen,
the pain of her mind had been much beyond
that in her head; and the sudden change which
Edmund’s kindness had then occasioned, made
her hardly know how to support herself.
CHAPTER VIII
Fanny’s rides recommenced the very next
day; and as it was a pleasant fresh-feeling
morning, less hot than the weather had lately
been, Edmund trusted that her losses, both
of health and pleasure, would be soon made
good. While she was gone Mr. Rushworth arrived,
escorting his mother, who came to be civil
and to shew her civility especially, in urging
the execution of the plan for visiting Sotherton,
which had been started a fortnight before,
and which, in consequence of her subsequent
absence from home, had since lain dormant.
Mrs. Norris and her nieces were all well pleased
with its revival, and an early day was named
and agreed to, provided Mr. Crawford should
be disengaged: the young ladies did not forget
that stipulation, and though Mrs. Norris would
willingly have answered for his being so,
they would neither authorise the liberty nor
run the risk; and at last, on a hint from
Miss Bertram, Mr. Rushworth discovered that
the properest thing to be done was for him
to walk down to the Parsonage directly, and
call on Mr. Crawford, and inquire whether
Wednesday would suit him or not.
Before his return Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford
came in. Having been out some time, and taken
a different route to the house, they had not
met him. Comfortable hopes, however, were
given that he would find Mr. Crawford at home.
The Sotherton scheme was mentioned of course.
It was hardly possible, indeed, that anything
else should be talked of, for Mrs. Norris
was in high spirits about it; and Mrs. Rushworth,
a well-meaning, civil, prosing, pompous woman,
who thought nothing of consequence, but as
it related to her own and her son’s concerns,
had not yet given over pressing Lady Bertram
to be of the party. Lady Bertram constantly
declined it; but her placid manner of refusal
made Mrs. Rushworth still think she wished
to come, till Mrs. Norris’s more numerous
words and louder tone convinced her of the
truth.
“The fatigue would be too much for my sister,
a great deal too much, I assure you, my dear
Mrs. Rushworth. Ten miles there, and ten back,
you know. You must excuse my sister on this
occasion, and accept of our two dear girls
and myself without her. Sotherton is the only
place that could give her a wish to go so
far, but it cannot be, indeed. She will have
a companion in Fanny Price, you know, so it
will all do very well; and as for Edmund,
as he is not here to speak for himself, I
will answer for his being most happy to join
the party. He can go on horseback, you know.”
Mrs. Rushworth being obliged to yield to Lady
Bertram’s staying at home, could only be
sorry. “The loss of her ladyship’s company
would be a great drawback, and she should
have been extremely happy to have seen the
young lady too, Miss Price, who had never
been at Sotherton yet, and it was a pity she
should not see the place.”
“You are very kind, you are all kindness,
my dear madam,” cried Mrs. Norris; “but
as to Fanny, she will have opportunities in
plenty of seeing Sotherton. She has time enough
before her; and her going now is quite out
of the question. Lady Bertram could not possibly
spare her.”
“Oh no! I cannot do without Fanny.”
Mrs. Rushworth proceeded next, under the conviction
that everybody must be wanting to see Sotherton,
to include Miss Crawford in the invitation;
and though Mrs. Grant, who had not been at
the trouble of visiting Mrs. Rushworth, on
her coming into the neighbourhood, civilly
declined it on her own account, she was glad
to secure any pleasure for her sister; and
Mary, properly pressed and persuaded, was
not long in accepting her share of the civility.
Mr. Rushworth came back from the Parsonage
successful; and Edmund made his appearance
just in time to learn what had been settled
for Wednesday, to attend Mrs. Rushworth to
her carriage, and walk half-way down the park
with the two other ladies.
On his return to the breakfast-room, he found
Mrs. Norris trying to make up her mind as
to whether Miss Crawford’s being of the
party were desirable or not, or whether her
brother’s barouche would not be full without
her. The Miss Bertrams laughed at the idea,
assuring her that the barouche would hold
four perfectly well, independent of the box,
on which one might go with him.
“But why is it necessary,” said Edmund,
“that Crawford’s carriage, or his only,
should be employed? Why is no use to be made
of my mother’s chaise? I could not, when
the scheme was first mentioned the other day,
understand why a visit from the family were
not to be made in the carriage of the family.”
“What!” cried Julia: “go boxed up three
in a postchaise in this weather, when we may
have seats in a barouche! No, my dear Edmund,
that will not quite do.”
“Besides,” said Maria, “I know that
Mr. Crawford depends upon taking us. After
what passed at first, he would claim it as
a promise.”
“And, my dear Edmund,” added Mrs. Norris,
“taking out two carriages when one will
do, would be trouble for nothing; and, between
ourselves, coachman is not very fond of the
roads between this and Sotherton: he always
complains bitterly of the narrow lanes scratching
his carriage, and you know one should not
like to have dear Sir Thomas, when he comes
home, find all the varnish scratched off.”
“That would not be a very handsome reason
for using Mr. Crawford’s,” said Maria;
“but the truth is, that Wilcox is a stupid
old fellow, and does not know how to drive.
I will answer for it that we shall find no
inconvenience from narrow roads on Wednesday.”
“There is no hardship, I suppose, nothing
unpleasant,” said Edmund, “in going on
the barouche box.”
“Unpleasant!” cried Maria: “oh dear!
I believe it would be generally thought the
favourite seat. There can be no comparison
as to one’s view of the country. Probably
Miss Crawford will choose the barouche-box
herself.”
“There can be no objection, then, to Fanny’s
going with you; there can be no doubt of your
having room for her.”
“Fanny!” repeated Mrs. Norris; “my dear
Edmund, there is no idea of her going with
us. She stays with her aunt. I told Mrs. Rushworth
so. She is not expected.”
“You can have no reason, I imagine, madam,”
said he, addressing his mother, “for wishing
Fanny not to be of the party, but as it relates
to yourself, to your own comfort. If you could
do without her, you would not wish to keep
her at home?”
“To be sure not, but I cannot do without
her.”
“You can, if I stay at home with you, as
I mean to do.”
There was a general cry out at this. “Yes,”
he continued, “there is no necessity for
my going, and I mean to stay at home. Fanny
has a great desire to see Sotherton. I know
she wishes it very much. She has not often
a gratification of the kind, and I am sure,
ma’am, you would be glad to give her the
pleasure now?”
“Oh yes! very glad, if your aunt sees no
objection.”
Mrs. Norris was very ready with the only objection
which could remain—their having positively
assured Mrs. Rushworth that Fanny could not
go, and the very strange appearance there
would consequently be in taking her, which
seemed to her a difficulty quite impossible
to be got over. It must have the strangest
appearance! It would be something so very
unceremonious, so bordering on disrespect
for Mrs. Rushworth, whose own manners were
such a pattern of good-breeding and attention,
that she really did not feel equal to it.
Mrs. Norris had no affection for Fanny, and
no wish of procuring her pleasure at any time;
but her opposition to Edmund now, arose more
from partiality for her own scheme, because
it was her own, than from anything else. She
felt that she had arranged everything extremely
well, and that any alteration must be for
the worse. When Edmund, therefore, told her
in reply, as he did when she would give him
the hearing, that she need not distress herself
on Mrs. Rushworth’s account, because he
had taken the opportunity, as he walked with
her through the hall, of mentioning Miss Price
as one who would probably be of the party,
and had directly received a very sufficient
invitation for his cousin, Mrs. Norris was
too much vexed to submit with a very good
grace, and would only say, “Very well, very
well, just as you chuse, settle it your own
way, I am sure I do not care about it.”
“It seems very odd,” said Maria, “that
you should be staying at home instead of Fanny.”
“I am sure she ought to be very much obliged
to you,” added Julia, hastily leaving the
room as she spoke, from a consciousness that
she ought to offer to stay at home herself.
“Fanny will feel quite as grateful as the
occasion requires,” was Edmund’s only
reply, and the subject dropt.
Fanny’s gratitude, when she heard the plan,
was, in fact, much greater than her pleasure.
She felt Edmund’s kindness with all, and
more than all, the sensibility which he, unsuspicious
of her fond attachment, could be aware of;
but that he should forego any enjoyment on
her account gave her pain, and her own satisfaction
in seeing Sotherton would be nothing without
him.
The next meeting of the two Mansfield families
produced another alteration in the plan, and
one that was admitted with general approbation.
Mrs. Grant offered herself as companion for
the day to Lady Bertram in lieu of her son,
and Dr. Grant was to join them at dinner.
Lady Bertram was very well pleased to have
it so, and the young ladies were in spirits
again. Even Edmund was very thankful for an
arrangement which restored him to his share
of the party; and Mrs. Norris thought it an
excellent plan, and had it at her tongue’s
end, and was on the point of proposing it,
when Mrs. Grant spoke.
Wednesday was fine, and soon after breakfast
the barouche arrived, Mr. Crawford driving
his sisters; and as everybody was ready, there
was nothing to be done but for Mrs. Grant
to alight and the others to take their places.
The place of all places, the envied seat,
the post of honour, was unappropriated. To
whose happy lot was it to fall? While each
of the Miss Bertrams were meditating how best,
and with the most appearance of obliging the
others, to secure it, the matter was settled
by Mrs. Grant’s saying, as she stepped from
the carriage, “As there are five of you,
it will be better that one should sit with
Henry; and as you were saying lately that
you wished you could drive, Julia, I think
this will be a good opportunity for you to
take a lesson.”
Happy Julia! Unhappy Maria! The former was
on the barouche-box in a moment, the latter
took her seat within, in gloom and mortification;
and the carriage drove off amid the good wishes
of the two remaining ladies, and the barking
of Pug in his mistress’s arms.
Their road was through a pleasant country;
and Fanny, whose rides had never been extensive,
was soon beyond her knowledge, and was very
happy in observing all that was new, and admiring
all that was pretty. She was not often invited
to join in the conversation of the others,
nor did she desire it. Her own thoughts and
reflections were habitually her best companions;
and, in observing the appearance of the country,
the bearings of the roads, the difference
of soil, the state of the harvest, the cottages,
the cattle, the children, she found entertainment
that could only have been heightened by having
Edmund to speak to of what she felt. That
was the only point of resemblance between
her and the lady who sat by her: in everything
but a value for Edmund, Miss Crawford was
very unlike her. She had none of Fanny’s
delicacy of taste, of mind, of feeling; she
saw Nature, inanimate Nature, with little
observation; her attention was all for men
and women, her talents for the light and lively.
In looking back after Edmund, however, when
there was any stretch of road behind them,
or when he gained on them in ascending a considerable
hill, they were united, and a “there he
is” broke at the same moment from them both,
more than once.
For the first seven miles Miss Bertram had
very little real comfort: her prospect always
ended in Mr. Crawford and her sister sitting
side by side, full of conversation and merriment;
and to see only his expressive profile as
he turned with a smile to Julia, or to catch
the laugh of the other, was a perpetual source
of irritation, which her own sense of propriety
could but just smooth over. When Julia looked
back, it was with a countenance of delight,
and whenever she spoke to them, it was in
the highest spirits: “her view of the country
was charming, she wished they could all see
it,” etc.; but her only offer of exchange
was addressed to Miss Crawford, as they gained
the summit of a long hill, and was not more
inviting than this: “Here is a fine burst
of country. I wish you had my seat, but I
dare say you will not take it, let me press
you ever so much;” and Miss Crawford could
hardly answer before they were moving again
at a good pace.
When they came within the influence of Sotherton
associations, it was better for Miss Bertram,
who might be said to have two strings to her
bow. She had Rushworth feelings, and Crawford
feelings, and in the vicinity of Sotherton
the former had considerable effect. Mr. Rushworth’s
consequence was hers. She could not tell Miss
Crawford that “those woods belonged to Sotherton,”
she could not carelessly observe that “she
believed that it was now all Mr. Rushworth’s
property on each side of the road,” without
elation of heart; and it was a pleasure to
increase with their approach to the capital
freehold mansion, and ancient manorial residence
of the family, with all its rights of court-leet
and court-baron.
“Now we shall have no more rough road, Miss
Crawford; our difficulties are over. The rest
of the way is such as it ought to be. Mr.
Rushworth has made it since he succeeded to
the estate. Here begins the village. Those
cottages are really a disgrace. The church
spire is reckoned remarkably handsome. I am
glad the church is not so close to the great
house as often happens in old places. The
annoyance of the bells must be terrible. There
is the parsonage: a tidy-looking house, and
I understand the clergyman and his wife are
very decent people. Those are almshouses,
built by some of the family. To the right
is the steward’s house; he is a very respectable
man. Now we are coming to the lodge-gates;
but we have nearly a mile through the park
still. It is not ugly, you see, at this end;
there is some fine timber, but the situation
of the house is dreadful. We go down hill
to it for half a mile, and it is a pity, for
it would not be an ill-looking place if it
had a better approach.”
Miss Crawford was not slow to admire; she
pretty well guessed Miss Bertram’s feelings,
and made it a point of honour to promote her
enjoyment to the utmost. Mrs. Norris was all
delight and volubility; and even Fanny had
something to say in admiration, and might
be heard with complacency. Her eye was eagerly
taking in everything within her reach; and
after being at some pains to get a view of
the house, and observing that “it was a
sort of building which she could not look
at but with respect,” she added, “Now,
where is the avenue? The house fronts the
east, I perceive. The avenue, therefore, must
be at the back of it. Mr. Rushworth talked
of the west front.”
“Yes, it is exactly behind the house; begins
at a little distance, and ascends for half
a mile to the extremity of the grounds. You
may see something of it here—something of
the more distant trees. It is oak entirely.”
Miss Bertram could now speak with decided
information of what she had known nothing
about when Mr. Rushworth had asked her opinion;
and her spirits were in as happy a flutter
as vanity and pride could furnish, when they
drove up to the spacious stone steps before
the principal entrance.
CHAPTER IX
Mr. Rushworth was at the door to receive his
fair lady; and the whole party were welcomed
by him with due attention. In the drawing-room
they were met with equal cordiality by the
mother, and Miss Bertram had all the distinction
with each that she could wish. After the business
of arriving was over, it was first necessary
to eat, and the doors were thrown open to
admit them through one or two intermediate
rooms into the appointed dining-parlour, where
a collation was prepared with abundance and
elegance. Much was said, and much was ate,
and all went well. The particular object of
the day was then considered. How would Mr.
Crawford like, in what manner would he chuse,
to take a survey of the grounds? Mr. Rushworth
mentioned his curricle. Mr. Crawford suggested
the greater desirableness of some carriage
which might convey more than two. “To be
depriving themselves of the advantage of other
eyes and other judgments, might be an evil
even beyond the loss of present pleasure.”
Mrs. Rushworth proposed that the chaise should
be taken also; but this was scarcely received
as an amendment: the young ladies neither
smiled nor spoke. Her next proposition, of
shewing the house to such of them as had not
been there before, was more acceptable, for
Miss Bertram was pleased to have its size
displayed, and all were glad to be doing something.
The whole party rose accordingly, and under
Mrs. Rushworth’s guidance were shewn through
a number of rooms, all lofty, and many large,
and amply furnished in the taste of fifty
years back, with shining floors, solid mahogany,
rich damask, marble, gilding, and carving,
each handsome in its way. Of pictures there
were abundance, and some few good, but the
larger part were family portraits, no longer
anything to anybody but Mrs. Rushworth, who
had been at great pains to learn all that
the housekeeper could teach, and was now almost
equally well qualified to shew the house.
On the present occasion she addressed herself
chiefly to Miss Crawford and Fanny, but there
was no comparison in the willingness of their
attention; for Miss Crawford, who had seen
scores of great houses, and cared for none
of them, had only the appearance of civilly
listening, while Fanny, to whom everything
was almost as interesting as it was new, attended
with unaffected earnestness to all that Mrs.
Rushworth could relate of the family in former
times, its rise and grandeur, regal visits
and loyal efforts, delighted to connect anything
with history already known, or warm her imagination
with scenes of the past.
The situation of the house excluded the possibility
of much prospect from any of the rooms; and
while Fanny and some of the others were attending
Mrs. Rushworth, Henry Crawford was looking
grave and shaking his head at the windows.
Every room on the west front looked across
a lawn to the beginning of the avenue immediately
beyond tall iron palisades and gates.
Having visited many more rooms than could
be supposed to be of any other use than to
contribute to the window-tax, and find employment
for housemaids, “Now,” said Mrs. Rushworth,
“we are coming to the chapel, which properly
we ought to enter from above, and look down
upon; but as we are quite among friends, I
will take you in this way, if you will excuse
me.”
They entered. Fanny’s imagination had prepared
her for something grander than a mere spacious,
oblong room, fitted up for the purpose of
devotion: with nothing more striking or more
solemn than the profusion of mahogany, and
the crimson velvet cushions appearing over
the ledge of the family gallery above. “I
am disappointed,” said she, in a low voice,
to Edmund. “This is not my idea of a chapel.
There is nothing awful here, nothing melancholy,
nothing grand. Here are no aisles, no arches,
no inscriptions, no banners. No banners, cousin,
to be ‘blown by the night wind of heaven.’
No signs that a ‘Scottish monarch sleeps
below.’”
“You forget, Fanny, how lately all this
has been built, and for how confined a purpose,
compared with the old chapels of castles and
monasteries. It was only for the private use
of the family. They have been buried, I suppose,
in the parish church. There you must look
for the banners and the achievements.”
“It was foolish of me not to think of all
that; but I am disappointed.”
Mrs. Rushworth began her relation. “This
chapel was fitted up as you see it, in James
the Second’s time. Before that period, as
I understand, the pews were only wainscot;
and there is some reason to think that the
linings and cushions of the pulpit and family
seat were only purple cloth; but this is not
quite certain. It is a handsome chapel, and
was formerly in constant use both morning
and evening. Prayers were always read in it
by the domestic chaplain, within the memory
of many; but the late Mr. Rushworth left it
off.”
“Every generation has its improvements,”
said Miss Crawford, with a smile, to Edmund.
Mrs. Rushworth was gone to repeat her lesson
to Mr. Crawford; and Edmund, Fanny, and Miss
Crawford remained in a cluster together.
“It is a pity,” cried Fanny, “that the
custom should have been discontinued. It was
a valuable part of former times. There is
something in a chapel and chaplain so much
in character with a great house, with one’s
ideas of what such a household should be!
A whole family assembling regularly for the
purpose of prayer is fine!”
“Very fine indeed,” said Miss Crawford,
laughing. “It must do the heads of the family
a great deal of good to force all the poor
housemaids and footmen to leave business and
pleasure, and say their prayers here twice
a day, while they are inventing excuses themselves
for staying away.”
“That is hardly Fanny’s idea of a family
assembling,” said Edmund. “If the master
and mistress do not attend themselves, there
must be more harm than good in the custom.”
“At any rate, it is safer to leave people
to their own devices on such subjects. Everybody
likes to go their own way—to chuse their
own time and manner of devotion. The obligation
of attendance, the formality, the restraint,
the length of time—altogether it is a formidable
thing, and what nobody likes; and if the good
people who used to kneel and gape in that
gallery could have foreseen that the time
would ever come when men and women might lie
another ten minutes in bed, when they woke
with a headache, without danger of reprobation,
because chapel was missed, they would have
jumped with joy and envy. Cannot you imagine
with what unwilling feelings the former belles
of the house of Rushworth did many a time
repair to this chapel? The young Mrs. Eleanors
and Mrs. Bridgets—starched up into seeming
piety, but with heads full of something very
different—especially if the poor chaplain
were not worth looking at—and, in those
days, I fancy parsons were very inferior even
to what they are now.”
For a few moments she was unanswered. Fanny
coloured and looked at Edmund, but felt too
angry for speech; and he needed a little recollection
before he could say, “Your lively mind can
hardly be serious even on serious subjects.
You have given us an amusing sketch, and human
nature cannot say it was not so. We must all
feel at times the difficulty of fixing our
thoughts as we could wish; but if you are
supposing it a frequent thing, that is to
say, a weakness grown into a habit from neglect,
what could be expected from the private devotions
of such persons? Do you think the minds which
are suffered, which are indulged in wanderings
in a chapel, would be more collected in a
closet?”
“Yes, very likely. They would have two chances
at least in their favour. There would be less
to distract the attention from without, and
it would not be tried so long.”
“The mind which does not struggle against
itself under one circumstance, would find
objects to distract it in the other, I believe;
and the influence of the place and of example
may often rouse better feelings than are begun
with. The greater length of the service, however,
I admit to be sometimes too hard a stretch
upon the mind. One wishes it were not so;
but I have not yet left Oxford long enough
to forget what chapel prayers are.”
While this was passing, the rest of the party
being scattered about the chapel, Julia called
Mr. Crawford’s attention to her sister,
by saying, “Do look at Mr. Rushworth and
Maria, standing side by side, exactly as if
the ceremony were going to be performed. Have
not they completely the air of it?”
Mr. Crawford smiled his acquiescence, and
stepping forward to Maria, said, in a voice
which she only could hear, “I do not like
to see Miss Bertram so near the altar.”
Starting, the lady instinctively moved a step
or two, but recovering herself in a moment,
affected to laugh, and asked him, in a tone
not much louder, “If he would give her away?”
“I am afraid I should do it very awkwardly,”
was his reply, with a look of meaning.
Julia, joining them at the moment, carried
on the joke.
“Upon my word, it is really a pity that
it should not take place directly, if we had
but a proper licence, for here we are altogether,
and nothing in the world could be more snug
and pleasant.” And she talked and laughed
about it with so little caution as to catch
the comprehension of Mr. Rushworth and his
mother, and expose her sister to the whispered
gallantries of her lover, while Mrs. Rushworth
spoke with proper smiles and dignity of its
being a most happy event to her whenever it
took place.
“If Edmund were but in orders!” cried
Julia, and running to where he stood with
Miss Crawford and Fanny: “My dear Edmund,
if you were but in orders now, you might perform
the ceremony directly. How unlucky that you
are not ordained; Mr. Rushworth and Maria
are quite ready.”
Miss Crawford’s countenance, as Julia spoke,
might have amused a disinterested observer.
She looked almost aghast under the new idea
she was receiving. Fanny pitied her. “How
distressed she will be at what she said just
now,” passed across her mind.
“Ordained!” said Miss Crawford; “what,
are you to be a clergyman?”
“Yes; I shall take orders soon after my
father’s return—probably at Christmas.”
Miss Crawford, rallying her spirits, and recovering
her complexion, replied only, “If I had
known this before, I would have spoken of
the cloth with more respect,” and turned
the subject.
The chapel was soon afterwards left to the
silence and stillness which reigned in it,
with few interruptions, throughout the year.
Miss Bertram, displeased with her sister,
led the way, and all seemed to feel that they
had been there long enough.
The lower part of the house had been now entirely
shewn, and Mrs. Rushworth, never weary in
the cause, would have proceeded towards the
principal staircase, and taken them through
all the rooms above, if her son had not interposed
with a doubt of there being time enough. “For
if,” said he, with the sort of self-evident
proposition which many a clearer head does
not always avoid, “we are too long going
over the house, we shall not have time for
what is to be done out of doors. It is past
two, and we are to dine at five.”
Mrs. Rushworth submitted; and the question
of surveying the grounds, with the who and
the how, was likely to be more fully agitated,
and Mrs. Norris was beginning to arrange by
what junction of carriages and horses most
could be done, when the young people, meeting
with an outward door, temptingly open on a
flight of steps which led immediately to turf
and shrubs, and all the sweets of pleasure-grounds,
as by one impulse, one wish for air and liberty,
all walked out.
“Suppose we turn down here for the present,”
said Mrs. Rushworth, civilly taking the hint
and following them. “Here are the greatest
number of our plants, and here are the curious
pheasants.”
“Query,” said Mr. Crawford, looking round
him, “whether we may not find something
to employ us here before we go farther? I
see walls of great promise. Mr. Rushworth,
shall we summon a council on this lawn?”
“James,” said Mrs. Rushworth to her son,
“I believe the wilderness will be new to
all the party. The Miss Bertrams have never
seen the wilderness yet.”
No objection was made, but for some time there
seemed no inclination to move in any plan,
or to any distance. All were attracted at
first by the plants or the pheasants, and
all dispersed about in happy independence.
Mr. Crawford was the first to move forward
to examine the capabilities of that end of
the house. The lawn, bounded on each side
by a high wall, contained beyond the first
planted area a bowling-green, and beyond the
bowling-green a long terrace walk, backed
by iron palisades, and commanding a view over
them into the tops of the trees of the wilderness
immediately adjoining. It was a good spot
for fault-finding. Mr. Crawford was soon followed
by Miss Bertram and Mr. Rushworth; and when,
after a little time, the others began to form
into parties, these three were found in busy
consultation on the terrace by Edmund, Miss
Crawford, and Fanny, who seemed as naturally
to unite, and who, after a short participation
of their regrets and difficulties, left them
and walked on. The remaining three, Mrs. Rushworth,
Mrs. Norris, and Julia, were still far behind;
for Julia, whose happy star no longer prevailed,
was obliged to keep by the side of Mrs. Rushworth,
and restrain her impatient feet to that lady’s
slow pace, while her aunt, having fallen in
with the housekeeper, who was come out to
feed the pheasants, was lingering behind in
gossip with her. Poor Julia, the only one
out of the nine not tolerably satisfied with
their lot, was now in a state of complete
penance, and as different from the Julia of
the barouche-box as could well be imagined.
The politeness which she had been brought
up to practise as a duty made it impossible
for her to escape; while the want of that
higher species of self-command, that just
consideration of others, that knowledge of
her own heart, that principle of right, which
had not formed any essential part of her education,
made her miserable under it.
“This is insufferably hot,” said Miss
Crawford, when they had taken one turn on
the terrace, and were drawing a second time
to the door in the middle which opened to
the wilderness. “Shall any of us object
to being comfortable? Here is a nice little
wood, if one can but get into it. What happiness
if the door should not be locked! but of course
it is; for in these great places the gardeners
are the only people who can go where they
like.”
The door, however, proved not to be locked,
and they were all agreed in turning joyfully
through it, and leaving the unmitigated glare
of day behind. A considerable flight of steps
landed them in the wilderness, which was a
planted wood of about two acres, and though
chiefly of larch and laurel, and beech cut
down, and though laid out with too much regularity,
was darkness and shade, and natural beauty,
compared with the bowling-green and the terrace.
They all felt the refreshment of it, and for
some time could only walk and admire. At length,
after a short pause, Miss Crawford began with,
“So you are to be a clergyman, Mr. Bertram.
This is rather a surprise to me.”
“Why should it surprise you? You must suppose
me designed for some profession, and might
perceive that I am neither a lawyer, nor a
soldier, nor a sailor.”
“Very true; but, in short, it had not occurred
to me. And you know there is generally an
uncle or a grandfather to leave a fortune
to the second son.”
“A very praiseworthy practice,” said Edmund,
“but not quite universal. I am one of the
exceptions, and being one, must do something
for myself.”
“But why are you to be a clergyman? I thought
that was always the lot of the youngest, where
there were many to chuse before him.”
“Do you think the church itself never chosen,
then?”
“Never is a black word. But yes, in the
never of conversation, which means not very
often, I do think it. For what is to be done
in the church? Men love to distinguish themselves,
and in either of the other lines distinction
may be gained, but not in the church. A clergyman
is nothing.”
“The nothing of conversation has its gradations,
I hope, as well as the never. A clergyman
cannot be high in state or fashion. He must
not head mobs, or set the ton in dress. But
I cannot call that situation nothing which
has the charge of all that is of the first
importance to mankind, individually or collectively
considered, temporally and eternally, which
has the guardianship of religion and morals,
and consequently of the manners which result
from their influence. No one here can call
the office nothing. If the man who holds it
is so, it is by the neglect of his duty, by
foregoing its just importance, and stepping
out of his place to appear what he ought not
to appear.”
“You assign greater consequence to the clergyman
than one has been used to hear given, or than
I can quite comprehend. One does not see much
of this influence and importance in society,
and how can it be acquired where they are
so seldom seen themselves? How can two sermons
a week, even supposing them worth hearing,
supposing the preacher to have the sense to
prefer Blair’s to his own, do all that you
speak of? govern the conduct and fashion the
manners of a large congregation for the rest
of the week? One scarcely sees a clergyman
out of his pulpit.”
“You are speaking of London, I am speaking
of the nation at large.”
“The metropolis, I imagine, is a pretty
fair sample of the rest.”
“Not, I should hope, of the proportion of
virtue to vice throughout the kingdom. We
do not look in great cities for our best morality.
It is not there that respectable people of
any denomination can do most good; and it
certainly is not there that the influence
of the clergy can be most felt. A fine preacher
is followed and admired; but it is not in
fine preaching only that a good clergyman
will be useful in his parish and his neighbourhood,
where the parish and neighbourhood are of
a size capable of knowing his private character,
and observing his general conduct, which in
London can rarely be the case. The clergy
are lost there in the crowds of their parishioners.
They are known to the largest part only as
preachers. And with regard to their influencing
public manners, Miss Crawford must not misunderstand
me, or suppose I mean to call them the arbiters
of good-breeding, the regulators of refinement
and courtesy, the masters of the ceremonies
of life. The manners I speak of might rather
be called conduct, perhaps, the result of
good principles; the effect, in short, of
those doctrines which it is their duty to
teach and recommend; and it will, I believe,
be everywhere found, that as the clergy are,
or are not what they ought to be, so are the
rest of the nation.”
“Certainly,” said Fanny, with gentle earnestness.
“There,” cried Miss Crawford, “you have
quite convinced Miss Price already.”
“I wish I could convince Miss Crawford too.”
“I do not think you ever will,” said she,
with an arch smile; “I am just as much surprised
now as I was at first that you should intend
to take orders. You really are fit for something
better. Come, do change your mind. It is not
too late. Go into the law.”
“Go into the law! With as much ease as I
was told to go into this wilderness.”
“Now you are going to say something about
law being the worst wilderness of the two,
but I forestall you; remember, I have forestalled
you.”
“You need not hurry when the object is only
to prevent my saying a bon mot, for there
is not the least wit in my nature. I am a
very matter-of-fact, plain-spoken being, and
may blunder on the borders of a repartee for
half an hour together without striking it
out.”
A general silence succeeded. Each was thoughtful.
Fanny made the first interruption by saying,
“I wonder that I should be tired with only
walking in this sweet wood; but the next time
we come to a seat, if it is not disagreeable
to you, I should be glad to sit down for a
little while.”
“My dear Fanny,” cried Edmund, immediately
drawing her arm within his, “how thoughtless
I have been! I hope you are not very tired.
Perhaps,” turning to Miss Crawford, “my
other companion may do me the honour of taking
an arm.”
“Thank you, but I am not at all tired.”
She took it, however, as she spoke, and the
gratification of having her do so, of feeling
such a connexion for the first time, made
him a little forgetful of Fanny. “You scarcely
touch me,” said he. “You do not make me
of any use. What a difference in the weight
of a woman’s arm from that of a man! At
Oxford I have been a good deal used to have
a man lean on me for the length of a street,
and you are only a fly in the comparison.”
“I am really not tired, which I almost wonder
at; for we must have walked at least a mile
in this wood. Do not you think we have?”
“Not half a mile,” was his sturdy answer;
for he was not yet so much in love as to measure
distance, or reckon time, with feminine lawlessness.
“Oh! you do not consider how much we have
wound about. We have taken such a very serpentine
course, and the wood itself must be half a
mile long in a straight line, for we have
never seen the end of it yet since we left
the first great path.”
“But if you remember, before we left that
first great path, we saw directly to the end
of it. We looked down the whole vista, and
saw it closed by iron gates, and it could
not have been more than a furlong in length.”
“Oh! I know nothing of your furlongs, but
I am sure it is a very long wood, and that
we have been winding in and out ever since
we came into it; and therefore, when I say
that we have walked a mile in it, I must speak
within compass.”
“We have been exactly a quarter of an hour
here,” said Edmund, taking out his watch.
“Do you think we are walking four miles
an hour?”
“Oh! do not attack me with your watch. A
watch is always too fast or too slow. I cannot
be dictated to by a watch.”
A few steps farther brought them out at the
bottom of the very walk they had been talking
of; and standing back, well shaded and sheltered,
and looking over a ha-ha into the park, was
a comfortable-sized bench, on which they all
sat down.
“I am afraid you are very tired, Fanny,”
said Edmund, observing her; “why would not
you speak sooner? This will be a bad day’s
amusement for you if you are to be knocked
up. Every sort of exercise fatigues her so
soon, Miss Crawford, except riding.”
“How abominable in you, then, to let me
engross her horse as I did all last week!
I am ashamed of you and of myself, but it
shall never happen again.”
“Your attentiveness and consideration makes
me more sensible of my own neglect. Fanny’s
interest seems in safer hands with you than
with me.”
“That she should be tired now, however,
gives me no surprise; for there is nothing
in the course of one’s duties so fatiguing
as what we have been doing this morning: seeing
a great house, dawdling from one room to another,
straining one’s eyes and one’s attention,
hearing what one does not understand, admiring
what one does not care for. It is generally
allowed to be the greatest bore in the world,
and Miss Price has found it so, though she
did not know it.”
“I shall soon be rested,” said Fanny;
“to sit in the shade on a fine day, and
look upon verdure, is the most perfect refreshment.”
After sitting a little while Miss Crawford
was up again. “I must move,” said she;
“resting fatigues me. I have looked across
the ha-ha till I am weary. I must go and look
through that iron gate at the same view, without
being able to see it so well.”
Edmund left the seat likewise. “Now, Miss
Crawford, if you will look up the walk, you
will convince yourself that it cannot be half
a mile long, or half half a mile.”
“It is an immense distance,” said she;
“I see that with a glance.”
He still reasoned with her, but in vain. She
would not calculate, she would not compare.
She would only smile and assert. The greatest
degree of rational consistency could not have
been more engaging, and they talked with mutual
satisfaction. At last it was agreed that they
should endeavour to determine the dimensions
of the wood by walking a little more about
it. They would go to one end of it, in the
line they were then in—for there was a straight
green walk along the bottom by the side of
the ha-ha—and perhaps turn a little way
in some other direction, if it seemed likely
to assist them, and be back in a few minutes.
Fanny said she was rested, and would have
moved too, but this was not suffered. Edmund
urged her remaining where she was with an
earnestness which she could not resist, and
she was left on the bench to think with pleasure
of her cousin’s care, but with great regret
that she was not stronger. She watched them
till they had turned the corner, and listened
till all sound of them had ceased.
CHAPTER X
A quarter of an hour, twenty minutes, passed
away, and Fanny was still thinking of Edmund,
Miss Crawford, and herself, without interruption
from any one. She began to be surprised at
being left so long, and to listen with an
anxious desire of hearing their steps and
their voices again. She listened, and at length
she heard; she heard voices and feet approaching;
but she had just satisfied herself that it
was not those she wanted, when Miss Bertram,
Mr. Rushworth, and Mr. Crawford issued from
the same path which she had trod herself,
and were before her.
“Miss Price all alone” and “My dear
Fanny, how comes this?” were the first salutations.
She told her story. “Poor dear Fanny,”
cried her cousin, “how ill you have been
used by them! You had better have staid with
us.”
Then seating herself with a gentleman on each
side, she resumed the conversation which had
engaged them before, and discussed the possibility
of improvements with much animation. Nothing
was fixed on; but Henry Crawford was full
of ideas and projects, and, generally speaking,
whatever he proposed was immediately approved,
first by her, and then by Mr. Rushworth, whose
principal business seemed to be to hear the
others, and who scarcely risked an original
thought of his own beyond a wish that they
had seen his friend Smith’s place.
After some minutes spent in this way, Miss
Bertram, observing the iron gate, expressed
a wish of passing through it into the park,
that their views and their plans might be
more comprehensive. It was the very thing
of all others to be wished, it was the best,
it was the only way of proceeding with any
advantage, in Henry Crawford’s opinion;
and he directly saw a knoll not half a mile
off, which would give them exactly the requisite
command of the house. Go therefore they must
to that knoll, and through that gate; but
the gate was locked. Mr. Rushworth wished
he had brought the key; he had been very near
thinking whether he should not bring the key;
he was determined he would never come without
the key again; but still this did not remove
the present evil. They could not get through;
and as Miss Bertram’s inclination for so
doing did by no means lessen, it ended in
Mr. Rushworth’s declaring outright that
he would go and fetch the key. He set off
accordingly.
“It is undoubtedly the best thing we can
do now, as we are so far from the house already,”
said Mr. Crawford, when he was gone.
“Yes, there is nothing else to be done.
But now, sincerely, do not you find the place
altogether worse than you expected?”
“No, indeed, far otherwise. I find it better,
grander, more complete in its style, though
that style may not be the best. And to tell
you the truth,” speaking rather lower, “I
do not think that I shall ever see Sotherton
again with so much pleasure as I do now. Another
summer will hardly improve it to me.”
After a moment’s embarrassment the lady
replied, “You are too much a man of the
world not to see with the eyes of the world.
If other people think Sotherton improved,
I have no doubt that you will.”
“I am afraid I am not quite so much the
man of the world as might be good for me in
some points. My feelings are not quite so
evanescent, nor my memory of the past under
such easy dominion as one finds to be the
case with men of the world.”
This was followed by a short silence. Miss
Bertram began again. “You seemed to enjoy
your drive here very much this morning. I
was glad to see you so well entertained. You
and Julia were laughing the whole way.”
“Were we? Yes, I believe we were; but I
have not the least recollection at what. Oh!
I believe I was relating to her some ridiculous
stories of an old Irish groom of my uncle’s.
Your sister loves to laugh.”
“You think her more light-hearted than I
am?”
“More easily amused,” he replied; “consequently,
you know,” smiling, “better company. I
could not have hoped to entertain you with
Irish anecdotes during a ten miles’ drive.”
“Naturally, I believe, I am as lively as
Julia, but I have more to think of now.”
“You have, undoubtedly; and there are situations
in which very high spirits would denote insensibility.
Your prospects, however, are too fair to justify
want of spirits. You have a very smiling scene
before you.”
“Do you mean literally or figuratively?
Literally, I conclude. Yes, certainly, the
sun shines, and the park looks very cheerful.
But unluckily that iron gate, that ha-ha,
give me a feeling of restraint and hardship.
‘I cannot get out,’ as the starling said.”
As she spoke, and it was with expression,
she walked to the gate: he followed her. “Mr.
Rushworth is so long fetching this key!”
“And for the world you would not get out
without the key and without Mr. Rushworth’s
authority and protection, or I think you might
with little difficulty pass round the edge
of the gate, here, with my assistance; I think
it might be done, if you really wished to
be more at large, and could allow yourself
to think it not prohibited.”
“Prohibited! nonsense! I certainly can get
out that way, and I will. Mr. Rushworth will
be here in a moment, you know; we shall not
be out of sight.”
“Or if we are, Miss Price will be so good
as to tell him that he will find us near that
knoll: the grove of oak on the knoll.”
Fanny, feeling all this to be wrong, could
not help making an effort to prevent it. “You
will hurt yourself, Miss Bertram,” she cried;
“you will certainly hurt yourself against
those spikes; you will tear your gown; you
will be in danger of slipping into the ha-ha.
You had better not go.”
Her cousin was safe on the other side while
these words were spoken, and, smiling with
all the good-humour of success, she said,
“Thank you, my dear Fanny, but I and my
gown are alive and well, and so good-bye.”
Fanny was again left to her solitude, and
with no increase of pleasant feelings, for
she was sorry for almost all that she had
seen and heard, astonished at Miss Bertram,
and angry with Mr. Crawford. By taking a circuitous
route, and, as it appeared to her, very unreasonable
direction to the knoll, they were soon beyond
her eye; and for some minutes longer she remained
without sight or sound of any companion. She
seemed to have the little wood all to herself.
She could almost have thought that Edmund
and Miss Crawford had left it, but that it
was impossible for Edmund to forget her so
entirely.
She was again roused from disagreeable musings
by sudden footsteps: somebody was coming at
a quick pace down the principal walk. She
expected Mr. Rushworth, but it was Julia,
who, hot and out of breath, and with a look
of disappointment, cried out on seeing her,
“Heyday! Where are the others? I thought
Maria and Mr. Crawford were with you.”
Fanny explained.
“A pretty trick, upon my word! I cannot
see them anywhere,” looking eagerly into
the park. “But they cannot be very far off,
and I think I am equal to as much as Maria,
even without help.”
“But, Julia, Mr. Rushworth will be here
in a moment with the key. Do wait for Mr.
Rushworth.”
“Not I, indeed. I have had enough of the
family for one morning. Why, child, I have
but this moment escaped from his horrible
mother. Such a penance as I have been enduring,
while you were sitting here so composed and
so happy! It might have been as well, perhaps,
if you had been in my place, but you always
contrive to keep out of these scrapes.”
This was a most unjust reflection, but Fanny
could allow for it, and let it pass: Julia
was vexed, and her temper was hasty; but she
felt that it would not last, and therefore,
taking no notice, only asked her if she had
not seen Mr. Rushworth.
“Yes, yes, we saw him. He was posting away
as if upon life and death, and could but just
spare time to tell us his errand, and where
you all were.”
“It is a pity he should have so much trouble
for nothing.”
“That is Miss Maria’s concern. I am not
obliged to punish myself for her sins. The
mother I could not avoid, as long as my tiresome
aunt was dancing about with the housekeeper,
but the son I can get away from.”
And she immediately scrambled across the fence,
and walked away, not attending to Fanny’s
last question of whether she had seen anything
of Miss Crawford and Edmund. The sort of dread
in which Fanny now sat of seeing Mr. Rushworth
prevented her thinking so much of their continued
absence, however, as she might have done.
She felt that he had been very ill-used, and
was quite unhappy in having to communicate
what had passed. He joined her within five
minutes after Julia’s exit; and though she
made the best of the story, he was evidently
mortified and displeased in no common degree.
At first he scarcely said anything; his looks
only expressed his extreme surprise and vexation,
and he walked to the gate and stood there,
without seeming to know what to do.
“They desired me to stay—my cousin Maria
charged me to say that you would find them
at that knoll, or thereabouts.”
“I do not believe I shall go any farther,”
said he sullenly; “I see nothing of them.
By the time I get to the knoll they may be
gone somewhere else. I have had walking enough.”
And he sat down with a most gloomy countenance
by Fanny.
“I am very sorry,” said she; “it is
very unlucky.” And she longed to be able
to say something more to the purpose.
After an interval of silence, “I think they
might as well have staid for me,” said he.
“Miss Bertram thought you would follow her.”
“I should not have had to follow her if
she had staid.”
This could not be denied, and Fanny was silenced.
After another pause, he went on—“Pray,
Miss Price, are you such a great admirer of
this Mr. Crawford as some people are? For
my part, I can see nothing in him.”
“I do not think him at all handsome.”
“Handsome! Nobody can call such an undersized
man handsome. He is not five foot nine. I
should not wonder if he is not more than five
foot eight. I think he is an ill-looking fellow.
In my opinion, these Crawfords are no addition
at all. We did very well without them.”
A small sigh escaped Fanny here, and she did
not know how to contradict him.
“If I had made any difficulty about fetching
the key, there might have been some excuse,
but I went the very moment she said she wanted
it.”
“Nothing could be more obliging than your
manner, I am sure, and I dare say you walked
as fast as you could; but still it is some
distance, you know, from this spot to the
house, quite into the house; and when people
are waiting, they are bad judges of time,
and every half minute seems like five.”
He got up and walked to the gate again, and
“wished he had had the key about him at
the time.” Fanny thought she discerned in
his standing there an indication of relenting,
which encouraged her to another attempt, and
she said, therefore, “It is a pity you should
not join them. They expected to have a better
view of the house from that part of the park,
and will be thinking how it may be improved;
and nothing of that sort, you know, can be
settled without you.”
She found herself more successful in sending
away than in retaining a companion. Mr. Rushworth
was worked on. “Well,” said he, “if
you really think I had better go: it would
be foolish to bring the key for nothing.”
And letting himself out, he walked off without
farther ceremony.
Fanny’s thoughts were now all engrossed
by the two who had left her so long ago, and
getting quite impatient, she resolved to go
in search of them. She followed their steps
along the bottom walk, and had just turned
up into another, when the voice and the laugh
of Miss Crawford once more caught her ear;
the sound approached, and a few more windings
brought them before her. They were just returned
into the wilderness from the park, to which
a sidegate, not fastened, had tempted them
very soon after their leaving her, and they
had been across a portion of the park into
the very avenue which Fanny had been hoping
the whole morning to reach at last, and had
been sitting down under one of the trees.
This was their history. It was evident that
they had been spending their time pleasantly,
and were not aware of the length of their
absence. Fanny’s best consolation was in
being assured that Edmund had wished for her
very much, and that he should certainly have
come back for her, had she not been tired
already; but this was not quite sufficient
to do away with the pain of having been left
a whole hour, when he had talked of only a
few minutes, nor to banish the sort of curiosity
she felt to know what they had been conversing
about all that time; and the result of the
whole was to her disappointment and depression,
as they prepared by general agreement to return
to the house.
On reaching the bottom of the steps to the
terrace, Mrs. Rushworth and Mrs. Norris presented
themselves at the top, just ready for the
wilderness, at the end of an hour and a half
from their leaving the house. Mrs. Norris
had been too well employed to move faster.
Whatever cross-accidents had occurred to intercept
the pleasures of her nieces, she had found
a morning of complete enjoyment; for the housekeeper,
after a great many courtesies on the subject
of pheasants, had taken her to the dairy,
told her all about their cows, and given her
the receipt for a famous cream cheese; and
since Julia’s leaving them they had been
met by the gardener, with whom she had made
a most satisfactory acquaintance, for she
had set him right as to his grandson’s illness,
convinced him that it was an ague, and promised
him a charm for it; and he, in return, had
shewn her all his choicest nursery of plants,
and actually presented her with a very curious
specimen of heath.
On this rencontre they all returned to the
house together, there to lounge away the time
as they could with sofas, and chit-chat, and
Quarterly Reviews, till the return of the
others, and the arrival of dinner. It was
late before the Miss Bertrams and the two
gentlemen came in, and their ramble did not
appear to have been more than partially agreeable,
or at all productive of anything useful with
regard to the object of the day. By their
own accounts they had been all walking after
each other, and the junction which had taken
place at last seemed, to Fanny’s observation,
to have been as much too late for re-establishing
harmony, as it confessedly had been for determining
on any alteration. She felt, as she looked
at Julia and Mr. Rushworth, that hers was
not the only dissatisfied bosom amongst them:
there was gloom on the face of each. Mr. Crawford
and Miss Bertram were much more gay, and she
thought that he was taking particular pains,
during dinner, to do away any little resentment
of the other two, and restore general good-humour.
Dinner was soon followed by tea and coffee,
a ten miles’ drive home allowed no waste
of hours; and from the time of their sitting
down to table, it was a quick succession of
busy nothings till the carriage came to the
door, and Mrs. Norris, having fidgeted about,
and obtained a few pheasants’ eggs and a
cream cheese from the housekeeper, and made
abundance of civil speeches to Mrs. Rushworth,
was ready to lead the way. At the same moment
Mr. Crawford, approaching Julia, said, “I
hope I am not to lose my companion, unless
she is afraid of the evening air in so exposed
a seat.” The request had not been foreseen,
but was very graciously received, and Julia’s
day was likely to end almost as well as it
began. Miss Bertram had made up her mind to
something different, and was a little disappointed;
but her conviction of being really the one
preferred comforted her under it, and enabled
her to receive Mr. Rushworth’s parting attentions
as she ought. He was certainly better pleased
to hand her into the barouche than to assist
her in ascending the box, and his complacency
seemed confirmed by the arrangement.
“Well, Fanny, this has been a fine day for
you, upon my word,” said Mrs. Norris, as
they drove through the park. “Nothing but
pleasure from beginning to end! I am sure
you ought to be very much obliged to your
aunt Bertram and me for contriving to let
you go. A pretty good day’s amusement you
have had!”
Maria was just discontented enough to say
directly, “I think you have done pretty
well yourself, ma’am. Your lap seems full
of good things, and here is a basket of something
between us which has been knocking my elbow
unmercifully.”
“My dear, it is only a beautiful little
heath, which that nice old gardener would
make me take; but if it is in your way, I
will have it in my lap directly. There, Fanny,
you shall carry that parcel for me; take great
care of it: do not let it fall; it is a cream
cheese, just like the excellent one we had
at dinner. Nothing would satisfy that good
old Mrs. Whitaker, but my taking one of the
cheeses. I stood out as long as I could, till
the tears almost came into her eyes, and I
knew it was just the sort that my sister would
be delighted with. That Mrs. Whitaker is a
treasure! She was quite shocked when I asked
her whether wine was allowed at the second
table, and she has turned away two housemaids
for wearing white gowns. Take care of the
cheese, Fanny. Now I can manage the other
parcel and the basket very well.”
“What else have you been spunging?” said
Maria, half-pleased that Sotherton should
be so complimented.
“Spunging, my dear! It is nothing but four
of those beautiful pheasants’ eggs, which
Mrs. Whitaker would quite force upon me: she
would not take a denial. She said it must
be such an amusement to me, as she understood
I lived quite alone, to have a few living
creatures of that sort; and so to be sure
it will. I shall get the dairymaid to set
them under the first spare hen, and if they
come to good I can have them moved to my own
house and borrow a coop; and it will be a
great delight to me in my lonely hours to
attend to them. And if I have good luck, your
mother shall have some.”
It was a beautiful evening, mild and still,
and the drive was as pleasant as the serenity
of Nature could make it; but when Mrs. Norris
ceased speaking, it was altogether a silent
drive to those within. Their spirits were
in general exhausted; and to determine whether
the day had afforded most pleasure or pain,
might occupy the meditations of almost all.
CHAPTER XI
The day at Sotherton, with all its imperfections,
afforded the Miss Bertrams much more agreeable
feelings than were derived from the letters
from Antigua, which soon afterwards reached
Mansfield. It was much pleasanter to think
of Henry Crawford than of their father; and
to think of their father in England again
within a certain period, which these letters
obliged them to do, was a most unwelcome exercise.
November was the black month fixed for his
return. Sir Thomas wrote of it with as much
decision as experience and anxiety could authorise.
His business was so nearly concluded as to
justify him in proposing to take his passage
in the September packet, and he consequently
looked forward with the hope of being with
his beloved family again early in November.
Maria was more to be pitied than Julia; for
to her the father brought a husband, and the
return of the friend most solicitous for her
happiness would unite her to the lover, on
whom she had chosen that happiness should
depend. It was a gloomy prospect, and all
she could do was to throw a mist over it,
and hope when the mist cleared away she should
see something else. It would hardly be early
in November, there were generally delays,
a bad passage or something; that favouring
something which everybody who shuts their
eyes while they look, or their understandings
while they reason, feels the comfort of. It
would probably be the middle of November at
least; the middle of November was three months
off. Three months comprised thirteen weeks.
Much might happen in thirteen weeks.
Sir Thomas would have been deeply mortified
by a suspicion of half that his daughters
felt on the subject of his return, and would
hardly have found consolation in a knowledge
of the interest it excited in the breast of
another young lady. Miss Crawford, on walking
up with her brother to spend the evening at
Mansfield Park, heard the good news; and though
seeming to have no concern in the affair beyond
politeness, and to have vented all her feelings
in a quiet congratulation, heard it with an
attention not so easily satisfied. Mrs. Norris
gave the particulars of the letters, and the
subject was dropt; but after tea, as Miss
Crawford was standing at an open window with
Edmund and Fanny looking out on a twilight
scene, while the Miss Bertrams, Mr. Rushworth,
and Henry Crawford were all busy with candles
at the pianoforte, she suddenly revived it
by turning round towards the group, and saying,
“How happy Mr. Rushworth looks! He is thinking
of November.”
Edmund looked round at Mr. Rushworth too,
but had nothing to say.
“Your father’s return will be a very interesting
event.”
“It will, indeed, after such an absence;
an absence not only long, but including so
many dangers.”
“It will be the forerunner also of other
interesting events: your sister’s marriage,
and your taking orders.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t be affronted,” said she, laughing,
“but it does put me in mind of some of the
old heathen heroes, who, after performing
great exploits in a foreign land, offered
sacrifices to the gods on their safe return.”
“There is no sacrifice in the case,” replied
Edmund, with a serious smile, and glancing
at the pianoforte again; “it is entirely
her own doing.”
“Oh yes I know it is. I was merely joking.
She has done no more than what every young
woman would do; and I have no doubt of her
being extremely happy. My other sacrifice,
of course, you do not understand.”
“My taking orders, I assure you, is quite
as voluntary as Maria’s marrying.”
“It is fortunate that your inclination and
your father’s convenience should accord
so well. There is a very good living kept
for you, I understand, hereabouts.”
“Which you suppose has biassed me?”
“But that I am sure it has not,” cried
Fanny.
“Thank you for your good word, Fanny, but
it is more than I would affirm myself. On
the contrary, the knowing that there was such
a provision for me probably did bias me. Nor
can I think it wrong that it should. There
was no natural disinclination to be overcome,
and I see no reason why a man should make
a worse clergyman for knowing that he will
have a competence early in life. I was in
safe hands. I hope I should not have been
influenced myself in a wrong way, and I am
sure my father was too conscientious to have
allowed it. I have no doubt that I was biased,
but I think it was blamelessly.”
“It is the same sort of thing,” said Fanny,
after a short pause, “as for the son of
an admiral to go into the navy, or the son
of a general to be in the army, and nobody
sees anything wrong in that. Nobody wonders
that they should prefer the line where their
friends can serve them best, or suspects them
to be less in earnest in it than they appear.”
“No, my dear Miss Price, and for reasons
good. The profession, either navy or army,
is its own justification. It has everything
in its favour: heroism, danger, bustle, fashion.
Soldiers and sailors are always acceptable
in society. Nobody can wonder that men are
soldiers and sailors.”
“But the motives of a man who takes orders
with the certainty of preferment may be fairly
suspected, you think?” said Edmund. “To
be justified in your eyes, he must do it in
the most complete uncertainty of any provision.”
“What! take orders without a living! No;
that is madness indeed; absolute madness.”
“Shall I ask you how the church is to be
filled, if a man is neither to take orders
with a living nor without? No; for you certainly
would not know what to say. But I must beg
some advantage to the clergyman from your
own argument. As he cannot be influenced by
those feelings which you rank highly as temptation
and reward to the soldier and sailor in their
choice of a profession, as heroism, and noise,
and fashion, are all against him, he ought
to be less liable to the suspicion of wanting
sincerity or good intentions in the choice
of his.”
“Oh! no doubt he is very sincere in preferring
an income ready made, to the trouble of working
for one; and has the best intentions of doing
nothing all the rest of his days but eat,
drink, and grow fat. It is indolence, Mr.
Bertram, indeed. Indolence and love of ease;
a want of all laudable ambition, of taste
for good company, or of inclination to take
the trouble of being agreeable, which make
men clergymen. A clergyman has nothing to
do but be slovenly and selfish—read the
newspaper, watch the weather, and quarrel
with his wife. His curate does all the work,
and the business of his own life is to dine.”
“There are such clergymen, no doubt, but
I think they are not so common as to justify
Miss Crawford in esteeming it their general
character. I suspect that in this comprehensive
and (may I say) commonplace censure, you are
not judging from yourself, but from prejudiced
persons, whose opinions you have been in the
habit of hearing. It is impossible that your
own observation can have given you much knowledge
of the clergy. You can have been personally
acquainted with very few of a set of men you
condemn so conclusively. You are speaking
what you have been told at your uncle’s
table.”
“I speak what appears to me the general
opinion; and where an opinion is general,
it is usually correct. Though I have not seen
much of the domestic lives of clergymen, it
is seen by too many to leave any deficiency
of information.”
“Where any one body of educated men, of
whatever denomination, are condemned indiscriminately,
there must be a deficiency of information,
or (smiling) of something else. Your uncle,
and his brother admirals, perhaps knew little
of clergymen beyond the chaplains whom, good
or bad, they were always wishing away.”
“Poor William! He has met with great kindness
from the chaplain of the Antwerp,” was a
tender apostrophe of Fanny’s, very much
to the purpose of her own feelings if not
of the conversation.
“I have been so little addicted to take
my opinions from my uncle,” said Miss Crawford,
“that I can hardly suppose—and since you
push me so hard, I must observe, that I am
not entirely without the means of seeing what
clergymen are, being at this present time
the guest of my own brother, Dr. Grant. And
though Dr. Grant is most kind and obliging
to me, and though he is really a gentleman,
and, I dare say, a good scholar and clever,
and often preaches good sermons, and is very
respectable, I see him to be an indolent,
selfish bon vivant, who must have his palate
consulted in everything; who will not stir
a finger for the convenience of any one; and
who, moreover, if the cook makes a blunder,
is out of humour with his excellent wife.
To own the truth, Henry and I were partly
driven out this very evening by a disappointment
about a green goose, which he could not get
the better of. My poor sister was forced to
stay and bear it.”
“I do not wonder at your disapprobation,
upon my word. It is a great defect of temper,
made worse by a very faulty habit of self-indulgence;
and to see your sister suffering from it must
be exceedingly painful to such feelings as
yours. Fanny, it goes against us. We cannot
attempt to defend Dr. Grant.”
“No,” replied Fanny, “but we need not
give up his profession for all that; because,
whatever profession Dr. Grant had chosen,
he would have taken a—not a good temper
into it; and as he must, either in the navy
or army, have had a great many more people
under his command than he has now, I think
more would have been made unhappy by him as
a sailor or soldier than as a clergyman. Besides,
I cannot but suppose that whatever there may
be to wish otherwise in Dr. Grant would have
been in a greater danger of becoming worse
in a more active and worldly profession, where
he would have had less time and obligation—where
he might have escaped that knowledge of himself,
the frequency, at least, of that knowledge
which it is impossible he should escape as
he is now. A man—a sensible man like Dr.
Grant, cannot be in the habit of teaching
others their duty every week, cannot go to
church twice every Sunday, and preach such
very good sermons in so good a manner as he
does, without being the better for it himself.
It must make him think; and I have no doubt
that he oftener endeavours to restrain himself
than he would if he had been anything but
a clergyman.”
“We cannot prove to the contrary, to be
sure; but I wish you a better fate, Miss Price,
than to be the wife of a man whose amiableness
depends upon his own sermons; for though he
may preach himself into a good-humour every
Sunday, it will be bad enough to have him
quarrelling about green geese from Monday
morning till Saturday night.”
“I think the man who could often quarrel
with Fanny,” said Edmund affectionately,
“must be beyond the reach of any sermons.”
Fanny turned farther into the window; and
Miss Crawford had only time to say, in a pleasant
manner, “I fancy Miss Price has been more
used to deserve praise than to hear it”;
when, being earnestly invited by the Miss
Bertrams to join in a glee, she tripped off
to the instrument, leaving Edmund looking
after her in an ecstasy of admiration of all
her many virtues, from her obliging manners
down to her light and graceful tread.
“There goes good-humour, I am sure,” said
he presently. “There goes a temper which
would never give pain! How well she walks!
and how readily she falls in with the inclination
of others! joining them the moment she is
asked. What a pity,” he added, after an
instant’s reflection, “that she should
have been in such hands!”
Fanny agreed to it, and had the pleasure of
seeing him continue at the window with her,
in spite of the expected glee; and of having
his eyes soon turned, like hers, towards the
scene without, where all that was solemn,
and soothing, and lovely, appeared in the
brilliancy of an unclouded night, and the
contrast of the deep shade of the woods. Fanny
spoke her feelings. “Here’s harmony!”
said she; “here’s repose! Here’s what
may leave all painting and all music behind,
and what poetry only can attempt to describe!
Here’s what may tranquillise every care,
and lift the heart to rapture! When I look
out on such a night as this, I feel as if
there could be neither wickedness nor sorrow
in the world; and there certainly would be
less of both if the sublimity of Nature were
more attended to, and people were carried
more out of themselves by contemplating such
a scene.”
“I like to hear your enthusiasm, Fanny.
It is a lovely night, and they are much to
be pitied who have not been taught to feel,
in some degree, as you do; who have not, at
least, been given a taste for Nature in early
life. They lose a great deal.”
“You taught me to think and feel on the
subject, cousin.”
“I had a very apt scholar. There’s Arcturus
looking very bright.”
“Yes, and the Bear. I wish I could see Cassiopeia.”
“We must go out on the lawn for that. Should
you be afraid?”
“Not in the least. It is a great while since
we have had any star-gazing.”
“Yes; I do not know how it has happened.”
The glee began. “We will stay till this
is finished, Fanny,” said he, turning his
back on the window; and as it advanced, she
had the mortification of seeing him advance
too, moving forward by gentle degrees towards
the instrument, and when it ceased, he was
close by the singers, among the most urgent
in requesting to hear the glee again.
Fanny sighed alone at the window till scolded
away by Mrs. Norris’s threats of catching
cold.
CHAPTER XII
Sir Thomas was to return in November, and
his eldest son had duties to call him earlier
home. The approach of September brought tidings
of Mr. Bertram, first in a letter to the gamekeeper
and then in a letter to Edmund; and by the
end of August he arrived himself, to be gay,
agreeable, and gallant again as occasion served,
or Miss Crawford demanded; to tell of races
and Weymouth, and parties and friends, to
which she might have listened six weeks before
with some interest, and altogether to give
her the fullest conviction, by the power of
actual comparison, of her preferring his younger
brother.
It was very vexatious, and she was heartily
sorry for it; but so it was; and so far from
now meaning to marry the elder, she did not
even want to attract him beyond what the simplest
claims of conscious beauty required: his lengthened
absence from Mansfield, without anything but
pleasure in view, and his own will to consult,
made it perfectly clear that he did not care
about her; and his indifference was so much
more than equalled by her own, that were he
now to step forth the owner of Mansfield Park,
the Sir Thomas complete, which he was to be
in time, she did not believe she could accept
him.
The season and duties which brought Mr. Bertram
back to Mansfield took Mr. Crawford into Norfolk.
Everingham could not do without him in the
beginning of September. He went for a fortnight—a
fortnight of such dullness to the Miss Bertrams
as ought to have put them both on their guard,
and made even Julia admit, in her jealousy
of her sister, the absolute necessity of distrusting
his attentions, and wishing him not to return;
and a fortnight of sufficient leisure, in
the intervals of shooting and sleeping, to
have convinced the gentleman that he ought
to keep longer away, had he been more in the
habit of examining his own motives, and of
reflecting to what the indulgence of his idle
vanity was tending; but, thoughtless and selfish
from prosperity and bad example, he would
not look beyond the present moment. The sisters,
handsome, clever, and encouraging, were an
amusement to his sated mind; and finding nothing
in Norfolk to equal the social pleasures of
Mansfield, he gladly returned to it at the
time appointed, and was welcomed thither quite
as gladly by those whom he came to trifle
with further.
Maria, with only Mr. Rushworth to attend to
her, and doomed to the repeated details of
his day’s sport, good or bad, his boast
of his dogs, his jealousy of his neighbours,
his doubts of their qualifications, and his
zeal after poachers, subjects which will not
find their way to female feelings without
some talent on one side or some attachment
on the other, had missed Mr. Crawford grievously;
and Julia, unengaged and unemployed, felt
all the right of missing him much more. Each
sister believed herself the favourite. Julia
might be justified in so doing by the hints
of Mrs. Grant, inclined to credit what she
wished, and Maria by the hints of Mr. Crawford
himself. Everything returned into the same
channel as before his absence; his manners
being to each so animated and agreeable as
to lose no ground with either, and just stopping
short of the consistence, the steadiness,
the solicitude, and the warmth which might
excite general notice.
Fanny was the only one of the party who found
anything to dislike; but since the day at
Sotherton, she could never see Mr. Crawford
with either sister without observation, and
seldom without wonder or censure; and had
her confidence in her own judgment been equal
to her exercise of it in every other respect,
had she been sure that she was seeing clearly,
and judging candidly, she would probably have
made some important communications to her
usual confidant. As it was, however, she only
hazarded a hint, and the hint was lost. “I
am rather surprised,” said she, “that
Mr. Crawford should come back again so soon,
after being here so long before, full seven
weeks; for I had understood he was so very
fond of change and moving about, that I thought
something would certainly occur, when he was
once gone, to take him elsewhere. He is used
to much gayer places than Mansfield.”
“It is to his credit,” was Edmund’s
answer; “and I dare say it gives his sister
pleasure. She does not like his unsettled
habits.”
“What a favourite he is with my cousins!”
“Yes, his manners to women are such as must
please. Mrs. Grant, I believe, suspects him
of a preference for Julia; I have never seen
much symptom of it, but I wish it may be so.
He has no faults but what a serious attachment
would remove.”
“If Miss Bertram were not engaged,” said
Fanny cautiously, “I could sometimes almost
think that he admired her more than Julia.”
“Which is, perhaps, more in favour of his
liking Julia best, than you, Fanny, may be
aware; for I believe it often happens that
a man, before he has quite made up his own
mind, will distinguish the sister or intimate
friend of the woman he is really thinking
of more than the woman herself. Crawford has
too much sense to stay here if he found himself
in any danger from Maria; and I am not at
all afraid for her, after such a proof as
she has given that her feelings are not strong.”
Fanny supposed she must have been mistaken,
and meant to think differently in future;
but with all that submission to Edmund could
do, and all the help of the coinciding looks
and hints which she occasionally noticed in
some of the others, and which seemed to say
that Julia was Mr. Crawford’s choice, she
knew not always what to think. She was privy,
one evening, to the hopes of her aunt Norris
on the subject, as well as to her feelings,
and the feelings of Mrs. Rushworth, on a point
of some similarity, and could not help wondering
as she listened; and glad would she have been
not to be obliged to listen, for it was while
all the other young people were dancing, and
she sitting, most unwillingly, among the chaperons
at the fire, longing for the re-entrance of
her elder cousin, on whom all her own hopes
of a partner then depended. It was Fanny’s
first ball, though without the preparation
or splendour of many a young lady’s first
ball, being the thought only of the afternoon,
built on the late acquisition of a violin
player in the servants’ hall, and the possibility
of raising five couple with the help of Mrs.
Grant and a new intimate friend of Mr. Bertram’s
just arrived on a visit. It had, however,
been a very happy one to Fanny through four
dances, and she was quite grieved to be losing
even a quarter of an hour. While waiting and
wishing, looking now at the dancers and now
at the door, this dialogue between the two
above-mentioned ladies was forced on her—
“I think, ma’am,” said Mrs. Norris,
her eyes directed towards Mr. Rushworth and
Maria, who were partners for the second time,
“we shall see some happy faces again now.”
“Yes, ma’am, indeed,” replied the other,
with a stately simper, “there will be some
satisfaction in looking on now, and I think
it was rather a pity they should have been
obliged to part. Young folks in their situation
should be excused complying with the common
forms. I wonder my son did not propose it.”
“I dare say he did, ma’am. Mr. Rushworth
is never remiss. But dear Maria has such a
strict sense of propriety, so much of that
true delicacy which one seldom meets with
nowadays, Mrs. Rushworth—that wish of avoiding
particularity! Dear ma’am, only look at
her face at this moment; how different from
what it was the two last dances!”
Miss Bertram did indeed look happy, her eyes
were sparkling with pleasure, and she was
speaking with great animation, for Julia and
her partner, Mr. Crawford, were close to her;
they were all in a cluster together. How she
had looked before, Fanny could not recollect,
for she had been dancing with Edmund herself,
and had not thought about her.
Mrs. Norris continued, “It is quite delightful,
ma’am, to see young people so properly happy,
so well suited, and so much the thing! I cannot
but think of dear Sir Thomas’s delight.
And what do you say, ma’am, to the chance
of another match? Mr. Rushworth has set a
good example, and such things are very catching.”
Mrs. Rushworth, who saw nothing but her son,
was quite at a loss.
“The couple above, ma’am. Do you see no
symptoms there?”
“Oh dear! Miss Julia and Mr. Crawford. Yes,
indeed, a very pretty match. What is his property?”
“Four thousand a year.”
“Very well. Those who have not more must
be satisfied with what they have. Four thousand
a year is a pretty estate, and he seems a
very genteel, steady young man, so I hope
Miss Julia will be very happy.”
“It is not a settled thing, ma’am, yet.
We only speak of it among friends. But I have
very little doubt it will be. He is growing
extremely particular in his attentions.”
Fanny could listen no farther. Listening and
wondering were all suspended for a time, for
Mr. Bertram was in the room again; and though
feeling it would be a great honour to be asked
by him, she thought it must happen. He came
towards their little circle; but instead of
asking her to dance, drew a chair near her,
and gave her an account of the present state
of a sick horse, and the opinion of the groom,
from whom he had just parted. Fanny found
that it was not to be, and in the modesty
of her nature immediately felt that she had
been unreasonable in expecting it. When he
had told of his horse, he took a newspaper
from the table, and looking over it, said
in a languid way, “If you want to dance,
Fanny, I will stand up with you.” With more
than equal civility the offer was declined;
she did not wish to dance. “I am glad of
it,” said he, in a much brisker tone, and
throwing down the newspaper again, “for
I am tired to death. I only wonder how the
good people can keep it up so long. They had
need be all in love, to find any amusement
in such folly; and so they are, I fancy. If
you look at them you may see they are so many
couple of lovers—all but Yates and Mrs.
Grant—and, between ourselves, she, poor
woman, must want a lover as much as any one
of them. A desperate dull life hers must be
with the doctor,” making a sly face as he
spoke towards the chair of the latter, who
proving, however, to be close at his elbow,
made so instantaneous a change of expression
and subject necessary, as Fanny, in spite
of everything, could hardly help laughing
at. “A strange business this in America,
Dr. Grant! What is your opinion? I always
come to you to know what I am to think of
public matters.”
“My dear Tom,” cried his aunt soon afterwards,
“as you are not dancing, I dare say you
will have no objection to join us in a rubber;
shall you?” Then leaving her seat, and coming
to him to enforce the proposal, added in a
whisper, “We want to make a table for Mrs.
Rushworth, you know. Your mother is quite
anxious about it, but cannot very well spare
time to sit down herself, because of her fringe.
Now, you and I and Dr. Grant will just do;
and though we play but half-crowns, you know,
you may bet half-guineas with him.”
“I should be most happy,” replied he aloud,
and jumping up with alacrity, “it would
give me the greatest pleasure; but that I
am this moment going to dance.” Come, Fanny,
taking her hand, “do not be dawdling any
longer, or the dance will be over.”
Fanny was led off very willingly, though it
was impossible for her to feel much gratitude
towards her cousin, or distinguish, as he
certainly did, between the selfishness of
another person and his own.
“A pretty modest request upon my word,”
he indignantly exclaimed as they walked away.
“To want to nail me to a card-table for
the next two hours with herself and Dr. Grant,
who are always quarrelling, and that poking
old woman, who knows no more of whist than
of algebra. I wish my good aunt would be a
little less busy! And to ask me in such a
way too! without ceremony, before them all,
so as to leave me no possibility of refusing.
That is what I dislike most particularly.
It raises my spleen more than anything, to
have the pretence of being asked, of being
given a choice, and at the same time addressed
in such a way as to oblige one to do the very
thing, whatever it be! If I had not luckily
thought of standing up with you I could not
have got out of it. It is a great deal too
bad. But when my aunt has got a fancy in her
head, nothing can stop her.”
CHAPTER XIII
The Honourable John Yates, this new friend,
had not much to recommend him beyond habits
of fashion and expense, and being the younger
son of a lord with a tolerable independence;
and Sir Thomas would probably have thought
his introduction at Mansfield by no means
desirable. Mr. Bertram’s acquaintance with
him had begun at Weymouth, where they had
spent ten days together in the same society,
and the friendship, if friendship it might
be called, had been proved and perfected by
Mr. Yates’s being invited to take Mansfield
in his way, whenever he could, and by his
promising to come; and he did come rather
earlier than had been expected, in consequence
of the sudden breaking-up of a large party
assembled for gaiety at the house of another
friend, which he had left Weymouth to join.
He came on the wings of disappointment, and
with his head full of acting, for it had been
a theatrical party; and the play in which
he had borne a part was within two days of
representation, when the sudden death of one
of the nearest connexions of the family had
destroyed the scheme and dispersed the performers.
To be so near happiness, so near fame, so
near the long paragraph in praise of the private
theatricals at Ecclesford, the seat of the
Right Hon. Lord Ravenshaw, in Cornwall, which
would of course have immortalised the whole
party for at least a twelvemonth! and being
so near, to lose it all, was an injury to
be keenly felt, and Mr. Yates could talk of
nothing else. Ecclesford and its theatre,
with its arrangements and dresses, rehearsals
and jokes, was his never-failing subject,
and to boast of the past his only consolation.
Happily for him, a love of the theatre is
so general, an itch for acting so strong among
young people, that he could hardly out-talk
the interest of his hearers. From the first
casting of the parts to the epilogue it was
all bewitching, and there were few who did
not wish to have been a party concerned, or
would have hesitated to try their skill. The
play had been Lovers’ Vows, and Mr. Yates
was to have been Count Cassel. “A trifling
part,” said he, “and not at all to my
taste, and such a one as I certainly would
not accept again; but I was determined to
make no difficulties. Lord Ravenshaw and the
duke had appropriated the only two characters
worth playing before I reached Ecclesford;
and though Lord Ravenshaw offered to resign
his to me, it was impossible to take it, you
know. I was sorry for him that he should have
so mistaken his powers, for he was no more
equal to the Baron—a little man with a weak
voice, always hoarse after the first ten minutes.
It must have injured the piece materially;
but I was resolved to make no difficulties.
Sir Henry thought the duke not equal to Frederick,
but that was because Sir Henry wanted the
part himself; whereas it was certainly in
the best hands of the two. I was surprised
to see Sir Henry such a stick. Luckily the
strength of the piece did not depend upon
him. Our Agatha was inimitable, and the duke
was thought very great by many. And upon the
whole, it would certainly have gone off wonderfully.”
“It was a hard case, upon my word”; and,
“I do think you were very much to be pitied,”
were the kind responses of listening sympathy.
“It is not worth complaining about; but
to be sure the poor old dowager could not
have died at a worse time; and it is impossible
to help wishing that the news could have been
suppressed for just the three days we wanted.
It was but three days; and being only a grandmother,
and all happening two hundred miles off, I
think there would have been no great harm,
and it was suggested, I know; but Lord Ravenshaw,
who I suppose is one of the most correct men
in England, would not hear of it.”
“An afterpiece instead of a comedy,” said
Mr. Bertram. “Lovers’ Vows were at an
end, and Lord and Lady Ravenshaw left to act
My Grandmother by themselves. Well, the jointure
may comfort him; and perhaps, between friends,
he began to tremble for his credit and his
lungs in the Baron, and was not sorry to withdraw;
and to make you amends, Yates, I think we
must raise a little theatre at Mansfield,
and ask you to be our manager.”
This, though the thought of the moment, did
not end with the moment; for the inclination
to act was awakened, and in no one more strongly
than in him who was now master of the house;
and who, having so much leisure as to make
almost any novelty a certain good, had likewise
such a degree of lively talents and comic
taste, as were exactly adapted to the novelty
of acting. The thought returned again and
again. “Oh for the Ecclesford theatre and
scenery to try something with.” Each sister
could echo the wish; and Henry Crawford, to
whom, in all the riot of his gratifications
it was yet an untasted pleasure, was quite
alive at the idea. “I really believe,”
said he, “I could be fool enough at this
moment to undertake any character that ever
was written, from Shylock or Richard III down
to the singing hero of a farce in his scarlet
coat and cocked hat. I feel as if I could
be anything or everything; as if I could rant
and storm, or sigh or cut capers, in any tragedy
or comedy in the English language. Let us
be doing something. Be it only half a play,
an act, a scene; what should prevent us? Not
these countenances, I am sure,” looking
towards the Miss Bertrams; “and for a theatre,
what signifies a theatre? We shall be only
amusing ourselves. Any room in this house
might suffice.”
“We must have a curtain,” said Tom Bertram;
“a few yards of green baize for a curtain,
and perhaps that may be enough.”
“Oh, quite enough,” cried Mr. Yates, “with
only just a side wing or two run up, doors
in flat, and three or four scenes to be let
down; nothing more would be necessary on such
a plan as this. For mere amusement among ourselves
we should want nothing more.”
“I believe we must be satisfied with less,”
said Maria. “There would not be time, and
other difficulties would arise. We must rather
adopt Mr. Crawford’s views, and make the
performance, not the theatre, our object.
Many parts of our best plays are independent
of scenery.”
“Nay,” said Edmund, who began to listen
with alarm. “Let us do nothing by halves.
If we are to act, let it be in a theatre completely
fitted up with pit, boxes, and gallery, and
let us have a play entire from beginning to
end; so as it be a German play, no matter
what, with a good tricking, shifting afterpiece,
and a figure-dance, and a hornpipe, and a
song between the acts. If we do not outdo
Ecclesford, we do nothing.”
“Now, Edmund, do not be disagreeable,”
said Julia. “Nobody loves a play better
than you do, or can have gone much farther
to see one.”
“True, to see real acting, good hardened
real acting; but I would hardly walk from
this room to the next to look at the raw efforts
of those who have not been bred to the trade:
a set of gentlemen and ladies, who have all
the disadvantages of education and decorum
to struggle through.”
After a short pause, however, the subject
still continued, and was discussed with unabated
eagerness, every one’s inclination increasing
by the discussion, and a knowledge of the
inclination of the rest; and though nothing
was settled but that Tom Bertram would prefer
a comedy, and his sisters and Henry Crawford
a tragedy, and that nothing in the world could
be easier than to find a piece which would
please them all, the resolution to act something
or other seemed so decided as to make Edmund
quite uncomfortable. He was determined to
prevent it, if possible, though his mother,
who equally heard the conversation which passed
at table, did not evince the least disapprobation.
The same evening afforded him an opportunity
of trying his strength. Maria, Julia, Henry
Crawford, and Mr. Yates were in the billiard-room.
Tom, returning from them into the drawing-room,
where Edmund was standing thoughtfully by
the fire, while Lady Bertram was on the sofa
at a little distance, and Fanny close beside
her arranging her work, thus began as he entered—“Such
a horribly vile billiard-table as ours is
not to be met with, I believe, above ground.
I can stand it no longer, and I think, I may
say, that nothing shall ever tempt me to it
again; but one good thing I have just ascertained:
it is the very room for a theatre, precisely
the shape and length for it; and the doors
at the farther end, communicating with each
other, as they may be made to do in five minutes,
by merely moving the bookcase in my father’s
room, is the very thing we could have desired,
if we had sat down to wish for it; and my
father’s room will be an excellent greenroom.
It seems to join the billiard-room on purpose.”
“You are not serious, Tom, in meaning to
act?” said Edmund, in a low voice, as his
brother approached the fire.
“Not serious! never more so, I assure you.
What is there to surprise you in it?”
“I think it would be very wrong. In a general
light, private theatricals are open to some
objections, but as we are circumstanced, I
must think it would be highly injudicious,
and more than injudicious to attempt anything
of the kind. It would shew great want of feeling
on my father’s account, absent as he is,
and in some degree of constant danger; and
it would be imprudent, I think, with regard
to Maria, whose situation is a very delicate
one, considering everything, extremely delicate.”
“You take up a thing so seriously! as if
we were going to act three times a week till
my father’s return, and invite all the country.
But it is not to be a display of that sort.
We mean nothing but a little amusement among
ourselves, just to vary the scene, and exercise
our powers in something new. We want no audience,
no publicity. We may be trusted, I think,
in chusing some play most perfectly unexceptionable;
and I can conceive no greater harm or danger
to any of us in conversing in the elegant
written language of some respectable author
than in chattering in words of our own. I
have no fears and no scruples. And as to my
father’s being absent, it is so far from
an objection, that I consider it rather as
a motive; for the expectation of his return
must be a very anxious period to my mother;
and if we can be the means of amusing that
anxiety, and keeping up her spirits for the
next few weeks, I shall think our time very
well spent, and so, I am sure, will he. It
is a very anxious period for her.”
As he said this, each looked towards their
mother. Lady Bertram, sunk back in one corner
of the sofa, the picture of health, wealth,
ease, and tranquillity, was just falling into
a gentle doze, while Fanny was getting through
the few difficulties of her work for her.
Edmund smiled and shook his head.
“By Jove! this won’t do,” cried Tom,
throwing himself into a chair with a hearty
laugh. “To be sure, my dear mother, your
anxiety—I was unlucky there.”
“What is the matter?” asked her ladyship,
in the heavy tone of one half-roused; “I
was not asleep.”
“Oh dear, no, ma’am, nobody suspected
you! Well, Edmund,” he continued, returning
to the former subject, posture, and voice,
as soon as Lady Bertram began to nod again,
“but this I will maintain, that we shall
be doing no harm.”
“I cannot agree with you; I am convinced
that my father would totally disapprove it.”
“And I am convinced to the contrary. Nobody
is fonder of the exercise of talent in young
people, or promotes it more, than my father,
and for anything of the acting, spouting,
reciting kind, I think he has always a decided
taste. I am sure he encouraged it in us as
boys. How many a time have we mourned over
the dead body of Julius Caesar, and to be’d
and not to be’d, in this very room, for
his amusement? And I am sure, my name was
Norval, every evening of my life through one
Christmas holidays.”
“It was a very different thing. You must
see the difference yourself. My father wished
us, as schoolboys, to speak well, but he would
never wish his grown-up daughters to be acting
plays. His sense of decorum is strict.”
“I know all that,” said Tom, displeased.
“I know my father as well as you do; and
I’ll take care that his daughters do nothing
to distress him. Manage your own concerns,
Edmund, and I’ll take care of the rest of
the family.”
“If you are resolved on acting,” replied
the persevering Edmund, “I must hope it
will be in a very small and quiet way; and
I think a theatre ought not to be attempted.
It would be taking liberties with my father’s
house in his absence which could not be justified.”
“For everything of that nature I will be
answerable,” said Tom, in a decided tone.
“His house shall not be hurt. I have quite
as great an interest in being careful of his
house as you can have; and as to such alterations
as I was suggesting just now, such as moving
a bookcase, or unlocking a door, or even as
using the billiard-room for the space of a
week without playing at billiards in it, you
might just as well suppose he would object
to our sitting more in this room, and less
in the breakfast-room, than we did before
he went away, or to my sister’s pianoforte
being moved from one side of the room to the
other. Absolute nonsense!”
“The innovation, if not wrong as an innovation,
will be wrong as an expense.”
“Yes, the expense of such an undertaking
would be prodigious! Perhaps it might cost
a whole twenty pounds. Something of a theatre
we must have undoubtedly, but it will be on
the simplest plan: a green curtain and a little
carpenter’s work, and that’s all; and
as the carpenter’s work may be all done
at home by Christopher Jackson himself, it
will be too absurd to talk of expense; and
as long as Jackson is employed, everything
will be right with Sir Thomas. Don’t imagine
that nobody in this house can see or judge
but yourself. Don’t act yourself, if you
do not like it, but don’t expect to govern
everybody else.”
“No, as to acting myself,” said Edmund,
“that I absolutely protest against.”
Tom walked out of the room as he said it,
and Edmund was left to sit down and stir the
fire in thoughtful vexation.
Fanny, who had heard it all, and borne Edmund
company in every feeling throughout the whole,
now ventured to say, in her anxiety to suggest
some comfort, “Perhaps they may not be able
to find any play to suit them. Your brother’s
taste and your sisters’ seem very different.”
“I have no hope there, Fanny. If they persist
in the scheme, they will find something. I
shall speak to my sisters and try to dissuade
them, and that is all I can do.”
“I should think my aunt Norris would be
on your side.”
“I dare say she would, but she has no influence
with either Tom or my sisters that could be
of any use; and if I cannot convince them
myself, I shall let things take their course,
without attempting it through her. Family
squabbling is the greatest evil of all, and
we had better do anything than be altogether
by the ears.”
His sisters, to whom he had an opportunity
of speaking the next morning, were quite as
impatient of his advice, quite as unyielding
to his representation, quite as determined
in the cause of pleasure, as Tom. Their mother
had no objection to the plan, and they were
not in the least afraid of their father’s
disapprobation. There could be no harm in
what had been done in so many respectable
families, and by so many women of the first
consideration; and it must be scrupulousness
run mad that could see anything to censure
in a plan like theirs, comprehending only
brothers and sisters and intimate friends,
and which would never be heard of beyond themselves.
Julia did seem inclined to admit that Maria’s
situation might require particular caution
and delicacy—but that could not extend to
her—she was at liberty; and Maria evidently
considered her engagement as only raising
her so much more above restraint, and leaving
her less occasion than Julia to consult either
father or mother. Edmund had little to hope,
but he was still urging the subject when Henry
Crawford entered the room, fresh from the
Parsonage, calling out, “No want of hands
in our theatre, Miss Bertram. No want of understrappers:
my sister desires her love, and hopes to be
admitted into the company, and will be happy
to take the part of any old duenna or tame
confidante, that you may not like to do yourselves.”
Maria gave Edmund a glance, which meant, “What
say you now? Can we be wrong if Mary Crawford
feels the same?” And Edmund, silenced, was
obliged to acknowledge that the charm of acting
might well carry fascination to the mind of
genius; and with the ingenuity of love, to
dwell more on the obliging, accommodating
purport of the message than on anything else.
The scheme advanced. Opposition was vain;
and as to Mrs. Norris, he was mistaken in
supposing she would wish to make any. She
started no difficulties that were not talked
down in five minutes by her eldest nephew
and niece, who were all-powerful with her;
and as the whole arrangement was to bring
very little expense to anybody, and none at
all to herself, as she foresaw in it all the
comforts of hurry, bustle, and importance,
and derived the immediate advantage of fancying
herself obliged to leave her own house, where
she had been living a month at her own cost,
and take up her abode in theirs, that every
hour might be spent in their service, she
was, in fact, exceedingly delighted with the
project.
CHAPTER XIV
Fanny seemed nearer being right than Edmund
had supposed. The business of finding a play
that would suit everybody proved to be no
trifle; and the carpenter had received his
orders and taken his measurements, had suggested
and removed at least two sets of difficulties,
and having made the necessity of an enlargement
of plan and expense fully evident, was already
at work, while a play was still to seek. Other
preparations were also in hand. An enormous
roll of green baize had arrived from Northampton,
and been cut out by Mrs. Norris (with a saving
by her good management of full three-quarters
of a yard), and was actually forming into
a curtain by the housemaids, and still the
play was wanting; and as two or three days
passed away in this manner, Edmund began almost
to hope that none might ever be found.
There were, in fact, so many things to be
attended to, so many people to be pleased,
so many best characters required, and, above
all, such a need that the play should be at
once both tragedy and comedy, that there did
seem as little chance of a decision as anything
pursued by youth and zeal could hold out.
On the tragic side were the Miss Bertrams,
Henry Crawford, and Mr. Yates; on the comic,
Tom Bertram, not quite alone, because it was
evident that Mary Crawford’s wishes, though
politely kept back, inclined the same way:
but his determinateness and his power seemed
to make allies unnecessary; and, independent
of this great irreconcilable difference, they
wanted a piece containing very few characters
in the whole, but every character first-rate,
and three principal women. All the best plays
were run over in vain. Neither Hamlet, nor
Macbeth, nor Othello, nor Douglas, nor The
Gamester, presented anything that could satisfy
even the tragedians; and The Rivals, The School
for Scandal, Wheel of Fortune, Heir at Law,
and a long et cetera, were successively dismissed
with yet warmer objections. No piece could
be proposed that did not supply somebody with
a difficulty, and on one side or the other
it was a continual repetition of, “Oh no,
that will never do! Let us have no ranting
tragedies. Too many characters. Not a tolerable
woman’s part in the play. Anything but that,
my dear Tom. It would be impossible to fill
it up. One could not expect anybody to take
such a part. Nothing but buffoonery from beginning
to end. That might do, perhaps, but for the
low parts. If I must give my opinion, I have
always thought it the most insipid play in
the English language. I do not wish to make
objections; I shall be happy to be of any
use, but I think we could not chuse worse.”
Fanny looked on and listened, not unamused
to observe the selfishness which, more or
less disguised, seemed to govern them all,
and wondering how it would end. For her own
gratification she could have wished that something
might be acted, for she had never seen even
half a play, but everything of higher consequence
was against it.
“This will never do,” said Tom Bertram
at last. “We are wasting time most abominably.
Something must be fixed on. No matter what,
so that something is chosen. We must not be
so nice. A few characters too many must not
frighten us. We must double them. We must
descend a little. If a part is insignificant,
the greater our credit in making anything
of it. From this moment I make no difficulties.
I take any part you chuse to give me, so as
it be comic. Let it but be comic, I condition
for nothing more.”
For about the fifth time he then proposed
the Heir at Law, doubting only whether to
prefer Lord Duberley or Dr. Pangloss for himself;
and very earnestly, but very unsuccessfully,
trying to persuade the others that there were
some fine tragic parts in the rest of the
dramatis personae.
The pause which followed this fruitless effort
was ended by the same speaker, who, taking
up one of the many volumes of plays that lay
on the table, and turning it over, suddenly
exclaimed—“Lovers’ Vows! And why should
not Lovers’ Vows do for us as well as for
the Ravenshaws? How came it never to be thought
of before? It strikes me as if it would do
exactly. What say you all? Here are two capital
tragic parts for Yates and Crawford, and here
is the rhyming Butler for me, if nobody else
wants it; a trifling part, but the sort of
thing I should not dislike, and, as I said
before, I am determined to take anything and
do my best. And as for the rest, they may
be filled up by anybody. It is only Count
Cassel and Anhalt.”
The suggestion was generally welcome. Everybody
was growing weary of indecision, and the first
idea with everybody was, that nothing had
been proposed before so likely to suit them
all. Mr. Yates was particularly pleased: he
had been sighing and longing to do the Baron
at Ecclesford, had grudged every rant of Lord
Ravenshaw’s, and been forced to re-rant
it all in his own room. The storm through
Baron Wildenheim was the height of his theatrical
ambition; and with the advantage of knowing
half the scenes by heart already, he did now,
with the greatest alacrity, offer his services
for the part. To do him justice, however,
he did not resolve to appropriate it; for
remembering that there was some very good
ranting-ground in Frederick, he professed
an equal willingness for that. Henry Crawford
was ready to take either. Whichever Mr. Yates
did not chuse would perfectly satisfy him,
and a short parley of compliment ensued. Miss
Bertram, feeling all the interest of an Agatha
in the question, took on her to decide it,
by observing to Mr. Yates that this was a
point in which height and figure ought to
be considered, and that his being the tallest,
seemed to fit him peculiarly for the Baron.
She was acknowledged to be quite right, and
the two parts being accepted accordingly,
she was certain of the proper Frederick. Three
of the characters were now cast, besides Mr.
Rushworth, who was always answered for by
Maria as willing to do anything; when Julia,
meaning, like her sister, to be Agatha, began
to be scrupulous on Miss Crawford’s account.
“This is not behaving well by the absent,”
said she. “Here are not women enough. Amelia
and Agatha may do for Maria and me, but here
is nothing for your sister, Mr. Crawford.”
Mr. Crawford desired that might not be thought
of: he was very sure his sister had no wish
of acting but as she might be useful, and
that she would not allow herself to be considered
in the present case. But this was immediately
opposed by Tom Bertram, who asserted the part
of Amelia to be in every respect the property
of Miss Crawford, if she would accept it.
“It falls as naturally, as necessarily to
her,” said he, “as Agatha does to one
or other of my sisters. It can be no sacrifice
on their side, for it is highly comic.”
A short silence followed. Each sister looked
anxious; for each felt the best claim to Agatha,
and was hoping to have it pressed on her by
the rest. Henry Crawford, who meanwhile had
taken up the play, and with seeming carelessness
was turning over the first act, soon settled
the business.
“I must entreat Miss Julia Bertram,” said
he, “not to engage in the part of Agatha,
or it will be the ruin of all my solemnity.
You must not, indeed you must not” (turning
to her). “I could not stand your countenance
dressed up in woe and paleness. The many laughs
we have had together would infallibly come
across me, and Frederick and his knapsack
would be obliged to run away.”
Pleasantly, courteously, it was spoken; but
the manner was lost in the matter to Julia’s
feelings. She saw a glance at Maria which
confirmed the injury to herself: it was a
scheme, a trick; she was slighted, Maria was
preferred; the smile of triumph which Maria
was trying to suppress shewed how well it
was understood; and before Julia could command
herself enough to speak, her brother gave
his weight against her too, by saying, “Oh
yes! Maria must be Agatha. Maria will be the
best Agatha. Though Julia fancies she prefers
tragedy, I would not trust her in it. There
is nothing of tragedy about her. She has not
the look of it. Her features are not tragic
features, and she walks too quick, and speaks
too quick, and would not keep her countenance.
She had better do the old countrywoman: the
Cottager’s wife; you had, indeed, Julia.
Cottager’s wife is a very pretty part, I
assure you. The old lady relieves the high-flown
benevolence of her husband with a good deal
of spirit. You shall be Cottager’s wife.”
“Cottager’s wife!” cried Mr. Yates.
“What are you talking of? The most trivial,
paltry, insignificant part; the merest commonplace;
not a tolerable speech in the whole. Your
sister do that! It is an insult to propose
it. At Ecclesford the governess was to have
done it. We all agreed that it could not be
offered to anybody else. A little more justice,
Mr. Manager, if you please. You do not deserve
the office, if you cannot appreciate the talents
of your company a little better.”
“Why, as to that, my good friend, till I
and my company have really acted there must
be some guesswork; but I mean no disparagement
to Julia. We cannot have two Agathas, and
we must have one Cottager’s wife; and I
am sure I set her the example of moderation
myself in being satisfied with the old Butler.
If the part is trifling she will have more
credit in making something of it; and if she
is so desperately bent against everything
humorous, let her take Cottager’s speeches
instead of Cottager’s wife’s, and so change
the parts all through; he is solemn and pathetic
enough, I am sure. It could make no difference
in the play, and as for Cottager himself,
when he has got his wife’s speeches, I would
undertake him with all my heart.”
“With all your partiality for Cottager’s
wife,” said Henry Crawford, “it will be
impossible to make anything of it fit for
your sister, and we must not suffer her good-nature
to be imposed on. We must not allow her to
accept the part. She must not be left to her
own complaisance. Her talents will be wanted
in Amelia. Amelia is a character more difficult
to be well represented than even Agatha. I
consider Amelia is the most difficult character
in the whole piece. It requires great powers,
great nicety, to give her playfulness and
simplicity without extravagance. I have seen
good actresses fail in the part. Simplicity,
indeed, is beyond the reach of almost every
actress by profession. It requires a delicacy
of feeling which they have not. It requires
a gentlewoman—a Julia Bertram. You will
undertake it, I hope?” turning to her with
a look of anxious entreaty, which softened
her a little; but while she hesitated what
to say, her brother again interposed with
Miss Crawford’s better claim.
“No, no, Julia must not be Amelia. It is
not at all the part for her. She would not
like it. She would not do well. She is too
tall and robust. Amelia should be a small,
light, girlish, skipping figure. It is fit
for Miss Crawford, and Miss Crawford only.
She looks the part, and I am persuaded will
do it admirably.”
Without attending to this, Henry Crawford
continued his supplication. “You must oblige
us,” said he, “indeed you must. When you
have studied the character, I am sure you
will feel it suit you. Tragedy may be your
choice, but it will certainly appear that
comedy chuses you. You will be to visit me
in prison with a basket of provisions; you
will not refuse to visit me in prison? I think
I see you coming in with your basket.”
The influence of his voice was felt. Julia
wavered; but was he only trying to soothe
and pacify her, and make her overlook the
previous affront? She distrusted him. The
slight had been most determined. He was, perhaps,
but at treacherous play with her. She looked
suspiciously at her sister; Maria’s countenance
was to decide it: if she were vexed and alarmed—but
Maria looked all serenity and satisfaction,
and Julia well knew that on this ground Maria
could not be happy but at her expense. With
hasty indignation, therefore, and a tremulous
voice, she said to him, “You do not seem
afraid of not keeping your countenance when
I come in with a basket of provisions—though
one might have supposed—but it is only as
Agatha that I was to be so overpowering!”
She stopped—Henry Crawford looked rather
foolish, and as if he did not know what to
say. Tom Bertram began again—
“Miss Crawford must be Amelia. She will
be an excellent Amelia.”
“Do not be afraid of my wanting the character,”
cried Julia, with angry quickness: “I am
not to be Agatha, and I am sure I will do
nothing else; and as to Amelia, it is of all
parts in the world the most disgusting to
me. I quite detest her. An odious, little,
pert, unnatural, impudent girl. I have always
protested against comedy, and this is comedy
in its worst form.” And so saying, she walked
hastily out of the room, leaving awkward feelings
to more than one, but exciting small compassion
in any except Fanny, who had been a quiet
auditor of the whole, and who could not think
of her as under the agitations of jealousy
without great pity.
A short silence succeeded her leaving them;
but her brother soon returned to business
and Lovers’ Vows, and was eagerly looking
over the play, with Mr. Yates’s help, to
ascertain what scenery would be necessary—while
Maria and Henry Crawford conversed together
in an under-voice, and the declaration with
which she began of, “I am sure I would give
up the part to Julia most willingly, but that
though I shall probably do it very ill, I
feel persuaded she would do it worse,” was
doubtless receiving all the compliments it
called for.
When this had lasted some time, the division
of the party was completed by Tom Bertram
and Mr. Yates walking off together to consult
farther in the room now beginning to be called
the Theatre, and Miss Bertram’s resolving
to go down to the Parsonage herself with the
offer of Amelia to Miss Crawford; and Fanny
remained alone.
The first use she made of her solitude was
to take up the volume which had been left
on the table, and begin to acquaint herself
with the play of which she had heard so much.
Her curiosity was all awake, and she ran through
it with an eagerness which was suspended only
by intervals of astonishment, that it could
be chosen in the present instance, that it
could be proposed and accepted in a private
theatre! Agatha and Amelia appeared to her
in their different ways so totally improper
for home representation—the situation of
one, and the language of the other, so unfit
to be expressed by any woman of modesty, that
she could hardly suppose her cousins could
be aware of what they were engaging in; and
longed to have them roused as soon as possible
by the remonstrance which Edmund would certainly
make.
CHAPTER XV
Miss Crawford accepted the part very readily;
and soon after Miss Bertram’s return from
the Parsonage, Mr. Rushworth arrived, and
another character was consequently cast. He
had the offer of Count Cassel and Anhalt,
and at first did not know which to chuse,
and wanted Miss Bertram to direct him; but
upon being made to understand the different
style of the characters, and which was which,
and recollecting that he had once seen the
play in London, and had thought Anhalt a very
stupid fellow, he soon decided for the Count.
Miss Bertram approved the decision, for the
less he had to learn the better; and though
she could not sympathise in his wish that
the Count and Agatha might be to act together,
nor wait very patiently while he was slowly
turning over the leaves with the hope of still
discovering such a scene, she very kindly
took his part in hand, and curtailed every
speech that admitted being shortened; besides
pointing out the necessity of his being very
much dressed, and chusing his colours. Mr.
Rushworth liked the idea of his finery very
well, though affecting to despise it; and
was too much engaged with what his own appearance
would be to think of the others, or draw any
of those conclusions, or feel any of that
displeasure which Maria had been half prepared
for.
Thus much was settled before Edmund, who had
been out all the morning, knew anything of
the matter; but when he entered the drawing-room
before dinner, the buzz of discussion was
high between Tom, Maria, and Mr. Yates; and
Mr. Rushworth stepped forward with great alacrity
to tell him the agreeable news.
“We have got a play,” said he. “It is
to be Lovers’ Vows; and I am to be Count
Cassel, and am to come in first with a blue
dress and a pink satin cloak, and afterwards
am to have another fine fancy suit, by way
of a shooting-dress. I do not know how I shall
like it.”
Fanny’s eyes followed Edmund, and her heart
beat for him as she heard this speech, and
saw his look, and felt what his sensations
must be.
“Lovers’ Vows!” in a tone of the greatest
amazement, was his only reply to Mr. Rushworth,
and he turned towards his brother and sisters
as if hardly doubting a contradiction.
“Yes,” cried Mr. Yates. “After all our
debatings and difficulties, we find there
is nothing that will suit us altogether so
well, nothing so unexceptionable, as Lovers’
Vows. The wonder is that it should not have
been thought of before. My stupidity was abominable,
for here we have all the advantage of what
I saw at Ecclesford; and it is so useful to
have anything of a model! We have cast almost
every part.”
“But what do you do for women?” said Edmund
gravely, and looking at Maria.
Maria blushed in spite of herself as she answered,
“I take the part which Lady Ravenshaw was
to have done, and” (with a bolder eye) “Miss
Crawford is to be Amelia.”
“I should not have thought it the sort of
play to be so easily filled up, with us,”
replied Edmund, turning away to the fire,
where sat his mother, aunt, and Fanny, and
seating himself with a look of great vexation.
Mr. Rushworth followed him to say, “I come
in three times, and have two-and-forty speeches.
That’s something, is not it? But I do not
much like the idea of being so fine. I shall
hardly know myself in a blue dress and a pink
satin cloak.”
Edmund could not answer him. In a few minutes
Mr. Bertram was called out of the room to
satisfy some doubts of the carpenter; and
being accompanied by Mr. Yates, and followed
soon afterwards by Mr. Rushworth, Edmund almost
immediately took the opportunity of saying,
“I cannot, before Mr. Yates, speak what
I feel as to this play, without reflecting
on his friends at Ecclesford; but I must now,
my dear Maria, tell you, that I think it exceedingly
unfit for private representation, and that
I hope you will give it up. I cannot but suppose
you will when you have read it carefully over.
Read only the first act aloud to either your
mother or aunt, and see how you can approve
it. It will not be necessary to send you to
your father’s judgment, I am convinced.”
“We see things very differently,” cried
Maria. “I am perfectly acquainted with the
play, I assure you; and with a very few omissions,
and so forth, which will be made, of course,
I can see nothing objectionable in it; and
I am not the only young woman you find who
thinks it very fit for private representation.”
“I am sorry for it,” was his answer; “but
in this matter it is you who are to lead.
You must set the example. If others have blundered,
it is your place to put them right, and shew
them what true delicacy is. In all points
of decorum your conduct must be law to the
rest of the party.”
This picture of her consequence had some effect,
for no one loved better to lead than Maria;
and with far more good-humour she answered,
“I am much obliged to you, Edmund; you mean
very well, I am sure: but I still think you
see things too strongly; and I really cannot
undertake to harangue all the rest upon a
subject of this kind. There would be the greatest
indecorum, I think.”
“Do you imagine that I could have such an
idea in my head? No; let your conduct be the
only harangue. Say that, on examining the
part, you feel yourself unequal to it; that
you find it requiring more exertion and confidence
than you can be supposed to have. Say this
with firmness, and it will be quite enough.
All who can distinguish will understand your
motive. The play will be given up, and your
delicacy honoured as it ought.”
“Do not act anything improper, my dear,”
said Lady Bertram. “Sir Thomas would not
like it.—Fanny, ring the bell; I must have
my dinner.—To be sure, Julia is dressed
by this time.”
“I am convinced, madam,” said Edmund,
preventing Fanny, “that Sir Thomas would
not like it.”
“There, my dear, do you hear what Edmund
says?”
“If I were to decline the part,” said
Maria, with renewed zeal, “Julia would certainly
take it.”
“What!” cried Edmund, “if she knew your
reasons!”
“Oh! she might think the difference between
us—the difference in our situations—that
she need not be so scrupulous as I might feel
necessary. I am sure she would argue so. No;
you must excuse me; I cannot retract my consent;
it is too far settled, everybody would be
so disappointed, Tom would be quite angry;
and if we are so very nice, we shall never
act anything.”
“I was just going to say the very same thing,”
said Mrs. Norris. “If every play is to be
objected to, you will act nothing, and the
preparations will be all so much money thrown
away, and I am sure that would be a discredit
to us all. I do not know the play; but, as
Maria says, if there is anything a little
too warm (and it is so with most of them)
it can be easily left out. We must not be
over-precise, Edmund. As Mr. Rushworth is
to act too, there can be no harm. I only wish
Tom had known his own mind when the carpenters
began, for there was the loss of half a day’s
work about those side-doors. The curtain will
be a good job, however. The maids do their
work very well, and I think we shall be able
to send back some dozens of the rings. There
is no occasion to put them so very close together.
I am of some use, I hope, in preventing waste
and making the most of things. There should
always be one steady head to superintend so
many young ones. I forgot to tell Tom of something
that happened to me this very day. I had been
looking about me in the poultry-yard, and
was just coming out, when who should I see
but Dick Jackson making up to the servants’
hall-door with two bits of deal board in his
hand, bringing them to father, you may be
sure; mother had chanced to send him of a
message to father, and then father had bid
him bring up them two bits of board, for he
could not no how do without them. I knew what
all this meant, for the servants’ dinner-bell
was ringing at the very moment over our heads;
and as I hate such encroaching people (the
Jacksons are very encroaching, I have always
said so: just the sort of people to get all
they can), I said to the boy directly (a great
lubberly fellow of ten years old, you know,
who ought to be ashamed of himself), ‘I’ll
take the boards to your father, Dick, so get
you home again as fast as you can.’ The
boy looked very silly, and turned away without
offering a word, for I believe I might speak
pretty sharp; and I dare say it will cure
him of coming marauding about the house for
one while. I hate such greediness—so good
as your father is to the family, employing
the man all the year round!”
Nobody was at the trouble of an answer; the
others soon returned; and Edmund found that
to have endeavoured to set them right must
be his only satisfaction.
Dinner passed heavily. Mrs. Norris related
again her triumph over Dick Jackson, but neither
play nor preparation were otherwise much talked
of, for Edmund’s disapprobation was felt
even by his brother, though he would not have
owned it. Maria, wanting Henry Crawford’s
animating support, thought the subject better
avoided. Mr. Yates, who was trying to make
himself agreeable to Julia, found her gloom
less impenetrable on any topic than that of
his regret at her secession from their company;
and Mr. Rushworth, having only his own part
and his own dress in his head, had soon talked
away all that could be said of either.
But the concerns of the theatre were suspended
only for an hour or two: there was still a
great deal to be settled; and the spirits
of evening giving fresh courage, Tom, Maria,
and Mr. Yates, soon after their being reassembled
in the drawing-room, seated themselves in
committee at a separate table, with the play
open before them, and were just getting deep
in the subject when a most welcome interruption
was given by the entrance of Mr. and Miss
Crawford, who, late and dark and dirty as
it was, could not help coming, and were received
with the most grateful joy.
“Well, how do you go on?” and “What
have you settled?” and “Oh! we can do
nothing without you,” followed the first
salutations; and Henry Crawford was soon seated
with the other three at the table, while his
sister made her way to Lady Bertram, and with
pleasant attention was complimenting her.
“I must really congratulate your ladyship,”
said she, “on the play being chosen; for
though you have borne it with exemplary patience,
I am sure you must be sick of all our noise
and difficulties. The actors may be glad,
but the bystanders must be infinitely more
thankful for a decision; and I do sincerely
give you joy, madam, as well as Mrs. Norris,
and everybody else who is in the same predicament,”
glancing half fearfully, half slyly, beyond
Fanny to Edmund.
She was very civilly answered by Lady Bertram,
but Edmund said nothing. His being only a
bystander was not disclaimed. After continuing
in chat with the party round the fire a few
minutes, Miss Crawford returned to the party
round the table; and standing by them, seemed
to interest herself in their arrangements
till, as if struck by a sudden recollection,
she exclaimed, “My good friends, you are
most composedly at work upon these cottages
and alehouses, inside and out; but pray let
me know my fate in the meanwhile. Who is to
be Anhalt? What gentleman among you am I to
have the pleasure of making love to?”
For a moment no one spoke; and then many spoke
together to tell the same melancholy truth,
that they had not yet got any Anhalt. “Mr.
Rushworth was to be Count Cassel, but no one
had yet undertaken Anhalt.”
“I had my choice of the parts,” said Mr.
Rushworth; “but I thought I should like
the Count best, though I do not much relish
the finery I am to have.”
“You chose very wisely, I am sure,” replied
Miss Crawford, with a brightened look; “Anhalt
is a heavy part.”
“The Count has two-and-forty speeches,”
returned Mr. Rushworth, “which is no trifle.”
“I am not at all surprised,” said Miss
Crawford, after a short pause, “at this
want of an Anhalt. Amelia deserves no better.
Such a forward young lady may well frighten
the men.”
“I should be but too happy in taking the
part, if it were possible,” cried Tom; “but,
unluckily, the Butler and Anhalt are in together.
I will not entirely give it up, however; I
will try what can be done—I will look it
over again.”
“Your brother should take the part,” said
Mr. Yates, in a low voice. “Do not you think
he would?”
“I shall not ask him,” replied Tom, in
a cold, determined manner.
Miss Crawford talked of something else, and
soon afterwards rejoined the party at the
fire.
“They do not want me at all,” said she,
seating herself. “I only puzzle them, and
oblige them to make civil speeches. Mr. Edmund
Bertram, as you do not act yourself, you will
be a disinterested adviser; and, therefore,
I apply to you. What shall we do for an Anhalt?
Is it practicable for any of the others to
double it? What is your advice?”
“My advice,” said he calmly, “is that
you change the play.”
“I should have no objection,” she replied;
“for though I should not particularly dislike
the part of Amelia if well supported, that
is, if everything went well, I shall be sorry
to be an inconvenience; but as they do not
chuse to hear your advice at that table”
(looking round), “it certainly will not
be taken.”
Edmund said no more.
“If any part could tempt you to act, I suppose
it would be Anhalt,” observed the lady archly,
after a short pause; “for he is a clergyman,
you know.”
“That circumstance would by no means tempt
me,” he replied, “for I should be sorry
to make the character ridiculous by bad acting.
It must be very difficult to keep Anhalt from
appearing a formal, solemn lecturer; and the
man who chuses the profession itself is, perhaps,
one of the last who would wish to represent
it on the stage.”
Miss Crawford was silenced, and with some
feelings of resentment and mortification,
moved her chair considerably nearer the tea-table,
and gave all her attention to Mrs. Norris,
who was presiding there.
“Fanny,” cried Tom Bertram, from the other
table, where the conference was eagerly carrying
on, and the conversation incessant, “we
want your services.”
Fanny was up in a moment, expecting some errand;
for the habit of employing her in that way
was not yet overcome, in spite of all that
Edmund could do.
“Oh! we do not want to disturb you from
your seat. We do not want your present services.
We shall only want you in our play. You must
be Cottager’s wife.”
“Me!” cried Fanny, sitting down again
with a most frightened look. “Indeed you
must excuse me. I could not act anything if
you were to give me the world. No, indeed,
I cannot act.”
“Indeed, but you must, for we cannot excuse
you. It need not frighten you: it is a nothing
of a part, a mere nothing, not above half
a dozen speeches altogether, and it will not
much signify if nobody hears a word you say;
so you may be as creep-mouse as you like,
but we must have you to look at.”
“If you are afraid of half a dozen speeches,”
cried Mr. Rushworth, “what would you do
with such a part as mine? I have forty-two
to learn.”
“It is not that I am afraid of learning
by heart,” said Fanny, shocked to find herself
at that moment the only speaker in the room,
and to feel that almost every eye was upon
her; “but I really cannot act.”
“Yes, yes, you can act well enough for us.
Learn your part, and we will teach you all
the rest. You have only two scenes, and as
I shall be Cottager, I’ll put you in and
push you about, and you will do it very well,
I’ll answer for it.”
“No, indeed, Mr. Bertram, you must excuse
me. You cannot have an idea. It would be absolutely
impossible for me. If I were to undertake
it, I should only disappoint you.”
“Phoo! Phoo! Do not be so shamefaced. You’ll
do it very well. Every allowance will be made
for you. We do not expect perfection. You
must get a brown gown, and a white apron,
and a mob cap, and we must make you a few
wrinkles, and a little of the crowsfoot at
the corner of your eyes, and you will be a
very proper, little old woman.”
“You must excuse me, indeed you must excuse
me,” cried Fanny, growing more and more
red from excessive agitation, and looking
distressfully at Edmund, who was kindly observing
her; but unwilling to exasperate his brother
by interference, gave her only an encouraging
smile. Her entreaty had no effect on Tom:
he only said again what he had said before;
and it was not merely Tom, for the requisition
was now backed by Maria, and Mr. Crawford,
and Mr. Yates, with an urgency which differed
from his but in being more gentle or more
ceremonious, and which altogether was quite
overpowering to Fanny; and before she could
breathe after it, Mrs. Norris completed the
whole by thus addressing her in a whisper
at once angry and audible—“What a piece
of work here is about nothing: I am quite
ashamed of you, Fanny, to make such a difficulty
of obliging your cousins in a trifle of this
sort—so kind as they are to you! Take the
part with a good grace, and let us hear no
more of the matter, I entreat.”
“Do not urge her, madam,” said Edmund.
“It is not fair to urge her in this manner.
You see she does not like to act. Let her
chuse for herself, as well as the rest of
us. Her judgment may be quite as safely trusted.
Do not urge her any more.”
“I am not going to urge her,” replied
Mrs. Norris sharply; “but I shall think
her a very obstinate, ungrateful girl, if
she does not do what her aunt and cousins
wish her—very ungrateful, indeed, considering
who and what she is.”
Edmund was too angry to speak; but Miss Crawford,
looking for a moment with astonished eyes
at Mrs. Norris, and then at Fanny, whose tears
were beginning to shew themselves, immediately
said, with some keenness, “I do not like
my situation: this place is too hot for me,”
and moved away her chair to the opposite side
of the table, close to Fanny, saying to her,
in a kind, low whisper, as she placed herself,
“Never mind, my dear Miss Price, this is
a cross evening: everybody is cross and teasing,
but do not let us mind them”; and with pointed
attention continued to talk to her and endeavour
to raise her spirits, in spite of being out
of spirits herself. By a look at her brother
she prevented any farther entreaty from the
theatrical board, and the really good feelings
by which she was almost purely governed were
rapidly restoring her to all the little she
had lost in Edmund’s favour.
Fanny did not love Miss Crawford; but she
felt very much obliged to her for her present
kindness; and when, from taking notice of
her work, and wishing she could work as well,
and begging for the pattern, and supposing
Fanny was now preparing for her appearance,
as of course she would come out when her cousin
was married, Miss Crawford proceeded to inquire
if she had heard lately from her brother at
sea, and said that she had quite a curiosity
to see him, and imagined him a very fine young
man, and advised Fanny to get his picture
drawn before he went to sea again—she could
not help admitting it to be very agreeable
flattery, or help listening, and answering
with more animation than she had intended.
The consultation upon the play still went
on, and Miss Crawford’s attention was first
called from Fanny by Tom Bertram’s telling
her, with infinite regret, that he found it
absolutely impossible for him to undertake
the part of Anhalt in addition to the Butler:
he had been most anxiously trying to make
it out to be feasible, but it would not do;
he must give it up. “But there will not
be the smallest difficulty in filling it,”
he added. “We have but to speak the word;
we may pick and chuse. I could name, at this
moment, at least six young men within six
miles of us, who are wild to be admitted into
our company, and there are one or two that
would not disgrace us: I should not be afraid
to trust either of the Olivers or Charles
Maddox. Tom Oliver is a very clever fellow,
and Charles Maddox is as gentlemanlike a man
as you will see anywhere, so I will take my
horse early to-morrow morning and ride over
to Stoke, and settle with one of them.”
While he spoke, Maria was looking apprehensively
round at Edmund in full expectation that he
must oppose such an enlargement of the plan
as this: so contrary to all their first protestations;
but Edmund said nothing. After a moment’s
thought, Miss Crawford calmly replied, “As
far as I am concerned, I can have no objection
to anything that you all think eligible. Have
I ever seen either of the gentlemen? Yes,
Mr. Charles Maddox dined at my sister’s
one day, did not he, Henry? A quiet-looking
young man. I remember him. Let him be applied
to, if you please, for it will be less unpleasant
to me than to have a perfect stranger.”
Charles Maddox was to be the man. Tom repeated
his resolution of going to him early on the
morrow; and though Julia, who had scarcely
opened her lips before, observed, in a sarcastic
manner, and with a glance first at Maria and
then at Edmund, that “the Mansfield theatricals
would enliven the whole neighbourhood exceedingly,”
Edmund still held his peace, and shewed his
feelings only by a determined gravity.
“I am not very sanguine as to our play,”
said Miss Crawford, in an undervoice to Fanny,
after some consideration; “and I can tell
Mr. Maddox that I shall shorten some of his
speeches, and a great many of my own, before
we rehearse together. It will be very disagreeable,
and by no means what I expected.”
CHAPTER XVI
It was not in Miss Crawford’s power to talk
Fanny into any real forgetfulness of what
had passed. When the evening was over, she
went to bed full of it, her nerves still agitated
by the shock of such an attack from her cousin
Tom, so public and so persevered in, and her
spirits sinking under her aunt’s unkind
reflection and reproach. To be called into
notice in such a manner, to hear that it was
but the prelude to something so infinitely
worse, to be told that she must do what was
so impossible as to act; and then to have
the charge of obstinacy and ingratitude follow
it, enforced with such a hint at the dependence
of her situation, had been too distressing
at the time to make the remembrance when she
was alone much less so, especially with the
superadded dread of what the morrow might
produce in continuation of the subject. Miss
Crawford had protected her only for the time;
and if she were applied to again among themselves
with all the authoritative urgency that Tom
and Maria were capable of, and Edmund perhaps
away, what should she do? She fell asleep
before she could answer the question, and
found it quite as puzzling when she awoke
the next morning. The little white attic,
which had continued her sleeping-room ever
since her first entering the family, proving
incompetent to suggest any reply, she had
recourse, as soon as she was dressed, to another
apartment more spacious and more meet for
walking about in and thinking, and of which
she had now for some time been almost equally
mistress. It had been their school-room; so
called till the Miss Bertrams would not allow
it to be called so any longer, and inhabited
as such to a later period. There Miss Lee
had lived, and there they had read and written,
and talked and laughed, till within the last
three years, when she had quitted them. The
room had then become useless, and for some
time was quite deserted, except by Fanny,
when she visited her plants, or wanted one
of the books, which she was still glad to
keep there, from the deficiency of space and
accommodation in her little chamber above:
but gradually, as her value for the comforts
of it increased, she had added to her possessions,
and spent more of her time there; and having
nothing to oppose her, had so naturally and
so artlessly worked herself into it, that
it was now generally admitted to be hers.
The East room, as it had been called ever
since Maria Bertram was sixteen, was now considered
Fanny’s, almost as decidedly as the white
attic: the smallness of the one making the
use of the other so evidently reasonable that
the Miss Bertrams, with every superiority
in their own apartments which their own sense
of superiority could demand, were entirely
approving it; and Mrs. Norris, having stipulated
for there never being a fire in it on Fanny’s
account, was tolerably resigned to her having
the use of what nobody else wanted, though
the terms in which she sometimes spoke of
the indulgence seemed to imply that it was
the best room in the house.
The aspect was so favourable that even without
a fire it was habitable in many an early spring
and late autumn morning to such a willing
mind as Fanny’s; and while there was a gleam
of sunshine she hoped not to be driven from
it entirely, even when winter came. The comfort
of it in her hours of leisure was extreme.
She could go there after anything unpleasant
below, and find immediate consolation in some
pursuit, or some train of thought at hand.
Her plants, her books—of which she had been
a collector from the first hour of her commanding
a shilling—her writing-desk, and her works
of charity and ingenuity, were all within
her reach; or if indisposed for employment,
if nothing but musing would do, she could
scarcely see an object in that room which
had not an interesting remembrance connected
with it. Everything was a friend, or bore
her thoughts to a friend; and though there
had been sometimes much of suffering to her;
though her motives had often been misunderstood,
her feelings disregarded, and her comprehension
undervalued; though she had known the pains
of tyranny, of ridicule, and neglect, yet
almost every recurrence of either had led
to something consolatory: her aunt Bertram
had spoken for her, or Miss Lee had been encouraging,
or, what was yet more frequent or more dear,
Edmund had been her champion and her friend:
he had supported her cause or explained her
meaning, he had told her not to cry, or had
given her some proof of affection which made
her tears delightful; and the whole was now
so blended together, so harmonised by distance,
that every former affliction had its charm.
The room was most dear to her, and she would
not have changed its furniture for the handsomest
in the house, though what had been originally
plain had suffered all the ill-usage of children;
and its greatest elegancies and ornaments
were a faded footstool of Julia’s work,
too ill done for the drawing-room, three transparencies,
made in a rage for transparencies, for the
three lower panes of one window, where Tintern
Abbey held its station between a cave in Italy
and a moonlight lake in Cumberland, a collection
of family profiles, thought unworthy of being
anywhere else, over the mantelpiece, and by
their side, and pinned against the wall, a
small sketch of a ship sent four years ago
from the Mediterranean by William, with H.M.S.
Antwerp at the bottom, in letters as tall
as the mainmast.
To this nest of comforts Fanny now walked
down to try its influence on an agitated,
doubting spirit, to see if by looking at Edmund’s
profile she could catch any of his counsel,
or by giving air to her geraniums she might
inhale a breeze of mental strength herself.
But she had more than fears of her own perseverance
to remove: she had begun to feel undecided
as to what she ought to do; and as she walked
round the room her doubts were increasing.
Was she right in refusing what was so warmly
asked, so strongly wished for—what might
be so essential to a scheme on which some
of those to whom she owed the greatest complaisance
had set their hearts? Was it not ill-nature,
selfishness, and a fear of exposing herself?
And would Edmund’s judgment, would his persuasion
of Sir Thomas’s disapprobation of the whole,
be enough to justify her in a determined denial
in spite of all the rest? It would be so horrible
to her to act that she was inclined to suspect
the truth and purity of her own scruples;
and as she looked around her, the claims of
her cousins to being obliged were strengthened
by the sight of present upon present that
she had received from them. The table between
the windows was covered with work-boxes and
netting-boxes which had been given her at
different times, principally by Tom; and she
grew bewildered as to the amount of the debt
which all these kind remembrances produced.
A tap at the door roused her in the midst
of this attempt to find her way to her duty,
and her gentle “Come in” was answered
by the appearance of one, before whom all
her doubts were wont to be laid. Her eyes
brightened at the sight of Edmund.
“Can I speak with you, Fanny, for a few
minutes?” said he.
“Yes, certainly.”
“I want to consult. I want your opinion.”
“My opinion!” she cried, shrinking from
such a compliment, highly as it gratified
her.
“Yes, your advice and opinion. I do not
know what to do. This acting scheme gets worse
and worse, you see. They have chosen almost
as bad a play as they could, and now, to complete
the business, are going to ask the help of
a young man very slightly known to any of
us. This is the end of all the privacy and
propriety which was talked about at first.
I know no harm of Charles Maddox; but the
excessive intimacy which must spring from
his being admitted among us in this manner
is highly objectionable, the more than intimacy—the
familiarity. I cannot think of it with any
patience; and it does appear to me an evil
of such magnitude as must, if possible, be
prevented. Do not you see it in the same light?”
“Yes; but what can be done? Your brother
is so determined.”
“There is but one thing to be done, Fanny.
I must take Anhalt myself. I am well aware
that nothing else will quiet Tom.”
Fanny could not answer him.
“It is not at all what I like,” he continued.
“No man can like being driven into the appearance
of such inconsistency. After being known to
oppose the scheme from the beginning, there
is absurdity in the face of my joining them
now, when they are exceeding their first plan
in every respect; but I can think of no other
alternative. Can you, Fanny?”
“No,” said Fanny slowly, “not immediately,
but—”
“But what? I see your judgment is not with
me. Think it a little over. Perhaps you are
not so much aware as I am of the mischief
that may, of the unpleasantness that must
arise from a young man’s being received
in this manner: domesticated among us; authorised
to come at all hours, and placed suddenly
on a footing which must do away all restraints.
To think only of the licence which every rehearsal
must tend to create. It is all very bad! Put
yourself in Miss Crawford’s place, Fanny.
Consider what it would be to act Amelia with
a stranger. She has a right to be felt for,
because she evidently feels for herself. I
heard enough of what she said to you last
night to understand her unwillingness to be
acting with a stranger; and as she probably
engaged in the part with different expectations—perhaps
without considering the subject enough to
know what was likely to be—it would be ungenerous,
it would be really wrong to expose her to
it. Her feelings ought to be respected. Does
it not strike you so, Fanny? You hesitate.”
“I am sorry for Miss Crawford; but I am
more sorry to see you drawn in to do what
you had resolved against, and what you are
known to think will be disagreeable to my
uncle. It will be such a triumph to the others!”
“They will not have much cause of triumph
when they see how infamously I act. But, however,
triumph there certainly will be, and I must
brave it. But if I can be the means of restraining
the publicity of the business, of limiting
the exhibition, of concentrating our folly,
I shall be well repaid. As I am now, I have
no influence, I can do nothing: I have offended
them, and they will not hear me; but when
I have put them in good-humour by this concession,
I am not without hopes of persuading them
to confine the representation within a much
smaller circle than they are now in the high
road for. This will be a material gain. My
object is to confine it to Mrs. Rushworth
and the Grants. Will not this be worth gaining?”
“Yes, it will be a great point.”
“But still it has not your approbation.
Can you mention any other measure by which
I have a chance of doing equal good?”
“No, I cannot think of anything else.”
“Give me your approbation, then, Fanny.
I am not comfortable without it.”
“Oh, cousin!”
“If you are against me, I ought to distrust
myself, and yet—But it is absolutely impossible
to let Tom go on in this way, riding about
the country in quest of anybody who can be
persuaded to act—no matter whom: the look
of a gentleman is to be enough. I thought
you would have entered more into Miss Crawford’s
feelings.”
“No doubt she will be very glad. It must
be a great relief to her,” said Fanny, trying
for greater warmth of manner.
“She never appeared more amiable than in
her behaviour to you last night. It gave her
a very strong claim on my goodwill.”
“She was very kind, indeed, and I am glad
to have her spared”...
She could not finish the generous effusion.
Her conscience stopt her in the middle, but
Edmund was satisfied.
“I shall walk down immediately after breakfast,”
said he, “and am sure of giving pleasure
there. And now, dear Fanny, I will not interrupt
you any longer. You want to be reading. But
I could not be easy till I had spoken to you,
and come to a decision. Sleeping or waking,
my head has been full of this matter all night.
It is an evil, but I am certainly making it
less than it might be. If Tom is up, I shall
go to him directly and get it over, and when
we meet at breakfast we shall be all in high
good-humour at the prospect of acting the
fool together with such unanimity. You, in
the meanwhile, will be taking a trip into
China, I suppose. How does Lord Macartney
go on?”—opening a volume on the table
and then taking up some others. “And here
are Crabbe’s Tales, and the Idler, at hand
to relieve you, if you tire of your great
book. I admire your little establishment exceedingly;
and as soon as I am gone, you will empty your
head of all this nonsense of acting, and sit
comfortably down to your table. But do not
stay here to be cold.”
He went; but there was no reading, no China,
no composure for Fanny. He had told her the
most extraordinary, the most inconceivable,
the most unwelcome news; and she could think
of nothing else. To be acting! After all his
objections—objections so just and so public!
After all that she had heard him say, and
seen him look, and known him to be feeling.
Could it be possible? Edmund so inconsistent!
Was he not deceiving himself? Was he not wrong?
Alas! it was all Miss Crawford’s doing.
She had seen her influence in every speech,
and was miserable. The doubts and alarms as
to her own conduct, which had previously distressed
her, and which had all slept while she listened
to him, were become of little consequence
now. This deeper anxiety swallowed them up.
Things should take their course; she cared
not how it ended. Her cousins might attack,
but could hardly tease her. She was beyond
their reach; and if at last obliged to yield—no
matter—it was all misery now.
CHAPTER XVII
It was, indeed, a triumphant day to Mr. Bertram
and Maria. Such a victory over Edmund’s
discretion had been beyond their hopes, and
was most delightful. There was no longer anything
to disturb them in their darling project,
and they congratulated each other in private
on the jealous weakness to which they attributed
the change, with all the glee of feelings
gratified in every way. Edmund might still
look grave, and say he did not like the scheme
in general, and must disapprove the play in
particular; their point was gained: he was
to act, and he was driven to it by the force
of selfish inclinations only. Edmund had descended
from that moral elevation which he had maintained
before, and they were both as much the better
as the happier for the descent.
They behaved very well, however, to him on
the occasion, betraying no exultation beyond
the lines about the corners of the mouth,
and seemed to think it as great an escape
to be quit of the intrusion of Charles Maddox,
as if they had been forced into admitting
him against their inclination. “To have
it quite in their own family circle was what
they had particularly wished. A stranger among
them would have been the destruction of all
their comfort”; and when Edmund, pursuing
that idea, gave a hint of his hope as to the
limitation of the audience, they were ready,
in the complaisance of the moment, to promise
anything. It was all good-humour and encouragement.
Mrs. Norris offered to contrive his dress,
Mr. Yates assured him that Anhalt’s last
scene with the Baron admitted a good deal
of action and emphasis, and Mr. Rushworth
undertook to count his speeches.
“Perhaps,” said Tom, “Fanny may be more
disposed to oblige us now. Perhaps you may
persuade her.”
“No, she is quite determined. She certainly
will not act.”
“Oh! very well.” And not another word
was said; but Fanny felt herself again in
danger, and her indifference to the danger
was beginning to fail her already.
There were not fewer smiles at the Parsonage
than at the Park on this change in Edmund;
Miss Crawford looked very lovely in hers,
and entered with such an instantaneous renewal
of cheerfulness into the whole affair as could
have but one effect on him. “He was certainly
right in respecting such feelings; he was
glad he had determined on it.” And the morning
wore away in satisfactions very sweet, if
not very sound. One advantage resulted from
it to Fanny: at the earnest request of Miss
Crawford, Mrs. Grant had, with her usual good-humour,
agreed to undertake the part for which Fanny
had been wanted; and this was all that occurred
to gladden her heart during the day; and even
this, when imparted by Edmund, brought a pang
with it, for it was Miss Crawford to whom
she was obliged—it was Miss Crawford whose
kind exertions were to excite her gratitude,
and whose merit in making them was spoken
of with a glow of admiration. She was safe;
but peace and safety were unconnected here.
Her mind had been never farther from peace.
She could not feel that she had done wrong
herself, but she was disquieted in every other
way. Her heart and her judgment were equally
against Edmund’s decision: she could not
acquit his unsteadiness, and his happiness
under it made her wretched. She was full of
jealousy and agitation. Miss Crawford came
with looks of gaiety which seemed an insult,
with friendly expressions towards herself
which she could hardly answer calmly. Everybody
around her was gay and busy, prosperous and
important; each had their object of interest,
their part, their dress, their favourite scene,
their friends and confederates: all were finding
employment in consultations and comparisons,
or diversion in the playful conceits they
suggested. She alone was sad and insignificant:
she had no share in anything; she might go
or stay; she might be in the midst of their
noise, or retreat from it to the solitude
of the East room, without being seen or missed.
She could almost think anything would have
been preferable to this. Mrs. Grant was of
consequence: her good-nature had honourable
mention; her taste and her time were considered;
her presence was wanted; she was sought for,
and attended, and praised; and Fanny was at
first in some danger of envying her the character
she had accepted. But reflection brought better
feelings, and shewed her that Mrs. Grant was
entitled to respect, which could never have
belonged to her; and that, had she received
even the greatest, she could never have been
easy in joining a scheme which, considering
only her uncle, she must condemn altogether.
Fanny’s heart was not absolutely the only
saddened one amongst them, as she soon began
to acknowledge to herself. Julia was a sufferer
too, though not quite so blamelessly.
Henry Crawford had trifled with her feelings;
but she had very long allowed and even sought
his attentions, with a jealousy of her sister
so reasonable as ought to have been their
cure; and now that the conviction of his preference
for Maria had been forced on her, she submitted
to it without any alarm for Maria’s situation,
or any endeavour at rational tranquillity
for herself. She either sat in gloomy silence,
wrapt in such gravity as nothing could subdue,
no curiosity touch, no wit amuse; or allowing
the attentions of Mr. Yates, was talking with
forced gaiety to him alone, and ridiculing
the acting of the others.
For a day or two after the affront was given,
Henry Crawford had endeavoured to do it away
by the usual attack of gallantry and compliment,
but he had not cared enough about it to persevere
against a few repulses; and becoming soon
too busy with his play to have time for more
than one flirtation, he grew indifferent to
the quarrel, or rather thought it a lucky
occurrence, as quietly putting an end to what
might ere long have raised expectations in
more than Mrs. Grant. She was not pleased
to see Julia excluded from the play, and sitting
by disregarded; but as it was not a matter
which really involved her happiness, as Henry
must be the best judge of his own, and as
he did assure her, with a most persuasive
smile, that neither he nor Julia had ever
had a serious thought of each other, she could
only renew her former caution as to the elder
sister, entreat him not to risk his tranquillity
by too much admiration there, and then gladly
take her share in anything that brought cheerfulness
to the young people in general, and that did
so particularly promote the pleasure of the
two so dear to her.
“I rather wonder Julia is not in love with
Henry,” was her observation to Mary.
“I dare say she is,” replied Mary coldly.
“I imagine both sisters are.”
“Both! no, no, that must not be. Do not
give him a hint of it. Think of Mr. Rushworth!”
“You had better tell Miss Bertram to think
of Mr. Rushworth. It may do her some good.
I often think of Mr. Rushworth’s property
and independence, and wish them in other hands;
but I never think of him. A man might represent
the county with such an estate; a man might
escape a profession and represent the county.”
“I dare say he will be in parliament soon.
When Sir Thomas comes, I dare say he will
be in for some borough, but there has been
nobody to put him in the way of doing anything
yet.”
“Sir Thomas is to achieve many mighty things
when he comes home,” said Mary, after a
pause. “Do you remember Hawkins Browne’s
‘Address to Tobacco,’ in imitation of
Pope?—
Blest leaf! whose aromatic gales dispense
To Templars modesty, to Parsons sense.
I will parody them—
Blest Knight! whose dictatorial looks dispense
To Children affluence, to Rushworth sense.
Will not that do, Mrs. Grant? Everything seems
to depend upon Sir Thomas’s return.”
“You will find his consequence very just
and reasonable when you see him in his family,
I assure you. I do not think we do so well
without him. He has a fine dignified manner,
which suits the head of such a house, and
keeps everybody in their place. Lady Bertram
seems more of a cipher now than when he is
at home; and nobody else can keep Mrs. Norris
in order. But, Mary, do not fancy that Maria
Bertram cares for Henry. I am sure Julia does
not, or she would not have flirted as she
did last night with Mr. Yates; and though
he and Maria are very good friends, I think
she likes Sotherton too well to be inconstant.”
“I would not give much for Mr. Rushworth’s
chance if Henry stept in before the articles
were signed.”
“If you have such a suspicion, something
must be done; and as soon as the play is all
over, we will talk to him seriously and make
him know his own mind; and if he means nothing,
we will send him off, though he is Henry,
for a time.”
Julia did suffer, however, though Mrs. Grant
discerned it not, and though it escaped the
notice of many of her own family likewise.
She had loved, she did love still, and she
had all the suffering which a warm temper
and a high spirit were likely to endure under
the disappointment of a dear, though irrational
hope, with a strong sense of ill-usage. Her
heart was sore and angry, and she was capable
only of angry consolations. The sister with
whom she was used to be on easy terms was
now become her greatest enemy: they were alienated
from each other; and Julia was not superior
to the hope of some distressing end to the
attentions which were still carrying on there,
some punishment to Maria for conduct so shameful
towards herself as well as towards Mr. Rushworth.
With no material fault of temper, or difference
of opinion, to prevent their being very good
friends while their interests were the same,
the sisters, under such a trial as this, had
not affection or principle enough to make
them merciful or just, to give them honour
or compassion. Maria felt her triumph, and
pursued her purpose, careless of Julia; and
Julia could never see Maria distinguished
by Henry Crawford without trusting that it
would create jealousy, and bring a public
disturbance at last.
Fanny saw and pitied much of this in Julia;
but there was no outward fellowship between
them. Julia made no communication, and Fanny
took no liberties. They were two solitary
sufferers, or connected only by Fanny’s
consciousness.
The inattention of the two brothers and the
aunt to Julia’s discomposure, and their
blindness to its true cause, must be imputed
to the fullness of their own minds. They were
totally preoccupied. Tom was engrossed by
the concerns of his theatre, and saw nothing
that did not immediately relate to it. Edmund,
between his theatrical and his real part,
between Miss Crawford’s claims and his own
conduct, between love and consistency, was
equally unobservant; and Mrs. Norris was too
busy in contriving and directing the general
little matters of the company, superintending
their various dresses with economical expedient,
for which nobody thanked her, and saving,
with delighted integrity, half a crown here
and there to the absent Sir Thomas, to have
leisure for watching the behaviour, or guarding
the happiness of his daughters.
CHAPTER XVIII
Everything was now in a regular train: theatre,
actors, actresses, and dresses, were all getting
forward; but though no other great impediments
arose, Fanny found, before many days were
past, that it was not all uninterrupted enjoyment
to the party themselves, and that she had
not to witness the continuance of such unanimity
and delight as had been almost too much for
her at first. Everybody began to have their
vexation. Edmund had many. Entirely against
his judgment, a scene-painter arrived from
town, and was at work, much to the increase
of the expenses, and, what was worse, of the
eclat of their proceedings; and his brother,
instead of being really guided by him as to
the privacy of the representation, was giving
an invitation to every family who came in
his way. Tom himself began to fret over the
scene-painter’s slow progress, and to feel
the miseries of waiting. He had learned his
part—all his parts, for he took every trifling
one that could be united with the Butler,
and began to be impatient to be acting; and
every day thus unemployed was tending to increase
his sense of the insignificance of all his
parts together, and make him more ready to
regret that some other play had not been chosen.
Fanny, being always a very courteous listener,
and often the only listener at hand, came
in for the complaints and the distresses of
most of them. She knew that Mr. Yates was
in general thought to rant dreadfully; that
Mr. Yates was disappointed in Henry Crawford;
that Tom Bertram spoke so quick he would be
unintelligible; that Mrs. Grant spoiled everything
by laughing; that Edmund was behindhand with
his part, and that it was misery to have anything
to do with Mr. Rushworth, who was wanting
a prompter through every speech. She knew,
also, that poor Mr. Rushworth could seldom
get anybody to rehearse with him: his complaint
came before her as well as the rest; and so
decided to her eye was her cousin Maria’s
avoidance of him, and so needlessly often
the rehearsal of the first scene between her
and Mr. Crawford, that she had soon all the
terror of other complaints from him. So far
from being all satisfied and all enjoying,
she found everybody requiring something they
had not, and giving occasion of discontent
to the others. Everybody had a part either
too long or too short; nobody would attend
as they ought; nobody would remember on which
side they were to come in; nobody but the
complainer would observe any directions.
Fanny believed herself to derive as much innocent
enjoyment from the play as any of them; Henry
Crawford acted well, and it was a pleasure
to her to creep into the theatre, and attend
the rehearsal of the first act, in spite of
the feelings it excited in some speeches for
Maria. Maria, she also thought, acted well,
too well; and after the first rehearsal or
two, Fanny began to be their only audience;
and sometimes as prompter, sometimes as spectator,
was often very useful. As far as she could
judge, Mr. Crawford was considerably the best
actor of all: he had more confidence than
Edmund, more judgment than Tom, more talent
and taste than Mr. Yates. She did not like
him as a man, but she must admit him to be
the best actor, and on this point there were
not many who differed from her. Mr. Yates,
indeed, exclaimed against his tameness and
insipidity; and the day came at last, when
Mr. Rushworth turned to her with a black look,
and said, “Do you think there is anything
so very fine in all this? For the life and
soul of me, I cannot admire him; and, between
ourselves, to see such an undersized, little,
mean-looking man, set up for a fine actor,
is very ridiculous in my opinion.”
From this moment there was a return of his
former jealousy, which Maria, from increasing
hopes of Crawford, was at little pains to
remove; and the chances of Mr. Rushworth’s
ever attaining to the knowledge of his two-and-forty
speeches became much less. As to his ever
making anything tolerable of them, nobody
had the smallest idea of that except his mother;
she, indeed, regretted that his part was not
more considerable, and deferred coming over
to Mansfield till they were forward enough
in their rehearsal to comprehend all his scenes;
but the others aspired at nothing beyond his
remembering the catchword, and the first line
of his speech, and being able to follow the
prompter through the rest. Fanny, in her pity
and kindheartedness, was at great pains to
teach him how to learn, giving him all the
helps and directions in her power, trying
to make an artificial memory for him, and
learning every word of his part herself, but
without his being much the forwarder.
Many uncomfortable, anxious, apprehensive
feelings she certainly had; but with all these,
and other claims on her time and attention,
she was as far from finding herself without
employment or utility amongst them, as without
a companion in uneasiness; quite as far from
having no demand on her leisure as on her
compassion. The gloom of her first anticipations
was proved to have been unfounded. She was
occasionally useful to all; she was perhaps
as much at peace as any.
There was a great deal of needlework to be
done, moreover, in which her help was wanted;
and that Mrs. Norris thought her quite as
well off as the rest, was evident by the manner
in which she claimed it—“Come, Fanny,”
she cried, “these are fine times for you,
but you must not be always walking from one
room to the other, and doing the lookings-on
at your ease, in this way; I want you here.
I have been slaving myself till I can hardly
stand, to contrive Mr. Rushworth’s cloak
without sending for any more satin; and now
I think you may give me your help in putting
it together. There are but three seams; you
may do them in a trice. It would be lucky
for me if I had nothing but the executive
part to do. You are best off, I can tell you:
but if nobody did more than you, we should
not get on very fast.”
Fanny took the work very quietly, without
attempting any defence; but her kinder aunt
Bertram observed on her behalf—
“One cannot wonder, sister, that Fanny should
be delighted: it is all new to her, you know;
you and I used to be very fond of a play ourselves,
and so am I still; and as soon as I am a little
more at leisure, I mean to look in at their
rehearsals too. What is the play about, Fanny?
you have never told me.”
“Oh! sister, pray do not ask her now; for
Fanny is not one of those who can talk and
work at the same time. It is about Lovers’
Vows.”
“I believe,” said Fanny to her aunt Bertram,
“there will be three acts rehearsed to-morrow
evening, and that will give you an opportunity
of seeing all the actors at once.”
“You had better stay till the curtain is
hung,” interposed Mrs. Norris; “the curtain
will be hung in a day or two—there is very
little sense in a play without a curtain—and
I am much mistaken if you do not find it draw
up into very handsome festoons.”
Lady Bertram seemed quite resigned to waiting.
Fanny did not share her aunt’s composure:
she thought of the morrow a great deal, for
if the three acts were rehearsed, Edmund and
Miss Crawford would then be acting together
for the first time; the third act would bring
a scene between them which interested her
most particularly, and which she was longing
and dreading to see how they would perform.
The whole subject of it was love—a marriage
of love was to be described by the gentleman,
and very little short of a declaration of
love be made by the lady.
She had read and read the scene again with
many painful, many wondering emotions, and
looked forward to their representation of
it as a circumstance almost too interesting.
She did not believe they had yet rehearsed
it, even in private.
The morrow came, the plan for the evening
continued, and Fanny’s consideration of
it did not become less agitated. She worked
very diligently under her aunt’s directions,
but her diligence and her silence concealed
a very absent, anxious mind; and about noon
she made her escape with her work to the East
room, that she might have no concern in another,
and, as she deemed it, most unnecessary rehearsal
of the first act, which Henry Crawford was
just proposing, desirous at once of having
her time to herself, and of avoiding the sight
of Mr. Rushworth. A glimpse, as she passed
through the hall, of the two ladies walking
up from the Parsonage made no change in her
wish of retreat, and she worked and meditated
in the East room, undisturbed, for a quarter
of an hour, when a gentle tap at the door
was followed by the entrance of Miss Crawford.
“Am I right? Yes; this is the East room.
My dear Miss Price, I beg your pardon, but
I have made my way to you on purpose to entreat
your help.”
Fanny, quite surprised, endeavoured to shew
herself mistress of the room by her civilities,
and looked at the bright bars of her empty
grate with concern.
“Thank you; I am quite warm, very warm.
Allow me to stay here a little while, and
do have the goodness to hear me my third act.
I have brought my book, and if you would but
rehearse it with me, I should be so obliged!
I came here to-day intending to rehearse it
with Edmund—by ourselves—against the evening,
but he is not in the way; and if he were,
I do not think I could go through it with
him, till I have hardened myself a little;
for really there is a speech or two. You will
be so good, won’t you?”
Fanny was most civil in her assurances, though
she could not give them in a very steady voice.
“Have you ever happened to look at the part
I mean?” continued Miss Crawford, opening
her book. “Here it is. I did not think much
of it at first—but, upon my word. There,
look at that speech, and that, and that. How
am I ever to look him in the face and say
such things? Could you do it? But then he
is your cousin, which makes all the difference.
You must rehearse it with me, that I may fancy
you him, and get on by degrees. You have a
look of his sometimes.”
“Have I? I will do my best with the greatest
readiness; but I must read the part, for I
can say very little of it.”
“None of it, I suppose. You are to have
the book, of course. Now for it. We must have
two chairs at hand for you to bring forward
to the front of the stage. There—very good
school-room chairs, not made for a theatre,
I dare say; much more fitted for little girls
to sit and kick their feet against when they
are learning a lesson. What would your governess
and your uncle say to see them used for such
a purpose? Could Sir Thomas look in upon us
just now, he would bless himself, for we are
rehearsing all over the house. Yates is storming
away in the dining-room. I heard him as I
came upstairs, and the theatre is engaged
of course by those indefatigable rehearsers,
Agatha and Frederick. If they are not perfect,
I shall be surprised. By the bye, I looked
in upon them five minutes ago, and it happened
to be exactly at one of the times when they
were trying not to embrace, and Mr. Rushworth
was with me. I thought he began to look a
little queer, so I turned it off as well as
I could, by whispering to him, ‘We shall
have an excellent Agatha; there is something
so maternal in her manner, so completely maternal
in her voice and countenance.’ Was not that
well done of me? He brightened up directly.
Now for my soliloquy.”
She began, and Fanny joined in with all the
modest feeling which the idea of representing
Edmund was so strongly calculated to inspire;
but with looks and voice so truly feminine
as to be no very good picture of a man. With
such an Anhalt, however, Miss Crawford had
courage enough; and they had got through half
the scene, when a tap at the door brought
a pause, and the entrance of Edmund, the next
moment, suspended it all.
Surprise, consciousness, and pleasure appeared
in each of the three on this unexpected meeting;
and as Edmund was come on the very same business
that had brought Miss Crawford, consciousness
and pleasure were likely to be more than momentary
in them. He too had his book, and was seeking
Fanny, to ask her to rehearse with him, and
help him to prepare for the evening, without
knowing Miss Crawford to be in the house;
and great was the joy and animation of being
thus thrown together, of comparing schemes,
and sympathising in praise of Fanny’s kind
offices.
She could not equal them in their warmth.
Her spirits sank under the glow of theirs,
and she felt herself becoming too nearly nothing
to both to have any comfort in having been
sought by either. They must now rehearse together.
Edmund proposed, urged, entreated it, till
the lady, not very unwilling at first, could
refuse no longer, and Fanny was wanted only
to prompt and observe them. She was invested,
indeed, with the office of judge and critic,
and earnestly desired to exercise it and tell
them all their faults; but from doing so every
feeling within her shrank—she could not,
would not, dared not attempt it: had she been
otherwise qualified for criticism, her conscience
must have restrained her from venturing at
disapprobation. She believed herself to feel
too much of it in the aggregate for honesty
or safety in particulars. To prompt them must
be enough for her; and it was sometimes more
than enough; for she could not always pay
attention to the book. In watching them she
forgot herself; and, agitated by the increasing
spirit of Edmund’s manner, had once closed
the page and turned away exactly as he wanted
help. It was imputed to very reasonable weariness,
and she was thanked and pitied; but she deserved
their pity more than she hoped they would
ever surmise. At last the scene was over,
and Fanny forced herself to add her praise
to the compliments each was giving the other;
and when again alone and able to recall the
whole, she was inclined to believe their performance
would, indeed, have such nature and feeling
in it as must ensure their credit, and make
it a very suffering exhibition to herself.
Whatever might be its effect, however, she
must stand the brunt of it again that very
day.
The first regular rehearsal of the three first
acts was certainly to take place in the evening:
Mrs. Grant and the Crawfords were engaged
to return for that purpose as soon as they
could after dinner; and every one concerned
was looking forward with eagerness. There
seemed a general diffusion of cheerfulness
on the occasion. Tom was enjoying such an
advance towards the end; Edmund was in spirits
from the morning’s rehearsal, and little
vexations seemed everywhere smoothed away.
All were alert and impatient; the ladies moved
soon, the gentlemen soon followed them, and
with the exception of Lady Bertram, Mrs. Norris,
and Julia, everybody was in the theatre at
an early hour; and having lighted it up as
well as its unfinished state admitted, were
waiting only the arrival of Mrs. Grant and
the Crawfords to begin.
They did not wait long for the Crawfords,
but there was no Mrs. Grant. She could not
come. Dr. Grant, professing an indisposition,
for which he had little credit with his fair
sister-in-law, could not spare his wife.
“Dr. Grant is ill,” said she, with mock
solemnity. “He has been ill ever since he
did not eat any of the pheasant today. He
fancied it tough, sent away his plate, and
has been suffering ever since”.
Here was disappointment! Mrs. Grant’s non-attendance
was sad indeed. Her pleasant manners and cheerful
conformity made her always valuable amongst
them; but now she was absolutely necessary.
They could not act, they could not rehearse
with any satisfaction without her. The comfort
of the whole evening was destroyed. What was
to be done? Tom, as Cottager, was in despair.
After a pause of perplexity, some eyes began
to be turned towards Fanny, and a voice or
two to say, “If Miss Price would be so good
as to read the part.” She was immediately
surrounded by supplications; everybody asked
it; even Edmund said, “Do, Fanny, if it
is not very disagreeable to you.”
But Fanny still hung back. She could not endure
the idea of it. Why was not Miss Crawford
to be applied to as well? Or why had not she
rather gone to her own room, as she had felt
to be safest, instead of attending the rehearsal
at all? She had known it would irritate and
distress her; she had known it her duty to
keep away. She was properly punished.
“You have only to read the part,” said
Henry Crawford, with renewed entreaty.
“And I do believe she can say every word
of it,” added Maria, “for she could put
Mrs. Grant right the other day in twenty places.
Fanny, I am sure you know the part.”
Fanny could not say she did not; and as they
all persevered, as Edmund repeated his wish,
and with a look of even fond dependence on
her good-nature, she must yield. She would
do her best. Everybody was satisfied; and
she was left to the tremors of a most palpitating
heart, while the others prepared to begin.
They did begin; and being too much engaged
in their own noise to be struck by an unusual
noise in the other part of the house, had
proceeded some way when the door of the room
was thrown open, and Julia, appearing at it,
with a face all aghast, exclaimed, “My father
is come! He is in the hall at this moment.”
CHAPTER XIX
How is the consternation of the party to be
described? To the greater number it was a
moment of absolute horror. Sir Thomas in the
house! All felt the instantaneous conviction.
Not a hope of imposition or mistake was harboured
anywhere. Julia’s looks were an evidence
of the fact that made it indisputable; and
after the first starts and exclamations, not
a word was spoken for half a minute: each
with an altered countenance was looking at
some other, and almost each was feeling it
a stroke the most unwelcome, most ill-timed,
most appalling! Mr. Yates might consider it
only as a vexatious interruption for the evening,
and Mr. Rushworth might imagine it a blessing;
but every other heart was sinking under some
degree of self-condemnation or undefined alarm,
every other heart was suggesting, “What
will become of us? what is to be done now?”
It was a terrible pause; and terrible to every
ear were the corroborating sounds of opening
doors and passing footsteps.
Julia was the first to move and speak again.
Jealousy and bitterness had been suspended:
selfishness was lost in the common cause;
but at the moment of her appearance, Frederick
was listening with looks of devotion to Agatha’s
narrative, and pressing her hand to his heart;
and as soon as she could notice this, and
see that, in spite of the shock of her words,
he still kept his station and retained her
sister’s hand, her wounded heart swelled
again with injury, and looking as red as she
had been white before, she turned out of the
room, saying, “I need not be afraid of appearing
before him.”
Her going roused the rest; and at the same
moment the two brothers stepped forward, feeling
the necessity of doing something. A very few
words between them were sufficient. The case
admitted no difference of opinion: they must
go to the drawing-room directly. Maria joined
them with the same intent, just then the stoutest
of the three; for the very circumstance which
had driven Julia away was to her the sweetest
support. Henry Crawford’s retaining her
hand at such a moment, a moment of such peculiar
proof and importance, was worth ages of doubt
and anxiety. She hailed it as an earnest of
the most serious determination, and was equal
even to encounter her father. They walked
off, utterly heedless of Mr. Rushworth’s
repeated question of, “Shall I go too? Had
not I better go too? Will not it be right
for me to go too?” but they were no sooner
through the door than Henry Crawford undertook
to answer the anxious inquiry, and, encouraging
him by all means to pay his respects to Sir
Thomas without delay, sent him after the others
with delighted haste.
Fanny was left with only the Crawfords and
Mr. Yates. She had been quite overlooked by
her cousins; and as her own opinion of her
claims on Sir Thomas’s affection was much
too humble to give her any idea of classing
herself with his children, she was glad to
remain behind and gain a little breathing-time.
Her agitation and alarm exceeded all that
was endured by the rest, by the right of a
disposition which not even innocence could
keep from suffering. She was nearly fainting:
all her former habitual dread of her uncle
was returning, and with it compassion for
him and for almost every one of the party
on the development before him, with solicitude
on Edmund’s account indescribable. She had
found a seat, where in excessive trembling
she was enduring all these fearful thoughts,
while the other three, no longer under any
restraint, were giving vent to their feelings
of vexation, lamenting over such an unlooked-for
premature arrival as a most untoward event,
and without mercy wishing poor Sir Thomas
had been twice as long on his passage, or
were still in Antigua.
The Crawfords were more warm on the subject
than Mr. Yates, from better understanding
the family, and judging more clearly of the
mischief that must ensue. The ruin of the
play was to them a certainty: they felt the
total destruction of the scheme to be inevitably
at hand; while Mr. Yates considered it only
as a temporary interruption, a disaster for
the evening, and could even suggest the possibility
of the rehearsal being renewed after tea,
when the bustle of receiving Sir Thomas were
over, and he might be at leisure to be amused
by it. The Crawfords laughed at the idea;
and having soon agreed on the propriety of
their walking quietly home and leaving the
family to themselves, proposed Mr. Yates’s
accompanying them and spending the evening
at the Parsonage. But Mr. Yates, having never
been with those who thought much of parental
claims, or family confidence, could not perceive
that anything of the kind was necessary; and
therefore, thanking them, said, “he preferred
remaining where he was, that he might pay
his respects to the old gentleman handsomely
since he was come; and besides, he did not
think it would be fair by the others to have
everybody run away.”
Fanny was just beginning to collect herself,
and to feel that if she staid longer behind
it might seem disrespectful, when this point
was settled, and being commissioned with the
brother and sister’s apology, saw them preparing
to go as she quitted the room herself to perform
the dreadful duty of appearing before her
uncle.
Too soon did she find herself at the drawing-room
door; and after pausing a moment for what
she knew would not come, for a courage which
the outside of no door had ever supplied to
her, she turned the lock in desperation, and
the lights of the drawing-room, and all the
collected family, were before her. As she
entered, her own name caught her ear. Sir
Thomas was at that moment looking round him,
and saying, “But where is Fanny? Why do
not I see my little Fanny?”—and on perceiving
her, came forward with a kindness which astonished
and penetrated her, calling her his dear Fanny,
kissing her affectionately, and observing
with decided pleasure how much she was grown!
Fanny knew not how to feel, nor where to look.
She was quite oppressed. He had never been
so kind, so very kind to her in his life.
His manner seemed changed, his voice was quick
from the agitation of joy; and all that had
been awful in his dignity seemed lost in tenderness.
He led her nearer the light and looked at
her again—inquired particularly after her
health, and then, correcting himself, observed
that he need not inquire, for her appearance
spoke sufficiently on that point. A fine blush
having succeeded the previous paleness of
her face, he was justified in his belief of
her equal improvement in health and beauty.
He inquired next after her family, especially
William: and his kindness altogether was such
as made her reproach herself for loving him
so little, and thinking his return a misfortune;
and when, on having courage to lift her eyes
to his face, she saw that he was grown thinner,
and had the burnt, fagged, worn look of fatigue
and a hot climate, every tender feeling was
increased, and she was miserable in considering
how much unsuspected vexation was probably
ready to burst on him.
Sir Thomas was indeed the life of the party,
who at his suggestion now seated themselves
round the fire. He had the best right to be
the talker; and the delight of his sensations
in being again in his own house, in the centre
of his family, after such a separation, made
him communicative and chatty in a very unusual
degree; and he was ready to give every information
as to his voyage, and answer every question
of his two sons almost before it was put.
His business in Antigua had latterly been
prosperously rapid, and he came directly from
Liverpool, having had an opportunity of making
his passage thither in a private vessel, instead
of waiting for the packet; and all the little
particulars of his proceedings and events,
his arrivals and departures, were most promptly
delivered, as he sat by Lady Bertram and looked
with heartfelt satisfaction on the faces around
him—interrupting himself more than once,
however, to remark on his good fortune in
finding them all at home—coming unexpectedly
as he did—all collected together exactly
as he could have wished, but dared not depend
on. Mr. Rushworth was not forgotten: a most
friendly reception and warmth of hand-shaking
had already met him, and with pointed attention
he was now included in the objects most intimately
connected with Mansfield. There was nothing
disagreeable in Mr. Rushworth’s appearance,
and Sir Thomas was liking him already.
By not one of the circle was he listened to
with such unbroken, unalloyed enjoyment as
by his wife, who was really extremely happy
to see him, and whose feelings were so warmed
by his sudden arrival as to place her nearer
agitation than she had been for the last twenty
years. She had been almost fluttered for a
few minutes, and still remained so sensibly
animated as to put away her work, move Pug
from her side, and give all her attention
and all the rest of her sofa to her husband.
She had no anxieties for anybody to cloud
her pleasure: her own time had been irreproachably
spent during his absence: she had done a great
deal of carpet-work, and made many yards of
fringe; and she would have answered as freely
for the good conduct and useful pursuits of
all the young people as for her own. It was
so agreeable to her to see him again, and
hear him talk, to have her ear amused and
her whole comprehension filled by his narratives,
that she began particularly to feel how dreadfully
she must have missed him, and how impossible
it would have been for her to bear a lengthened
absence.
Mrs. Norris was by no means to be compared
in happiness to her sister. Not that she was
incommoded by many fears of Sir Thomas’s
disapprobation when the present state of his
house should be known, for her judgment had
been so blinded that, except by the instinctive
caution with which she had whisked away Mr.
Rushworth’s pink satin cloak as her brother-in-law
entered, she could hardly be said to shew
any sign of alarm; but she was vexed by the
manner of his return. It had left her nothing
to do. Instead of being sent for out of the
room, and seeing him first, and having to
spread the happy news through the house, Sir
Thomas, with a very reasonable dependence,
perhaps, on the nerves of his wife and children,
had sought no confidant but the butler, and
had been following him almost instantaneously
into the drawing-room. Mrs. Norris felt herself
defrauded of an office on which she had always
depended, whether his arrival or his death
were to be the thing unfolded; and was now
trying to be in a bustle without having anything
to bustle about, and labouring to be important
where nothing was wanted but tranquillity
and silence. Would Sir Thomas have consented
to eat, she might have gone to the housekeeper
with troublesome directions, and insulted
the footmen with injunctions of despatch;
but Sir Thomas resolutely declined all dinner:
he would take nothing, nothing till tea came—he
would rather wait for tea. Still Mrs. Norris
was at intervals urging something different;
and in the most interesting moment of his
passage to England, when the alarm of a French
privateer was at the height, she burst through
his recital with the proposal of soup. “Sure,
my dear Sir Thomas, a basin of soup would
be a much better thing for you than tea. Do
have a basin of soup.”
Sir Thomas could not be provoked. “Still
the same anxiety for everybody’s comfort,
my dear Mrs. Norris,” was his answer. “But
indeed I would rather have nothing but tea.”
“Well, then, Lady Bertram, suppose you speak
for tea directly; suppose you hurry Baddeley
a little; he seems behindhand to-night.”
She carried this point, and Sir Thomas’s
narrative proceeded.
At length there was a pause. His immediate
communications were exhausted, and it seemed
enough to be looking joyfully around him,
now at one, now at another of the beloved
circle; but the pause was not long: in the
elation of her spirits Lady Bertram became
talkative, and what were the sensations of
her children upon hearing her say, “How
do you think the young people have been amusing
themselves lately, Sir Thomas? They have been
acting. We have been all alive with acting.”
“Indeed! and what have you been acting?”
“Oh! they’ll tell you all about it.”
“The all will soon be told,” cried Tom
hastily, and with affected unconcern; “but
it is not worth while to bore my father with
it now. You will hear enough of it to-morrow,
sir. We have just been trying, by way of doing
something, and amusing my mother, just within
the last week, to get up a few scenes, a mere
trifle. We have had such incessant rains almost
since October began, that we have been nearly
confined to the house for days together. I
have hardly taken out a gun since the 3rd.
Tolerable sport the first three days, but
there has been no attempting anything since.
The first day I went over Mansfield Wood,
and Edmund took the copses beyond Easton,
and we brought home six brace between us,
and might each have killed six times as many,
but we respect your pheasants, sir, I assure
you, as much as you could desire. I do not
think you will find your woods by any means
worse stocked than they were. I never saw
Mansfield Wood so full of pheasants in my
life as this year. I hope you will take a
day’s sport there yourself, sir, soon.”
For the present the danger was over, and Fanny’s
sick feelings subsided; but when tea was soon
afterwards brought in, and Sir Thomas, getting
up, said that he found that he could not be
any longer in the house without just looking
into his own dear room, every agitation was
returning. He was gone before anything had
been said to prepare him for the change he
must find there; and a pause of alarm followed
his disappearance. Edmund was the first to
speak—
“Something must be done,” said he.
“It is time to think of our visitors,”
said Maria, still feeling her hand pressed
to Henry Crawford’s heart, and caring little
for anything else. “Where did you leave
Miss Crawford, Fanny?”
Fanny told of their departure, and delivered
their message.
“Then poor Yates is all alone,” cried
Tom. “I will go and fetch him. He will be
no bad assistant when it all comes out.”
To the theatre he went, and reached it just
in time to witness the first meeting of his
father and his friend. Sir Thomas had been
a good deal surprised to find candles burning
in his room; and on casting his eye round
it, to see other symptoms of recent habitation
and a general air of confusion in the furniture.
The removal of the bookcase from before the
billiard-room door struck him especially,
but he had scarcely more than time to feel
astonished at all this, before there were
sounds from the billiard-room to astonish
him still farther. Some one was talking there
in a very loud accent; he did not know the
voice—more than talking—almost hallooing.
He stepped to the door, rejoicing at that
moment in having the means of immediate communication,
and, opening it, found himself on the stage
of a theatre, and opposed to a ranting young
man, who appeared likely to knock him down
backwards. At the very moment of Yates perceiving
Sir Thomas, and giving perhaps the very best
start he had ever given in the whole course
of his rehearsals, Tom Bertram entered at
the other end of the room; and never had he
found greater difficulty in keeping his countenance.
His father’s looks of solemnity and amazement
on this his first appearance on any stage,
and the gradual metamorphosis of the impassioned
Baron Wildenheim into the well-bred and easy
Mr. Yates, making his bow and apology to Sir
Thomas Bertram, was such an exhibition, such
a piece of true acting, as he would not have
lost upon any account. It would be the last—in
all probability—the last scene on that stage;
but he was sure there could not be a finer.
The house would close with the greatest eclat.
There was little time, however, for the indulgence
of any images of merriment. It was necessary
for him to step forward, too, and assist the
introduction, and with many awkward sensations
he did his best. Sir Thomas received Mr. Yates
with all the appearance of cordiality which
was due to his own character, but was really
as far from pleased with the necessity of
the acquaintance as with the manner of its
commencement. Mr. Yates’s family and connexions
were sufficiently known to him to render his
introduction as the “particular friend,”
another of the hundred particular friends
of his son, exceedingly unwelcome; and it
needed all the felicity of being again at
home, and all the forbearance it could supply,
to save Sir Thomas from anger on finding himself
thus bewildered in his own house, making part
of a ridiculous exhibition in the midst of
theatrical nonsense, and forced in so untoward
a moment to admit the acquaintance of a young
man whom he felt sure of disapproving, and
whose easy indifference and volubility in
the course of the first five minutes seemed
to mark him the most at home of the two.
Tom understood his father’s thoughts, and
heartily wishing he might be always as well
disposed to give them but partial expression,
began to see, more clearly than he had ever
done before, that there might be some ground
of offence, that there might be some reason
for the glance his father gave towards the
ceiling and stucco of the room; and that when
he inquired with mild gravity after the fate
of the billiard-table, he was not proceeding
beyond a very allowable curiosity. A few minutes
were enough for such unsatisfactory sensations
on each side; and Sir Thomas having exerted
himself so far as to speak a few words of
calm approbation in reply to an eager appeal
of Mr. Yates, as to the happiness of the arrangement,
the three gentlemen returned to the drawing-room
together, Sir Thomas with an increase of gravity
which was not lost on all.
“I come from your theatre,” said he composedly,
as he sat down; “I found myself in it rather
unexpectedly. Its vicinity to my own room—but
in every respect, indeed, it took me by surprise,
as I had not the smallest suspicion of your
acting having assumed so serious a character.
It appears a neat job, however, as far as
I could judge by candlelight, and does my
friend Christopher Jackson credit.” And
then he would have changed the subject, and
sipped his coffee in peace over domestic matters
of a calmer hue; but Mr. Yates, without discernment
to catch Sir Thomas’s meaning, or diffidence,
or delicacy, or discretion enough to allow
him to lead the discourse while he mingled
among the others with the least obtrusiveness
himself, would keep him on the topic of the
theatre, would torment him with questions
and remarks relative to it, and finally would
make him hear the whole history of his disappointment
at Ecclesford. Sir Thomas listened most politely,
but found much to offend his ideas of decorum,
and confirm his ill-opinion of Mr. Yates’s
habits of thinking, from the beginning to
the end of the story; and when it was over,
could give him no other assurance of sympathy
than what a slight bow conveyed.
“This was, in fact, the origin of our acting,”
said Tom, after a moment’s thought. “My
friend Yates brought the infection from Ecclesford,
and it spread—as those things always spread,
you know, sir—the faster, probably, from
your having so often encouraged the sort of
thing in us formerly. It was like treading
old ground again.”
Mr. Yates took the subject from his friend
as soon as possible, and immediately gave
Sir Thomas an account of what they had done
and were doing: told him of the gradual increase
of their views, the happy conclusion of their
first difficulties, and present promising
state of affairs; relating everything with
so blind an interest as made him not only
totally unconscious of the uneasy movements
of many of his friends as they sat, the change
of countenance, the fidget, the hem! of unquietness,
but prevented him even from seeing the expression
of the face on which his own eyes were fixed—from
seeing Sir Thomas’s dark brow contract as
he looked with inquiring earnestness at his
daughters and Edmund, dwelling particularly
on the latter, and speaking a language, a
remonstrance, a reproof, which he felt at
his heart. Not less acutely was it felt by
Fanny, who had edged back her chair behind
her aunt’s end of the sofa, and, screened
from notice herself, saw all that was passing
before her. Such a look of reproach at Edmund
from his father she could never have expected
to witness; and to feel that it was in any
degree deserved was an aggravation indeed.
Sir Thomas’s look implied, “On your judgment,
Edmund, I depended; what have you been about?”
She knelt in spirit to her uncle, and her
bosom swelled to utter, “Oh, not to him!
Look so to all the others, but not to him!”
Mr. Yates was still talking. “To own the
truth, Sir Thomas, we were in the middle of
a rehearsal when you arrived this evening.
We were going through the three first acts,
and not unsuccessfully upon the whole. Our
company is now so dispersed, from the Crawfords
being gone home, that nothing more can be
done to-night; but if you will give us the
honour of your company to-morrow evening,
I should not be afraid of the result. We bespeak
your indulgence, you understand, as young
performers; we bespeak your indulgence.”
“My indulgence shall be given, sir,” replied
Sir Thomas gravely, “but without any other
rehearsal.” And with a relenting smile,
he added, “I come home to be happy and indulgent.”
Then turning away towards any or all of the
rest, he tranquilly said, “Mr. and Miss
Crawford were mentioned in my last letters
from Mansfield. Do you find them agreeable
acquaintance?”
Tom was the only one at all ready with an
answer, but he being entirely without particular
regard for either, without jealousy either
in love or acting, could speak very handsomely
of both. “Mr. Crawford was a most pleasant,
gentleman-like man; his sister a sweet, pretty,
elegant, lively girl.”
Mr. Rushworth could be silent no longer. “I
do not say he is not gentleman-like, considering;
but you should tell your father he is not
above five feet eight, or he will be expecting
a well-looking man.”
Sir Thomas did not quite understand this,
and looked with some surprise at the speaker.
“If I must say what I think,” continued
Mr. Rushworth, “in my opinion it is very
disagreeable to be always rehearsing. It is
having too much of a good thing. I am not
so fond of acting as I was at first. I think
we are a great deal better employed, sitting
comfortably here among ourselves, and doing
nothing.”
Sir Thomas looked again, and then replied
with an approving smile, “I am happy to
find our sentiments on this subject so much
the same. It gives me sincere satisfaction.
That I should be cautious and quick-sighted,
and feel many scruples which my children do
not feel, is perfectly natural; and equally
so that my value for domestic tranquillity,
for a home which shuts out noisy pleasures,
should much exceed theirs. But at your time
of life to feel all this, is a most favourable
circumstance for yourself, and for everybody
connected with you; and I am sensible of the
importance of having an ally of such weight.”
Sir Thomas meant to be giving Mr. Rushworth’s
opinion in better words than he could find
himself. He was aware that he must not expect
a genius in Mr. Rushworth; but as a well-judging,
steady young man, with better notions than
his elocution would do justice to, he intended
to value him very highly. It was impossible
for many of the others not to smile. Mr. Rushworth
hardly knew what to do with so much meaning;
but by looking, as he really felt, most exceedingly
pleased with Sir Thomas’s good opinion,
and saying scarcely anything, he did his best
towards preserving that good opinion a little
longer.
CHAPTER XX
Edmund’s first object the next morning was
to see his father alone, and give him a fair
statement of the whole acting scheme, defending
his own share in it as far only as he could
then, in a soberer moment, feel his motives
to deserve, and acknowledging, with perfect
ingenuousness, that his concession had been
attended with such partial good as to make
his judgment in it very doubtful. He was anxious,
while vindicating himself, to say nothing
unkind of the others: but there was only one
amongst them whose conduct he could mention
without some necessity of defence or palliation.
“We have all been more or less to blame,”
said he, “every one of us, excepting Fanny.
Fanny is the only one who has judged rightly
throughout; who has been consistent. Her feelings
have been steadily against it from first to
last. She never ceased to think of what was
due to you. You will find Fanny everything
you could wish.”
Sir Thomas saw all the impropriety of such
a scheme among such a party, and at such a
time, as strongly as his son had ever supposed
he must; he felt it too much, indeed, for
many words; and having shaken hands with Edmund,
meant to try to lose the disagreeable impression,
and forget how much he had been forgotten
himself as soon as he could, after the house
had been cleared of every object enforcing
the remembrance, and restored to its proper
state. He did not enter into any remonstrance
with his other children: he was more willing
to believe they felt their error than to run
the risk of investigation. The reproof of
an immediate conclusion of everything, the
sweep of every preparation, would be sufficient.
There was one person, however, in the house,
whom he could not leave to learn his sentiments
merely through his conduct. He could not help
giving Mrs. Norris a hint of his having hoped
that her advice might have been interposed
to prevent what her judgment must certainly
have disapproved. The young people had been
very inconsiderate in forming the plan; they
ought to have been capable of a better decision
themselves; but they were young; and, excepting
Edmund, he believed, of unsteady characters;
and with greater surprise, therefore, he must
regard her acquiescence in their wrong measures,
her countenance of their unsafe amusements,
than that such measures and such amusements
should have been suggested. Mrs. Norris was
a little confounded and as nearly being silenced
as ever she had been in her life; for she
was ashamed to confess having never seen any
of the impropriety which was so glaring to
Sir Thomas, and would not have admitted that
her influence was insufficient—that she
might have talked in vain. Her only resource
was to get out of the subject as fast as possible,
and turn the current of Sir Thomas’s ideas
into a happier channel. She had a great deal
to insinuate in her own praise as to general
attention to the interest and comfort of his
family, much exertion and many sacrifices
to glance at in the form of hurried walks
and sudden removals from her own fireside,
and many excellent hints of distrust and economy
to Lady Bertram and Edmund to detail, whereby
a most considerable saving had always arisen,
and more than one bad servant been detected.
But her chief strength lay in Sotherton. Her
greatest support and glory was in having formed
the connexion with the Rushworths. There she
was impregnable. She took to herself all the
credit of bringing Mr. Rushworth’s admiration
of Maria to any effect. “If I had not been
active,” said she, “and made a point of
being introduced to his mother, and then prevailed
on my sister to pay the first visit, I am
as certain as I sit here that nothing would
have come of it; for Mr. Rushworth is the
sort of amiable modest young man who wants
a great deal of encouragement, and there were
girls enough on the catch for him if we had
been idle. But I left no stone unturned. I
was ready to move heaven and earth to persuade
my sister, and at last I did persuade her.
You know the distance to Sotherton; it was
in the middle of winter, and the roads almost
impassable, but I did persuade her.”
“I know how great, how justly great, your
influence is with Lady Bertram and her children,
and am the more concerned that it should not
have been.”
“My dear Sir Thomas, if you had seen the
state of the roads that day! I thought we
should never have got through them, though
we had the four horses of course; and poor
old coachman would attend us, out of his great
love and kindness, though he was hardly able
to sit the box on account of the rheumatism
which I had been doctoring him for ever since
Michaelmas. I cured him at last; but he was
very bad all the winter—and this was such
a day, I could not help going to him up in
his room before we set off to advise him not
to venture: he was putting on his wig; so
I said, ‘Coachman, you had much better not
go; your Lady and I shall be very safe; you
know how steady Stephen is, and Charles has
been upon the leaders so often now, that I
am sure there is no fear.’ But, however,
I soon found it would not do; he was bent
upon going, and as I hate to be worrying and
officious, I said no more; but my heart quite
ached for him at every jolt, and when we got
into the rough lanes about Stoke, where, what
with frost and snow upon beds of stones, it
was worse than anything you can imagine, I
was quite in an agony about him. And then
the poor horses too! To see them straining
away! You know how I always feel for the horses.
And when we got to the bottom of Sandcroft
Hill, what do you think I did? You will laugh
at me; but I got out and walked up. I did
indeed. It might not be saving them much,
but it was something, and I could not bear
to sit at my ease and be dragged up at the
expense of those noble animals. I caught a
dreadful cold, but that I did not regard.
My object was accomplished in the visit.”
“I hope we shall always think the acquaintance
worth any trouble that might be taken to establish
it. There is nothing very striking in Mr.
Rushworth’s manners, but I was pleased last
night with what appeared to be his opinion
on one subject: his decided preference of
a quiet family party to the bustle and confusion
of acting. He seemed to feel exactly as one
could wish.”
“Yes, indeed, and the more you know of him
the better you will like him. He is not a
shining character, but he has a thousand good
qualities; and is so disposed to look up to
you, that I am quite laughed at about it,
for everybody considers it as my doing. ‘Upon
my word, Mrs. Norris,’ said Mrs. Grant the
other day, ‘if Mr. Rushworth were a son
of your own, he could not hold Sir Thomas
in greater respect.’”
Sir Thomas gave up the point, foiled by her
evasions, disarmed by her flattery; and was
obliged to rest satisfied with the conviction
that where the present pleasure of those she
loved was at stake, her kindness did sometimes
overpower her judgment.
It was a busy morning with him. Conversation
with any of them occupied but a small part
of it. He had to reinstate himself in all
the wonted concerns of his Mansfield life:
to see his steward and his bailiff; to examine
and compute, and, in the intervals of business,
to walk into his stables and his gardens,
and nearest plantations; but active and methodical,
he had not only done all this before he resumed
his seat as master of the house at dinner,
he had also set the carpenter to work in pulling
down what had been so lately put up in the
billiard-room, and given the scene-painter
his dismissal long enough to justify the pleasing
belief of his being then at least as far off
as Northampton. The scene-painter was gone,
having spoilt only the floor of one room,
ruined all the coachman’s sponges, and made
five of the under-servants idle and dissatisfied;
and Sir Thomas was in hopes that another day
or two would suffice to wipe away every outward
memento of what had been, even to the destruction
of every unbound copy of Lovers’ Vows in
the house, for he was burning all that met
his eye.
Mr. Yates was beginning now to understand
Sir Thomas’s intentions, though as far as
ever from understanding their source. He and
his friend had been out with their guns the
chief of the morning, and Tom had taken the
opportunity of explaining, with proper apologies
for his father’s particularity, what was
to be expected. Mr. Yates felt it as acutely
as might be supposed. To be a second time
disappointed in the same way was an instance
of very severe ill-luck; and his indignation
was such, that had it not been for delicacy
towards his friend, and his friend’s youngest
sister, he believed he should certainly attack
the baronet on the absurdity of his proceedings,
and argue him into a little more rationality.
He believed this very stoutly while he was
in Mansfield Wood, and all the way home; but
there was a something in Sir Thomas, when
they sat round the same table, which made
Mr. Yates think it wiser to let him pursue
his own way, and feel the folly of it without
opposition. He had known many disagreeable
fathers before, and often been struck with
the inconveniences they occasioned, but never,
in the whole course of his life, had he seen
one of that class so unintelligibly moral,
so infamously tyrannical as Sir Thomas. He
was not a man to be endured but for his children’s
sake, and he might be thankful to his fair
daughter Julia that Mr. Yates did yet mean
to stay a few days longer under his roof.
The evening passed with external smoothness,
though almost every mind was ruffled; and
the music which Sir Thomas called for from
his daughters helped to conceal the want of
real harmony. Maria was in a good deal of
agitation. It was of the utmost consequence
to her that Crawford should now lose no time
in declaring himself, and she was disturbed
that even a day should be gone by without
seeming to advance that point. She had been
expecting to see him the whole morning, and
all the evening, too, was still expecting
him. Mr. Rushworth had set off early with
the great news for Sotherton; and she had
fondly hoped for such an immediate eclaircissement
as might save him the trouble of ever coming
back again. But they had seen no one from
the Parsonage, not a creature, and had heard
no tidings beyond a friendly note of congratulation
and inquiry from Mrs. Grant to Lady Bertram.
It was the first day for many, many weeks,
in which the families had been wholly divided.
Four-and-twenty hours had never passed before,
since August began, without bringing them
together in some way or other. It was a sad,
anxious day; and the morrow, though differing
in the sort of evil, did by no means bring
less. A few moments of feverish enjoyment
were followed by hours of acute suffering.
Henry Crawford was again in the house: he
walked up with Dr. Grant, who was anxious
to pay his respects to Sir Thomas, and at
rather an early hour they were ushered into
the breakfast-room, where were most of the
family. Sir Thomas soon appeared, and Maria
saw with delight and agitation the introduction
of the man she loved to her father. Her sensations
were indefinable, and so were they a few minutes
afterwards upon hearing Henry Crawford, who
had a chair between herself and Tom, ask the
latter in an undervoice whether there were
any plans for resuming the play after the
present happy interruption (with a courteous
glance at Sir Thomas), because, in that case,
he should make a point of returning to Mansfield
at any time required by the party: he was
going away immediately, being to meet his
uncle at Bath without delay; but if there
were any prospect of a renewal of Lovers’
Vows, he should hold himself positively engaged,
he should break through every other claim,
he should absolutely condition with his uncle
for attending them whenever he might be wanted.
The play should not be lost by his absence.
“From Bath, Norfolk, London, York, wherever
I may be,” said he; “I will attend you
from any place in England, at an hour’s
notice.”
It was well at that moment that Tom had to
speak, and not his sister. He could immediately
say with easy fluency, “I am sorry you are
going; but as to our play, that is all over—entirely
at an end” (looking significantly at his
father). “The painter was sent off yesterday,
and very little will remain of the theatre
to-morrow. I knew how that would be from the
first. It is early for Bath. You will find
nobody there.”
“It is about my uncle’s usual time.”
“When do you think of going?”
“I may, perhaps, get as far as Banbury to-day.”
“Whose stables do you use at Bath?” was
the next question; and while this branch of
the subject was under discussion, Maria, who
wanted neither pride nor resolution, was preparing
to encounter her share of it with tolerable
calmness.
To her he soon turned, repeating much of what
he had already said, with only a softened
air and stronger expressions of regret. But
what availed his expressions or his air? He
was going, and, if not voluntarily going,
voluntarily intending to stay away; for, excepting
what might be due to his uncle, his engagements
were all self-imposed. He might talk of necessity,
but she knew his independence. The hand which
had so pressed hers to his heart! the hand
and the heart were alike motionless and passive
now! Her spirit supported her, but the agony
of her mind was severe. She had not long to
endure what arose from listening to language
which his actions contradicted, or to bury
the tumult of her feelings under the restraint
of society; for general civilities soon called
his notice from her, and the farewell visit,
as it then became openly acknowledged, was
a very short one. He was gone—he had touched
her hand for the last time, he had made his
parting bow, and she might seek directly all
that solitude could do for her. Henry Crawford
was gone, gone from the house, and within
two hours afterwards from the parish; and
so ended all the hopes his selfish vanity
had raised in Maria and Julia Bertram.
Julia could rejoice that he was gone. His
presence was beginning to be odious to her;
and if Maria gained him not, she was now cool
enough to dispense with any other revenge.
She did not want exposure to be added to desertion.
Henry Crawford gone, she could even pity her
sister.
With a purer spirit did Fanny rejoice in the
intelligence. She heard it at dinner, and
felt it a blessing. By all the others it was
mentioned with regret; and his merits honoured
with due gradation of feeling—from the sincerity
of Edmund’s too partial regard, to the unconcern
of his mother speaking entirely by rote. Mrs.
Norris began to look about her, and wonder
that his falling in love with Julia had come
to nothing; and could almost fear that she
had been remiss herself in forwarding it;
but with so many to care for, how was it possible
for even her activity to keep pace with her
wishes?
Another day or two, and Mr. Yates was gone
likewise. In his departure Sir Thomas felt
the chief interest: wanting to be alone with
his family, the presence of a stranger superior
to Mr. Yates must have been irksome; but of
him, trifling and confident, idle and expensive,
it was every way vexatious. In himself he
was wearisome, but as the friend of Tom and
the admirer of Julia he became offensive.
Sir Thomas had been quite indifferent to Mr.
Crawford’s going or staying: but his good
wishes for Mr. Yates’s having a pleasant
journey, as he walked with him to the hall-door,
were given with genuine satisfaction. Mr.
Yates had staid to see the destruction of
every theatrical preparation at Mansfield,
the removal of everything appertaining to
the play: he left the house in all the soberness
of its general character; and Sir Thomas hoped,
in seeing him out of it, to be rid of the
worst object connected with the scheme, and
the last that must be inevitably reminding
him of its existence.
Mrs. Norris contrived to remove one article
from his sight that might have distressed
him. The curtain, over which she had presided
with such talent and such success, went off
with her to her cottage, where she happened
to be particularly in want of green baize.
CHAPTER XXI
Sir Thomas’s return made a striking change
in the ways of the family, independent of
Lovers’ Vows. Under his government, Mansfield
was an altered place. Some members of their
society sent away, and the spirits of many
others saddened—it was all sameness and
gloom compared with the past—a sombre family
party rarely enlivened. There was little intercourse
with the Parsonage. Sir Thomas, drawing back
from intimacies in general, was particularly
disinclined, at this time, for any engagements
but in one quarter. The Rushworths were the
only addition to his own domestic circle which
he could solicit.
Edmund did not wonder that such should be
his father’s feelings, nor could he regret
anything but the exclusion of the Grants.
“But they,” he observed to Fanny, “have
a claim. They seem to belong to us; they seem
to be part of ourselves. I could wish my father
were more sensible of their very great attention
to my mother and sisters while he was away.
I am afraid they may feel themselves neglected.
But the truth is, that my father hardly knows
them. They had not been here a twelvemonth
when he left England. If he knew them better,
he would value their society as it deserves;
for they are in fact exactly the sort of people
he would like. We are sometimes a little in
want of animation among ourselves: my sisters
seem out of spirits, and Tom is certainly
not at his ease. Dr. and Mrs. Grant would
enliven us, and make our evenings pass away
with more enjoyment even to my father.”
“Do you think so?” said Fanny: “in my
opinion, my uncle would not like any addition.
I think he values the very quietness you speak
of, and that the repose of his own family
circle is all he wants. And it does not appear
to me that we are more serious than we used
to be—I mean before my uncle went abroad.
As well as I can recollect, it was always
much the same. There was never much laughing
in his presence; or, if there is any difference,
it is not more, I think, than such an absence
has a tendency to produce at first. There
must be a sort of shyness; but I cannot recollect
that our evenings formerly were ever merry,
except when my uncle was in town. No young
people’s are, I suppose, when those they
look up to are at home”.
“I believe you are right, Fanny,” was
his reply, after a short consideration. “I
believe our evenings are rather returned to
what they were, than assuming a new character.
The novelty was in their being lively. Yet,
how strong the impression that only a few
weeks will give! I have been feeling as if
we had never lived so before.”
“I suppose I am graver than other people,”
said Fanny. “The evenings do not appear
long to me. I love to hear my uncle talk of
the West Indies. I could listen to him for
an hour together. It entertains me more than
many other things have done; but then I am
unlike other people, I dare say.”
“Why should you dare say that?” (smiling).
“Do you want to be told that you are only
unlike other people in being more wise and
discreet? But when did you, or anybody, ever
get a compliment from me, Fanny? Go to my
father if you want to be complimented. He
will satisfy you. Ask your uncle what he thinks,
and you will hear compliments enough: and
though they may be chiefly on your person,
you must put up with it, and trust to his
seeing as much beauty of mind in time.”
Such language was so new to Fanny that it
quite embarrassed her.
“Your uncle thinks you very pretty, dear
Fanny—and that is the long and the short
of the matter. Anybody but myself would have
made something more of it, and anybody but
you would resent that you had not been thought
very pretty before; but the truth is, that
your uncle never did admire you till now—and
now he does. Your complexion is so improved!—and
you have gained so much countenance!—and
your figure—nay, Fanny, do not turn away
about it—it is but an uncle. If you cannot
bear an uncle’s admiration, what is to become
of you? You must really begin to harden yourself
to the idea of being worth looking at. You
must try not to mind growing up into a pretty
woman.”
“Oh! don’t talk so, don’t talk so,”
cried Fanny, distressed by more feelings than
he was aware of; but seeing that she was distressed,
he had done with the subject, and only added
more seriously—
“Your uncle is disposed to be pleased with
you in every respect; and I only wish you
would talk to him more. You are one of those
who are too silent in the evening circle.”
“But I do talk to him more than I used.
I am sure I do. Did not you hear me ask him
about the slave-trade last night?”
“I did—and was in hopes the question would
be followed up by others. It would have pleased
your uncle to be inquired of farther.”
“And I longed to do it—but there was such
a dead silence! And while my cousins were
sitting by without speaking a word, or seeming
at all interested in the subject, I did not
like—I thought it would appear as if I wanted
to set myself off at their expense, by shewing
a curiosity and pleasure in his information
which he must wish his own daughters to feel.”
“Miss Crawford was very right in what she
said of you the other day: that you seemed
almost as fearful of notice and praise as
other women were of neglect. We were talking
of you at the Parsonage, and those were her
words. She has great discernment. I know nobody
who distinguishes characters better. For so
young a woman it is remarkable! She certainly
understands you better than you are understood
by the greater part of those who have known
you so long; and with regard to some others,
I can perceive, from occasional lively hints,
the unguarded expressions of the moment, that
she could define many as accurately, did not
delicacy forbid it. I wonder what she thinks
of my father! She must admire him as a fine-looking
man, with most gentlemanlike, dignified, consistent
manners; but perhaps, having seen him so seldom,
his reserve may be a little repulsive. Could
they be much together, I feel sure of their
liking each other. He would enjoy her liveliness
and she has talents to value his powers. I
wish they met more frequently! I hope she
does not suppose there is any dislike on his
side.”
“She must know herself too secure of the
regard of all the rest of you,” said Fanny,
with half a sigh, “to have any such apprehension.
And Sir Thomas’s wishing just at first to
be only with his family, is so very natural,
that she can argue nothing from that. After
a little while, I dare say, we shall be meeting
again in the same sort of way, allowing for
the difference of the time of year.”
“This is the first October that she has
passed in the country since her infancy. I
do not call Tunbridge or Cheltenham the country;
and November is a still more serious month,
and I can see that Mrs. Grant is very anxious
for her not finding Mansfield dull as winter
comes on.”
Fanny could have said a great deal, but it
was safer to say nothing, and leave untouched
all Miss Crawford’s resources—her accomplishments,
her spirits, her importance, her friends,
lest it should betray her into any observations
seemingly unhandsome. Miss Crawford’s kind
opinion of herself deserved at least a grateful
forbearance, and she began to talk of something
else.
“To-morrow, I think, my uncle dines at Sotherton,
and you and Mr. Bertram too. We shall be quite
a small party at home. I hope my uncle may
continue to like Mr. Rushworth.”
“That is impossible, Fanny. He must like
him less after to-morrow’s visit, for we
shall be five hours in his company. I should
dread the stupidity of the day, if there were
not a much greater evil to follow—the impression
it must leave on Sir Thomas. He cannot much
longer deceive himself. I am sorry for them
all, and would give something that Rushworth
and Maria had never met.”
In this quarter, indeed, disappointment was
impending over Sir Thomas. Not all his good-will
for Mr. Rushworth, not all Mr. Rushworth’s
deference for him, could prevent him from
soon discerning some part of the truth—that
Mr. Rushworth was an inferior young man, as
ignorant in business as in books, with opinions
in general unfixed, and without seeming much
aware of it himself.
He had expected a very different son-in-law;
and beginning to feel grave on Maria’s account,
tried to understand her feelings. Little observation
there was necessary to tell him that indifference
was the most favourable state they could be
in. Her behaviour to Mr. Rushworth was careless
and cold. She could not, did not like him.
Sir Thomas resolved to speak seriously to
her. Advantageous as would be the alliance,
and long standing and public as was the engagement,
her happiness must not be sacrificed to it.
Mr. Rushworth had, perhaps, been accepted
on too short an acquaintance, and, on knowing
him better, she was repenting.
With solemn kindness Sir Thomas addressed
her: told her his fears, inquired into her
wishes, entreated her to be open and sincere,
and assured her that every inconvenience should
be braved, and the connexion entirely given
up, if she felt herself unhappy in the prospect
of it. He would act for her and release her.
Maria had a moment’s struggle as she listened,
and only a moment’s: when her father ceased,
she was able to give her answer immediately,
decidedly, and with no apparent agitation.
She thanked him for his great attention, his
paternal kindness, but he was quite mistaken
in supposing she had the smallest desire of
breaking through her engagement, or was sensible
of any change of opinion or inclination since
her forming it. She had the highest esteem
for Mr. Rushworth’s character and disposition,
and could not have a doubt of her happiness
with him.
Sir Thomas was satisfied; too glad to be satisfied,
perhaps, to urge the matter quite so far as
his judgment might have dictated to others.
It was an alliance which he could not have
relinquished without pain; and thus he reasoned.
Mr. Rushworth was young enough to improve.
Mr. Rushworth must and would improve in good
society; and if Maria could now speak so securely
of her happiness with him, speaking certainly
without the prejudice, the blindness of love,
she ought to be believed. Her feelings, probably,
were not acute; he had never supposed them
to be so; but her comforts might not be less
on that account; and if she could dispense
with seeing her husband a leading, shining
character, there would certainly be everything
else in her favour. A well-disposed young
woman, who did not marry for love, was in
general but the more attached to her own family;
and the nearness of Sotherton to Mansfield
must naturally hold out the greatest temptation,
and would, in all probability, be a continual
supply of the most amiable and innocent enjoyments.
Such and such-like were the reasonings of
Sir Thomas, happy to escape the embarrassing
evils of a rupture, the wonder, the reflections,
the reproach that must attend it; happy to
secure a marriage which would bring him such
an addition of respectability and influence,
and very happy to think anything of his daughter’s
disposition that was most favourable for the
purpose.
To her the conference closed as satisfactorily
as to him. She was in a state of mind to be
glad that she had secured her fate beyond
recall: that she had pledged herself anew
to Sotherton; that she was safe from the possibility
of giving Crawford the triumph of governing
her actions, and destroying her prospects;
and retired in proud resolve, determined only
to behave more cautiously to Mr. Rushworth
in future, that her father might not be again
suspecting her.
Had Sir Thomas applied to his daughter within
the first three or four days after Henry Crawford’s
leaving Mansfield, before her feelings were
at all tranquillised, before she had given
up every hope of him, or absolutely resolved
on enduring his rival, her answer might have
been different; but after another three or
four days, when there was no return, no letter,
no message, no symptom of a softened heart,
no hope of advantage from separation, her
mind became cool enough to seek all the comfort
that pride and self revenge could give.
Henry Crawford had destroyed her happiness,
but he should not know that he had done it;
he should not destroy her credit, her appearance,
her prosperity, too. He should not have to
think of her as pining in the retirement of
Mansfield for him, rejecting Sotherton and
London, independence and splendour, for his
sake. Independence was more needful than ever;
the want of it at Mansfield more sensibly
felt. She was less and less able to endure
the restraint which her father imposed. The
liberty which his absence had given was now
become absolutely necessary. She must escape
from him and Mansfield as soon as possible,
and find consolation in fortune and consequence,
bustle and the world, for a wounded spirit.
Her mind was quite determined, and varied
not.
To such feelings delay, even the delay of
much preparation, would have been an evil,
and Mr. Rushworth could hardly be more impatient
for the marriage than herself. In all the
important preparations of the mind she was
complete: being prepared for matrimony by
an hatred of home, restraint, and tranquillity;
by the misery of disappointed affection, and
contempt of the man she was to marry. The
rest might wait. The preparations of new carriages
and furniture might wait for London and spring,
when her own taste could have fairer play.
The principals being all agreed in this respect,
it soon appeared that a very few weeks would
be sufficient for such arrangements as must
precede the wedding.
Mrs. Rushworth was quite ready to retire,
and make way for the fortunate young woman
whom her dear son had selected; and very early
in November removed herself, her maid, her
footman, and her chariot, with true dowager
propriety, to Bath, there to parade over the
wonders of Sotherton in her evening parties;
enjoying them as thoroughly, perhaps, in the
animation of a card-table, as she had ever
done on the spot; and before the middle of
the same month the ceremony had taken place
which gave Sotherton another mistress.
It was a very proper wedding. The bride was
elegantly dressed; the two bridesmaids were
duly inferior; her father gave her away; her
mother stood with salts in her hand, expecting
to be agitated; her aunt tried to cry; and
the service was impressively read by Dr. Grant.
Nothing could be objected to when it came
under the discussion of the neighbourhood,
except that the carriage which conveyed the
bride and bridegroom and Julia from the church-door
to Sotherton was the same chaise which Mr.
Rushworth had used for a twelvemonth before.
In everything else the etiquette of the day
might stand the strictest investigation.
It was done, and they were gone. Sir Thomas
felt as an anxious father must feel, and was
indeed experiencing much of the agitation
which his wife had been apprehensive of for
herself, but had fortunately escaped. Mrs.
Norris, most happy to assist in the duties
of the day, by spending it at the Park to
support her sister’s spirits, and drinking
the health of Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth in a
supernumerary glass or two, was all joyous
delight; for she had made the match; she had
done everything; and no one would have supposed,
from her confident triumph, that she had ever
heard of conjugal infelicity in her life,
or could have the smallest insight into the
disposition of the niece who had been brought
up under her eye.
The plan of the young couple was to proceed,
after a few days, to Brighton, and take a
house there for some weeks. Every public place
was new to Maria, and Brighton is almost as
gay in winter as in summer. When the novelty
of amusement there was over, it would be time
for the wider range of London.
Julia was to go with them to Brighton. Since
rivalry between the sisters had ceased, they
had been gradually recovering much of their
former good understanding; and were at least
sufficiently friends to make each of them
exceedingly glad to be with the other at such
a time. Some other companion than Mr. Rushworth
was of the first consequence to his lady;
and Julia was quite as eager for novelty and
pleasure as Maria, though she might not have
struggled through so much to obtain them,
and could better bear a subordinate situation.
Their departure made another material change
at Mansfield, a chasm which required some
time to fill up. The family circle became
greatly contracted; and though the Miss Bertrams
had latterly added little to its gaiety, they
could not but be missed. Even their mother
missed them; and how much more their tenderhearted
cousin, who wandered about the house, and
thought of them, and felt for them, with a
degree of affectionate regret which they had
never done much to deserve!
CHAPTER XXII
Fanny’s consequence increased on the departure
of her cousins. Becoming, as she then did,
the only young woman in the drawing-room,
the only occupier of that interesting division
of a family in which she had hitherto held
so humble a third, it was impossible for her
not to be more looked at, more thought of
and attended to, than she had ever been before;
and “Where is Fanny?” became no uncommon
question, even without her being wanted for
any one’s convenience.
Not only at home did her value increase, but
at the Parsonage too. In that house, which
she had hardly entered twice a year since
Mr. Norris’s death, she became a welcome,
an invited guest, and in the gloom and dirt
of a November day, most acceptable to Mary
Crawford. Her visits there, beginning by chance,
were continued by solicitation. Mrs. Grant,
really eager to get any change for her sister,
could, by the easiest self-deceit, persuade
herself that she was doing the kindest thing
by Fanny, and giving her the most important
opportunities of improvement in pressing her
frequent calls.
Fanny, having been sent into the village on
some errand by her aunt Norris, was overtaken
by a heavy shower close to the Parsonage;
and being descried from one of the windows
endeavouring to find shelter under the branches
and lingering leaves of an oak just beyond
their premises, was forced, though not without
some modest reluctance on her part, to come
in. A civil servant she had withstood; but
when Dr. Grant himself went out with an umbrella,
there was nothing to be done but to be very
much ashamed, and to get into the house as
fast as possible; and to poor Miss Crawford,
who had just been contemplating the dismal
rain in a very desponding state of mind, sighing
over the ruin of all her plan of exercise
for that morning, and of every chance of seeing
a single creature beyond themselves for the
next twenty-four hours, the sound of a little
bustle at the front door, and the sight of
Miss Price dripping with wet in the vestibule,
was delightful. The value of an event on a
wet day in the country was most forcibly brought
before her. She was all alive again directly,
and among the most active in being useful
to Fanny, in detecting her to be wetter than
she would at first allow, and providing her
with dry clothes; and Fanny, after being obliged
to submit to all this attention, and to being
assisted and waited on by mistresses and maids,
being also obliged, on returning downstairs,
to be fixed in their drawing-room for an hour
while the rain continued, the blessing of
something fresh to see and think of was thus
extended to Miss Crawford, and might carry
on her spirits to the period of dressing and
dinner.
The two sisters were so kind to her, and so
pleasant, that Fanny might have enjoyed her
visit could she have believed herself not
in the way, and could she have foreseen that
the weather would certainly clear at the end
of the hour, and save her from the shame of
having Dr. Grant’s carriage and horses out
to take her home, with which she was threatened.
As to anxiety for any alarm that her absence
in such weather might occasion at home, she
had nothing to suffer on that score; for as
her being out was known only to her two aunts,
she was perfectly aware that none would be
felt, and that in whatever cottage aunt Norris
might chuse to establish her during the rain,
her being in such cottage would be indubitable
to aunt Bertram.
It was beginning to look brighter, when Fanny,
observing a harp in the room, asked some questions
about it, which soon led to an acknowledgment
of her wishing very much to hear it, and a
confession, which could hardly be believed,
of her having never yet heard it since its
being in Mansfield. To Fanny herself it appeared
a very simple and natural circumstance. She
had scarcely ever been at the Parsonage since
the instrument’s arrival, there had been
no reason that she should; but Miss Crawford,
calling to mind an early expressed wish on
the subject, was concerned at her own neglect;
and “Shall I play to you now?” and “What
will you have?” were questions immediately
following with the readiest good-humour.
She played accordingly; happy to have a new
listener, and a listener who seemed so much
obliged, so full of wonder at the performance,
and who shewed herself not wanting in taste.
She played till Fanny’s eyes, straying to
the window on the weather’s being evidently
fair, spoke what she felt must be done.
“Another quarter of an hour,” said Miss
Crawford, “and we shall see how it will
be. Do not run away the first moment of its
holding up. Those clouds look alarming.”
“But they are passed over,” said Fanny.
“I have been watching them. This weather
is all from the south.”
“South or north, I know a black cloud when
I see it; and you must not set forward while
it is so threatening. And besides, I want
to play something more to you—a very pretty
piece—and your cousin Edmund’s prime favourite.
You must stay and hear your cousin’s favourite.”
Fanny felt that she must; and though she had
not waited for that sentence to be thinking
of Edmund, such a memento made her particularly
awake to his idea, and she fancied him sitting
in that room again and again, perhaps in the
very spot where she sat now, listening with
constant delight to the favourite air, played,
as it appeared to her, with superior tone
and expression; and though pleased with it
herself, and glad to like whatever was liked
by him, she was more sincerely impatient to
go away at the conclusion of it than she had
been before; and on this being evident, she
was so kindly asked to call again, to take
them in her walk whenever she could, to come
and hear more of the harp, that she felt it
necessary to be done, if no objection arose
at home.
Such was the origin of the sort of intimacy
which took place between them within the first
fortnight after the Miss Bertrams’ going
away—an intimacy resulting principally from
Miss Crawford’s desire of something new,
and which had little reality in Fanny’s
feelings. Fanny went to her every two or three
days: it seemed a kind of fascination: she
could not be easy without going, and yet it
was without loving her, without ever thinking
like her, without any sense of obligation
for being sought after now when nobody else
was to be had; and deriving no higher pleasure
from her conversation than occasional amusement,
and that often at the expense of her judgment,
when it was raised by pleasantry on people
or subjects which she wished to be respected.
She went, however, and they sauntered about
together many an half-hour in Mrs. Grant’s
shrubbery, the weather being unusually mild
for the time of year, and venturing sometimes
even to sit down on one of the benches now
comparatively unsheltered, remaining there
perhaps till, in the midst of some tender
ejaculation of Fanny’s on the sweets of
so protracted an autumn, they were forced,
by the sudden swell of a cold gust shaking
down the last few yellow leaves about them,
to jump up and walk for warmth.
“This is pretty, very pretty,” said Fanny,
looking around her as they were thus sitting
together one day; “every time I come into
this shrubbery I am more struck with its growth
and beauty. Three years ago, this was nothing
but a rough hedgerow along the upper side
of the field, never thought of as anything,
or capable of becoming anything; and now it
is converted into a walk, and it would be
difficult to say whether most valuable as
a convenience or an ornament; and perhaps,
in another three years, we may be forgetting—almost
forgetting what it was before. How wonderful,
how very wonderful the operations of time,
and the changes of the human mind!” And
following the latter train of thought, she
soon afterwards added: “If any one faculty
of our nature may be called more wonderful
than the rest, I do think it is memory. There
seems something more speakingly incomprehensible
in the powers, the failures, the inequalities
of memory, than in any other of our intelligences.
The memory is sometimes so retentive, so serviceable,
so obedient; at others, so bewildered and
so weak; and at others again, so tyrannic,
so beyond control! We are, to be sure, a miracle
every way; but our powers of recollecting
and of forgetting do seem peculiarly past
finding out.”
Miss Crawford, untouched and inattentive,
had nothing to say; and Fanny, perceiving
it, brought back her own mind to what she
thought must interest.
“It may seem impertinent in me to praise,
but I must admire the taste Mrs. Grant has
shewn in all this. There is such a quiet simplicity
in the plan of the walk! Not too much attempted!”
“Yes,” replied Miss Crawford carelessly,
“it does very well for a place of this sort.
One does not think of extent here; and between
ourselves, till I came to Mansfield, I had
not imagined a country parson ever aspired
to a shrubbery, or anything of the kind.”
“I am so glad to see the evergreens thrive!”
said Fanny, in reply. “My uncle’s gardener
always says the soil here is better than his
own, and so it appears from the growth of
the laurels and evergreens in general. The
evergreen! How beautiful, how welcome, how
wonderful the evergreen! When one thinks of
it, how astonishing a variety of nature! In
some countries we know the tree that sheds
its leaf is the variety, but that does not
make it less amazing that the same soil and
the same sun should nurture plants differing
in the first rule and law of their existence.
You will think me rhapsodising; but when I
am out of doors, especially when I am sitting
out of doors, I am very apt to get into this
sort of wondering strain. One cannot fix one’s
eyes on the commonest natural production without
finding food for a rambling fancy.”
“To say the truth,” replied Miss Crawford,
“I am something like the famous Doge at
the court of Lewis XIV.; and may declare that
I see no wonder in this shrubbery equal to
seeing myself in it. If anybody had told me
a year ago that this place would be my home,
that I should be spending month after month
here, as I have done, I certainly should not
have believed them. I have now been here nearly
five months; and, moreover, the quietest five
months I ever passed.”
“Too quiet for you, I believe.”
“I should have thought so theoretically
myself, but,” and her eyes brightened as
she spoke, “take it all and all, I never
spent so happy a summer. But then,” with
a more thoughtful air and lowered voice, “there
is no saying what it may lead to.”
Fanny’s heart beat quick, and she felt quite
unequal to surmising or soliciting anything
more. Miss Crawford, however, with renewed
animation, soon went on—
“I am conscious of being far better reconciled
to a country residence than I had ever expected
to be. I can even suppose it pleasant to spend
half the year in the country, under certain
circumstances, very pleasant. An elegant,
moderate-sized house in the centre of family
connexions; continual engagements among them;
commanding the first society in the neighbourhood;
looked up to, perhaps, as leading it even
more than those of larger fortune, and turning
from the cheerful round of such amusements
to nothing worse than a tete-a-tete with the
person one feels most agreeable in the world.
There is nothing frightful in such a picture,
is there, Miss Price? One need not envy the
new Mrs. Rushworth with such a home as that.”
“Envy Mrs. Rushworth!” was all that Fanny
attempted to say. “Come, come, it would
be very un-handsome in us to be severe on
Mrs. Rushworth, for I look forward to our
owing her a great many gay, brilliant, happy
hours. I expect we shall be all very much
at Sotherton another year. Such a match as
Miss Bertram has made is a public blessing;
for the first pleasures of Mr. Rushworth’s
wife must be to fill her house, and give the
best balls in the country.”
Fanny was silent, and Miss Crawford relapsed
into thoughtfulness, till suddenly looking
up at the end of a few minutes, she exclaimed,
“Ah! here he is.” It was not Mr. Rushworth,
however, but Edmund, who then appeared walking
towards them with Mrs. Grant. “My sister
and Mr. Bertram. I am so glad your eldest
cousin is gone, that he may be Mr. Bertram
again. There is something in the sound of
Mr. Edmund Bertram so formal, so pitiful,
so younger-brother-like, that I detest it.”
“How differently we feel!” cried Fanny.
“To me, the sound of Mr. Bertram is so cold
and nothing-meaning, so entirely without warmth
or character! It just stands for a gentleman,
and that’s all. But there is nobleness in
the name of Edmund. It is a name of heroism
and renown; of kings, princes, and knights;
and seems to breathe the spirit of chivalry
and warm affections.”
“I grant you the name is good in itself,
and Lord Edmund or Sir Edmund sound delightfully;
but sink it under the chill, the annihilation
of a Mr., and Mr. Edmund is no more than Mr.
John or Mr. Thomas. Well, shall we join and
disappoint them of half their lecture upon
sitting down out of doors at this time of
year, by being up before they can begin?”
Edmund met them with particular pleasure.
It was the first time of his seeing them together
since the beginning of that better acquaintance
which he had been hearing of with great satisfaction.
A friendship between two so very dear to him
was exactly what he could have wished: and
to the credit of the lover’s understanding,
be it stated, that he did not by any means
consider Fanny as the only, or even as the
greater gainer by such a friendship.
“Well,” said Miss Crawford, “and do
you not scold us for our imprudence? What
do you think we have been sitting down for
but to be talked to about it, and entreated
and supplicated never to do so again?”
“Perhaps I might have scolded,” said Edmund,
“if either of you had been sitting down
alone; but while you do wrong together, I
can overlook a great deal.”
“They cannot have been sitting long,”
cried Mrs. Grant, “for when I went up for
my shawl I saw them from the staircase window,
and then they were walking.”
“And really,” added Edmund, “the day
is so mild, that your sitting down for a few
minutes can be hardly thought imprudent. Our
weather must not always be judged by the calendar.
We may sometimes take greater liberties in
November than in May.”
“Upon my word,” cried Miss Crawford, “you
are two of the most disappointing and unfeeling
kind friends I ever met with! There is no
giving you a moment’s uneasiness. You do
not know how much we have been suffering,
nor what chills we have felt! But I have long
thought Mr. Bertram one of the worst subjects
to work on, in any little manoeuvre against
common sense, that a woman could be plagued
with. I had very little hope of him from the
first; but you, Mrs. Grant, my sister, my
own sister, I think I had a right to alarm
you a little.”
“Do not flatter yourself, my dearest Mary.
You have not the smallest chance of moving
me. I have my alarms, but they are quite in
a different quarter; and if I could have altered
the weather, you would have had a good sharp
east wind blowing on you the whole time—for
here are some of my plants which Robert will
leave out because the nights are so mild,
and I know the end of it will be, that we
shall have a sudden change of weather, a hard
frost setting in all at once, taking everybody
(at least Robert) by surprise, and I shall
lose every one; and what is worse, cook has
just been telling me that the turkey, which
I particularly wished not to be dressed till
Sunday, because I know how much more Dr. Grant
would enjoy it on Sunday after the fatigues
of the day, will not keep beyond to-morrow.
These are something like grievances, and make
me think the weather most unseasonably close.”
“The sweets of housekeeping in a country
village!” said Miss Crawford archly. “Commend
me to the nurseryman and the poulterer.”
“My dear child, commend Dr. Grant to the
deanery of Westminster or St. Paul’s, and
I should be as glad of your nurseryman and
poulterer as you could be. But we have no
such people in Mansfield. What would you have
me do?”
“Oh! you can do nothing but what you do
already: be plagued very often, and never
lose your temper.”
“Thank you; but there is no escaping these
little vexations, Mary, live where we may;
and when you are settled in town and I come
to see you, I dare say I shall find you with
yours, in spite of the nurseryman and the
poulterer, perhaps on their very account.
Their remoteness and unpunctuality, or their
exorbitant charges and frauds, will be drawing
forth bitter lamentations.”
“I mean to be too rich to lament or to feel
anything of the sort. A large income is the
best recipe for happiness I ever heard of.
It certainly may secure all the myrtle and
turkey part of it.”
“You intend to be very rich?” said Edmund,
with a look which, to Fanny’s eye, had a
great deal of serious meaning.
“To be sure. Do not you? Do not we all?”
“I cannot intend anything which it must
be so completely beyond my power to command.
Miss Crawford may chuse her degree of wealth.
She has only to fix on her number of thousands
a year, and there can be no doubt of their
coming. My intentions are only not to be poor.”
“By moderation and economy, and bringing
down your wants to your income, and all that.
I understand you—and a very proper plan
it is for a person at your time of life, with
such limited means and indifferent connexions.
What can you want but a decent maintenance?
You have not much time before you; and your
relations are in no situation to do anything
for you, or to mortify you by the contrast
of their own wealth and consequence. Be honest
and poor, by all means—but I shall not envy
you; I do not much think I shall even respect
you. I have a much greater respect for those
that are honest and rich.”
“Your degree of respect for honesty, rich
or poor, is precisely what I have no manner
of concern with. I do not mean to be poor.
Poverty is exactly what I have determined
against. Honesty, in the something between,
in the middle state of worldly circumstances,
is all that I am anxious for your not looking
down on.”
“But I do look down upon it, if it might
have been higher. I must look down upon anything
contented with obscurity when it might rise
to distinction.”
“But how may it rise? How may my honesty
at least rise to any distinction?”
This was not so very easy a question to answer,
and occasioned an “Oh!” of some length
from the fair lady before she could add, “You
ought to be in parliament, or you should have
gone into the army ten years ago.”
“That is not much to the purpose now; and
as to my being in parliament, I believe I
must wait till there is an especial assembly
for the representation of younger sons who
have little to live on. No, Miss Crawford,”
he added, in a more serious tone, “there
are distinctions which I should be miserable
if I thought myself without any chance—absolutely
without chance or possibility of obtaining—but
they are of a different character.”
A look of consciousness as he spoke, and what
seemed a consciousness of manner on Miss Crawford’s
side as she made some laughing answer, was
sorrowfull food for Fanny’s observation;
and finding herself quite unable to attend
as she ought to Mrs. Grant, by whose side
she was now following the others, she had
nearly resolved on going home immediately,
and only waited for courage to say so, when
the sound of the great clock at Mansfield
Park, striking three, made her feel that she
had really been much longer absent than usual,
and brought the previous self-inquiry of whether
she should take leave or not just then, and
how, to a very speedy issue. With undoubting
decision she directly began her adieus; and
Edmund began at the same time to recollect
that his mother had been inquiring for her,
and that he had walked down to the Parsonage
on purpose to bring her back.
Fanny’s hurry increased; and without in
the least expecting Edmund’s attendance,
she would have hastened away alone; but the
general pace was quickened, and they all accompanied
her into the house, through which it was necessary
to pass. Dr. Grant was in the vestibule, and
as they stopt to speak to him she found, from
Edmund’s manner, that he did mean to go
with her. He too was taking leave. She could
not but be thankful. In the moment of parting,
Edmund was invited by Dr. Grant to eat his
mutton with him the next day; and Fanny had
barely time for an unpleasant feeling on the
occasion, when Mrs. Grant, with sudden recollection,
turned to her and asked for the pleasure of
her company too. This was so new an attention,
so perfectly new a circumstance in the events
of Fanny’s life, that she was all surprise
and embarrassment; and while stammering out
her great obligation, and her “but she did
not suppose it would be in her power,” was
looking at Edmund for his opinion and help.
But Edmund, delighted with her having such
an happiness offered, and ascertaining with
half a look, and half a sentence, that she
had no objection but on her aunt’s account,
could not imagine that his mother would make
any difficulty of sparing her, and therefore
gave his decided open advice that the invitation
should be accepted; and though Fanny would
not venture, even on his encouragement, to
such a flight of audacious independence, it
was soon settled, that if nothing were heard
to the contrary, Mrs. Grant might expect her.
“And you know what your dinner will be,”
said Mrs. Grant, smiling—“the turkey,
and I assure you a very fine one; for, my
dear,” turning to her husband, “cook insists
upon the turkey’s being dressed to-morrow.”
“Very well, very well,” cried Dr. Grant,
“all the better; I am glad to hear you have
anything so good in the house. But Miss Price
and Mr. Edmund Bertram, I dare say, would
take their chance. We none of us want to hear
the bill of fare. A friendly meeting, and
not a fine dinner, is all we have in view.
A turkey, or a goose, or a leg of mutton,
or whatever you and your cook chuse to give
us.”
The two cousins walked home together; and,
except in the immediate discussion of this
engagement, which Edmund spoke of with the
warmest satisfaction, as so particularly desirable
for her in the intimacy which he saw with
so much pleasure established, it was a silent
walk; for having finished that subject, he
grew thoughtful and indisposed for any other.
CHAPTER XXIII
“But why should Mrs. Grant ask Fanny?”
said Lady Bertram. “How came she to think
of asking Fanny? Fanny never dines there,
you know, in this sort of way. I cannot spare
her, and I am sure she does not want to go.
Fanny, you do not want to go, do you?”
“If you put such a question to her,” cried
Edmund, preventing his cousin’s speaking,
“Fanny will immediately say No; but I am
sure, my dear mother, she would like to go;
and I can see no reason why she should not.”
“I cannot imagine why Mrs. Grant should
think of asking her? She never did before.
She used to ask your sisters now and then,
but she never asked Fanny.”
“If you cannot do without me, ma’am—”
said Fanny, in a self-denying tone.
“But my mother will have my father with
her all the evening.”
“To be sure, so I shall.”
“Suppose you take my father’s opinion,
ma’am.”
“That’s well thought of. So I will, Edmund.
I will ask Sir Thomas, as soon as he comes
in, whether I can do without her.”
“As you please, ma’am, on that head; but
I meant my father’s opinion as to the propriety
of the invitation’s being accepted or not;
and I think he will consider it a right thing
by Mrs. Grant, as well as by Fanny, that being
the first invitation it should be accepted.”
“I do not know. We will ask him. But he
will be very much surprised that Mrs. Grant
should ask Fanny at all.”
There was nothing more to be said, or that
could be said to any purpose, till Sir Thomas
were present; but the subject involving, as
it did, her own evening’s comfort for the
morrow, was so much uppermost in Lady Bertram’s
mind, that half an hour afterwards, on his
looking in for a minute in his way from his
plantation to his dressing-room, she called
him back again, when he had almost closed
the door, with “Sir Thomas, stop a moment—I
have something to say to you.”
Her tone of calm languor, for she never took
the trouble of raising her voice, was always
heard and attended to; and Sir Thomas came
back. Her story began; and Fanny immediately
slipped out of the room; for to hear herself
the subject of any discussion with her uncle
was more than her nerves could bear. She was
anxious, she knew—more anxious perhaps than
she ought to be—for what was it after all
whether she went or staid? but if her uncle
were to be a great while considering and deciding,
and with very grave looks, and those grave
looks directed to her, and at last decide
against her, she might not be able to appear
properly submissive and indifferent. Her cause,
meanwhile, went on well. It began, on Lady
Bertram’s part, with—“I have something
to tell you that will surprise you. Mrs. Grant
has asked Fanny to dinner.”
“Well,” said Sir Thomas, as if waiting
more to accomplish the surprise.
“Edmund wants her to go. But how can I spare
her?”
“She will be late,” said Sir Thomas, taking
out his watch; “but what is your difficulty?”
Edmund found himself obliged to speak and
fill up the blanks in his mother’s story.
He told the whole; and she had only to add,
“So strange! for Mrs. Grant never used to
ask her.”
“But is it not very natural,” observed
Edmund, “that Mrs. Grant should wish to
procure so agreeable a visitor for her sister?”
“Nothing can be more natural,” said Sir
Thomas, after a short deliberation; “nor,
were there no sister in the case, could anything,
in my opinion, be more natural. Mrs. Grant’s
shewing civility to Miss Price, to Lady Bertram’s
niece, could never want explanation. The only
surprise I can feel is, that this should be
the first time of its being paid. Fanny was
perfectly right in giving only a conditional
answer. She appears to feel as she ought.
But as I conclude that she must wish to go,
since all young people like to be together,
I can see no reason why she should be denied
the indulgence.”
“But can I do without her, Sir Thomas?”
“Indeed I think you may.”
“She always makes tea, you know, when my
sister is not here.”
“Your sister, perhaps, may be prevailed
on to spend the day with us, and I shall certainly
be at home.”
“Very well, then, Fanny may go, Edmund.”
The good news soon followed her. Edmund knocked
at her door in his way to his own.
“Well, Fanny, it is all happily settled,
and without the smallest hesitation on your
uncle’s side. He had but one opinion. You
are to go.”
“Thank you, I am so glad,” was Fanny’s
instinctive reply; though when she had turned
from him and shut the door, she could not
help feeling, “And yet why should I be glad?
for am I not certain of seeing or hearing
something there to pain me?”
In spite of this conviction, however, she
was glad. Simple as such an engagement might
appear in other eyes, it had novelty and importance
in hers, for excepting the day at Sotherton,
she had scarcely ever dined out before; and
though now going only half a mile, and only
to three people, still it was dining out,
and all the little interests of preparation
were enjoyments in themselves. She had neither
sympathy nor assistance from those who ought
to have entered into her feelings and directed
her taste; for Lady Bertram never thought
of being useful to anybody, and Mrs. Norris,
when she came on the morrow, in consequence
of an early call and invitation from Sir Thomas,
was in a very ill humour, and seemed intent
only on lessening her niece’s pleasure,
both present and future, as much as possible.
“Upon my word, Fanny, you are in high luck
to meet with such attention and indulgence!
You ought to be very much obliged to Mrs.
Grant for thinking of you, and to your aunt
for letting you go, and you ought to look
upon it as something extraordinary; for I
hope you are aware that there is no real occasion
for your going into company in this sort of
way, or ever dining out at all; and it is
what you must not depend upon ever being repeated.
Nor must you be fancying that the invitation
is meant as any particular compliment to you;
the compliment is intended to your uncle and
aunt and me. Mrs. Grant thinks it a civility
due to us to take a little notice of you,
or else it would never have come into her
head, and you may be very certain that, if
your cousin Julia had been at home, you would
not have been asked at all.”
Mrs. Norris had now so ingeniously done away
all Mrs. Grant’s part of the favour, that
Fanny, who found herself expected to speak,
could only say that she was very much obliged
to her aunt Bertram for sparing her, and that
she was endeavouring to put her aunt’s evening
work in such a state as to prevent her being
missed.
“Oh! depend upon it, your aunt can do very
well without you, or you would not be allowed
to go. I shall be here, so you may be quite
easy about your aunt. And I hope you will
have a very agreeable day, and find it all
mighty delightful. But I must observe that
five is the very awkwardest of all possible
numbers to sit down to table; and I cannot
but be surprised that such an elegant lady
as Mrs. Grant should not contrive better!
And round their enormous great wide table,
too, which fills up the room so dreadfully!
Had the doctor been contented to take my dining-table
when I came away, as anybody in their senses
would have done, instead of having that absurd
new one of his own, which is wider, literally
wider than the dinner-table here, how infinitely
better it would have been! and how much more
he would have been respected! for people are
never respected when they step out of their
proper sphere. Remember that, Fanny. Five—only
five to be sitting round that table. However,
you will have dinner enough on it for ten,
I dare say.”
Mrs. Norris fetched breath, and went on again.
“The nonsense and folly of people’s stepping
out of their rank and trying to appear above
themselves, makes me think it right to give
you a hint, Fanny, now that you are going
into company without any of us; and I do beseech
and entreat you not to be putting yourself
forward, and talking and giving your opinion
as if you were one of your cousins—as if
you were dear Mrs. Rushworth or Julia. That
will never do, believe me. Remember, wherever
you are, you must be the lowest and last;
and though Miss Crawford is in a manner at
home at the Parsonage, you are not to be taking
place of her. And as to coming away at night,
you are to stay just as long as Edmund chuses.
Leave him to settle that.”
“Yes, ma’am, I should not think of anything
else.”
“And if it should rain, which I think exceedingly
likely, for I never saw it more threatening
for a wet evening in my life, you must manage
as well as you can, and not be expecting the
carriage to be sent for you. I certainly do
not go home to-night, and, therefore, the
carriage will not be out on my account; so
you must make up your mind to what may happen,
and take your things accordingly.”
Her niece thought it perfectly reasonable.
She rated her own claims to comfort as low
even as Mrs. Norris could; and when Sir Thomas
soon afterwards, just opening the door, said,
“Fanny, at what time would you have the
carriage come round?” she felt a degree
of astonishment which made it impossible for
her to speak.
“My dear Sir Thomas!” cried Mrs. Norris,
red with anger, “Fanny can walk.”
“Walk!” repeated Sir Thomas, in a tone
of most unanswerable dignity, and coming farther
into the room. “My niece walk to a dinner
engagement at this time of the year! Will
twenty minutes after four suit you?”
“Yes, sir,” was Fanny’s humble answer,
given with the feelings almost of a criminal
towards Mrs. Norris; and not bearing to remain
with her in what might seem a state of triumph,
she followed her uncle out of the room, having
staid behind him only long enough to hear
these words spoken in angry agitation—
“Quite unnecessary! a great deal too kind!
But Edmund goes; true, it is upon Edmund’s
account. I observed he was hoarse on Thursday
night.”
But this could not impose on Fanny. She felt
that the carriage was for herself, and herself
alone: and her uncle’s consideration of
her, coming immediately after such representations
from her aunt, cost her some tears of gratitude
when she was alone.
The coachman drove round to a minute; another
minute brought down the gentleman; and as
the lady had, with a most scrupulous fear
of being late, been many minutes seated in
the drawing-room, Sir Thomas saw them off
in as good time as his own correctly punctual
habits required.
“Now I must look at you, Fanny,” said
Edmund, with the kind smile of an affectionate
brother, “and tell you how I like you; and
as well as I can judge by this light, you
look very nicely indeed. What have you got
on?”
“The new dress that my uncle was so good
as to give me on my cousin’s marriage. I
hope it is not too fine; but I thought I ought
to wear it as soon as I could, and that I
might not have such another opportunity all
the winter. I hope you do not think me too
fine.”
“A woman can never be too fine while she
is all in white. No, I see no finery about
you; nothing but what is perfectly proper.
Your gown seems very pretty. I like these
glossy spots. Has not Miss Crawford a gown
something the same?”
In approaching the Parsonage they passed close
by the stable-yard and coach-house.
“Heyday!” said Edmund, “here’s company,
here’s a carriage! who have they got to
meet us?” And letting down the side-glass
to distinguish, “‘Tis Crawford’s, Crawford’s
barouche, I protest! There are his own two
men pushing it back into its old quarters.
He is here, of course. This is quite a surprise,
Fanny. I shall be very glad to see him.”
There was no occasion, there was no time for
Fanny to say how very differently she felt;
but the idea of having such another to observe
her was a great increase of the trepidation
with which she performed the very awful ceremony
of walking into the drawing-room.
In the drawing-room Mr. Crawford certainly
was, having been just long enough arrived
to be ready for dinner; and the smiles and
pleased looks of the three others standing
round him, shewed how welcome was his sudden
resolution of coming to them for a few days
on leaving Bath. A very cordial meeting passed
between him and Edmund; and with the exception
of Fanny, the pleasure was general; and even
to her there might be some advantage in his
presence, since every addition to the party
must rather forward her favourite indulgence
of being suffered to sit silent and unattended
to. She was soon aware of this herself; for
though she must submit, as her own propriety
of mind directed, in spite of her aunt Norris’s
opinion, to being the principal lady in company,
and to all the little distinctions consequent
thereon, she found, while they were at table,
such a happy flow of conversation prevailing,
in which she was not required to take any
part—there was so much to be said between
the brother and sister about Bath, so much
between the two young men about hunting, so
much of politics between Mr. Crawford and
Dr. Grant, and of everything and all together
between Mr. Crawford and Mrs. Grant, as to
leave her the fairest prospect of having only
to listen in quiet, and of passing a very
agreeable day. She could not compliment the
newly arrived gentleman, however, with any
appearance of interest, in a scheme for extending
his stay at Mansfield, and sending for his
hunters from Norfolk, which, suggested by
Dr. Grant, advised by Edmund, and warmly urged
by the two sisters, was soon in possession
of his mind, and which he seemed to want to
be encouraged even by her to resolve on. Her
opinion was sought as to the probable continuance
of the open weather, but her answers were
as short and indifferent as civility allowed.
She could not wish him to stay, and would
much rather not have him speak to her.
Her two absent cousins, especially Maria,
were much in her thoughts on seeing him; but
no embarrassing remembrance affected his spirits.
Here he was again on the same ground where
all had passed before, and apparently as willing
to stay and be happy without the Miss Bertrams,
as if he had never known Mansfield in any
other state. She heard them spoken of by him
only in a general way, till they were all
re-assembled in the drawing-room, when Edmund,
being engaged apart in some matter of business
with Dr. Grant, which seemed entirely to engross
them, and Mrs. Grant occupied at the tea-table,
he began talking of them with more particularity
to his other sister. With a significant smile,
which made Fanny quite hate him, he said,
“So! Rushworth and his fair bride are at
Brighton, I understand; happy man!”
“Yes, they have been there about a fortnight,
Miss Price, have they not? And Julia is with
them.”
“And Mr. Yates, I presume, is not far off.”
“Mr. Yates! Oh! we hear nothing of Mr. Yates.
I do not imagine he figures much in the letters
to Mansfield Park; do you, Miss Price? I think
my friend Julia knows better than to entertain
her father with Mr. Yates.”
“Poor Rushworth and his two-and-forty speeches!”
continued Crawford. “Nobody can ever forget
them. Poor fellow! I see him now—his toil
and his despair. Well, I am much mistaken
if his lovely Maria will ever want him to
make two-and-forty speeches to her”; adding,
with a momentary seriousness, “She is too
good for him—much too good.” And then
changing his tone again to one of gentle gallantry,
and addressing Fanny, he said, “You were
Mr. Rushworth’s best friend. Your kindness
and patience can never be forgotten, your
indefatigable patience in trying to make it
possible for him to learn his part—in trying
to give him a brain which nature had denied—to
mix up an understanding for him out of the
superfluity of your own! He might not have
sense enough himself to estimate your kindness,
but I may venture to say that it had honour
from all the rest of the party.”
Fanny coloured, and said nothing.
“It is as a dream, a pleasant dream!”
he exclaimed, breaking forth again, after
a few minutes’ musing. “I shall always
look back on our theatricals with exquisite
pleasure. There was such an interest, such
an animation, such a spirit diffused. Everybody
felt it. We were all alive. There was employment,
hope, solicitude, bustle, for every hour of
the day. Always some little objection, some
little doubt, some little anxiety to be got
over. I never was happier.”
With silent indignation Fanny repeated to
herself, “Never happier!—never happier
than when doing what you must know was not
justifiable!—never happier than when behaving
so dishonourably and unfeelingly! Oh! what
a corrupted mind!”
“We were unlucky, Miss Price,” he continued,
in a lower tone, to avoid the possibility
of being heard by Edmund, and not at all aware
of her feelings, “we certainly were very
unlucky. Another week, only one other week,
would have been enough for us. I think if
we had had the disposal of events—if Mansfield
Park had had the government of the winds just
for a week or two, about the equinox, there
would have been a difference. Not that we
would have endangered his safety by any tremendous
weather—but only by a steady contrary wind,
or a calm. I think, Miss Price, we would have
indulged ourselves with a week’s calm in
the Atlantic at that season.”
He seemed determined to be answered; and Fanny,
averting her face, said, with a firmer tone
than usual, “As far as I am concerned, sir,
I would not have delayed his return for a
day. My uncle disapproved it all so entirely
when he did arrive, that in my opinion everything
had gone quite far enough.”
She had never spoken so much at once to him
in her life before, and never so angrily to
any one; and when her speech was over, she
trembled and blushed at her own daring. He
was surprised; but after a few moments’
silent consideration of her, replied in a
calmer, graver tone, and as if the candid
result of conviction, “I believe you are
right. It was more pleasant than prudent.
We were getting too noisy.” And then turning
the conversation, he would have engaged her
on some other subject, but her answers were
so shy and reluctant that he could not advance
in any.
Miss Crawford, who had been repeatedly eyeing
Dr. Grant and Edmund, now observed, “Those
gentlemen must have some very interesting
point to discuss.”
“The most interesting in the world,” replied
her brother—“how to make money; how to
turn a good income into a better. Dr. Grant
is giving Bertram instructions about the living
he is to step into so soon. I find he takes
orders in a few weeks. They were at it in
the dining-parlour. I am glad to hear Bertram
will be so well off. He will have a very pretty
income to make ducks and drakes with, and
earned without much trouble. I apprehend he
will not have less than seven hundred a year.
Seven hundred a year is a fine thing for a
younger brother; and as of course he will
still live at home, it will be all for his
menus plaisirs; and a sermon at Christmas
and Easter, I suppose, will be the sum total
of sacrifice.”
His sister tried to laugh off her feelings
by saying, “Nothing amuses me more than
the easy manner with which everybody settles
the abundance of those who have a great deal
less than themselves. You would look rather
blank, Henry, if your menus plaisirs were
to be limited to seven hundred a year.”
“Perhaps I might; but all that you know
is entirely comparative. Birthright and habit
must settle the business. Bertram is certainly
well off for a cadet of even a baronet’s
family. By the time he is four or five and
twenty he will have seven hundred a year,
and nothing to do for it.”
Miss Crawford could have said that there would
be a something to do and to suffer for it,
which she could not think lightly of; but
she checked herself and let it pass; and tried
to look calm and unconcerned when the two
gentlemen shortly afterwards joined them.
“Bertram,” said Henry Crawford, “I shall
make a point of coming to Mansfield to hear
you preach your first sermon. I shall come
on purpose to encourage a young beginner.
When is it to be? Miss Price, will not you
join me in encouraging your cousin? Will not
you engage to attend with your eyes steadily
fixed on him the whole time—as I shall do—not
to lose a word; or only looking off just to
note down any sentence preeminently beautiful?
We will provide ourselves with tablets and
a pencil. When will it be? You must preach
at Mansfield, you know, that Sir Thomas and
Lady Bertram may hear you.”
“I shall keep clear of you, Crawford, as
long as I can,” said Edmund; “for you
would be more likely to disconcert me, and
I should be more sorry to see you trying at
it than almost any other man.”
“Will he not feel this?” thought Fanny.
“No, he can feel nothing as he ought.”
The party being now all united, and the chief
talkers attracting each other, she remained
in tranquillity; and as a whist-table was
formed after tea—formed really for the amusement
of Dr. Grant, by his attentive wife, though
it was not to be supposed so—and Miss Crawford
took her harp, she had nothing to do but to
listen; and her tranquillity remained undisturbed
the rest of the evening, except when Mr. Crawford
now and then addressed to her a question or
observation, which she could not avoid answering.
Miss Crawford was too much vexed by what had
passed to be in a humour for anything but
music. With that she soothed herself and amused
her friend.
The assurance of Edmund’s being so soon
to take orders, coming upon her like a blow
that had been suspended, and still hoped uncertain
and at a distance, was felt with resentment
and mortification. She was very angry with
him. She had thought her influence more. She
had begun to think of him; she felt that she
had, with great regard, with almost decided
intentions; but she would now meet him with
his own cool feelings. It was plain that he
could have no serious views, no true attachment,
by fixing himself in a situation which he
must know she would never stoop to. She would
learn to match him in his indifference. She
would henceforth admit his attentions without
any idea beyond immediate amusement. If he
could so command his affections, hers should
do her no harm.
CHAPTER XXIV
Henry Crawford had quite made up his mind
by the next morning to give another fortnight
to Mansfield, and having sent for his hunters,
and written a few lines of explanation to
the Admiral, he looked round at his sister
as he sealed and threw the letter from him,
and seeing the coast clear of the rest of
the family, said, with a smile, “And how
do you think I mean to amuse myself, Mary,
on the days that I do not hunt? I am grown
too old to go out more than three times a
week; but I have a plan for the intermediate
days, and what do you think it is?”
“To walk and ride with me, to be sure.”
“Not exactly, though I shall be happy to
do both, but that would be exercise only to
my body, and I must take care of my mind.
Besides, that would be all recreation and
indulgence, without the wholesome alloy of
labour, and I do not like to eat the bread
of idleness. No, my plan is to make Fanny
Price in love with me.”
“Fanny Price! Nonsense! No, no. You ought
to be satisfied with her two cousins.”
“But I cannot be satisfied without Fanny
Price, without making a small hole in Fanny
Price’s heart. You do not seem properly
aware of her claims to notice. When we talked
of her last night, you none of you seemed
sensible of the wonderful improvement that
has taken place in her looks within the last
six weeks. You see her every day, and therefore
do not notice it; but I assure you she is
quite a different creature from what she was
in the autumn. She was then merely a quiet,
modest, not plain-looking girl, but she is
now absolutely pretty. I used to think she
had neither complexion nor countenance; but
in that soft skin of hers, so frequently tinged
with a blush as it was yesterday, there is
decided beauty; and from what I observed of
her eyes and mouth, I do not despair of their
being capable of expression enough when she
has anything to express. And then, her air,
her manner, her tout ensemble, is so indescribably
improved! She must be grown two inches, at
least, since October.”
“Phoo! phoo! This is only because there
were no tall women to compare her with, and
because she has got a new gown, and you never
saw her so well dressed before. She is just
what she was in October, believe me. The truth
is, that she was the only girl in company
for you to notice, and you must have a somebody.
I have always thought her pretty—not strikingly
pretty—but ‘pretty enough,’ as people
say; a sort of beauty that grows on one. Her
eyes should be darker, but she has a sweet
smile; but as for this wonderful degree of
improvement, I am sure it may all be resolved
into a better style of dress, and your having
nobody else to look at; and therefore, if
you do set about a flirtation with her, you
never will persuade me that it is in compliment
to her beauty, or that it proceeds from anything
but your own idleness and folly.”
Her brother gave only a smile to this accusation,
and soon afterwards said, “I do not quite
know what to make of Miss Fanny. I do not
understand her. I could not tell what she
would be at yesterday. What is her character?
Is she solemn? Is she queer? Is she prudish?
Why did she draw back and look so grave at
me? I could hardly get her to speak. I never
was so long in company with a girl in my life,
trying to entertain her, and succeed so ill!
Never met with a girl who looked so grave
on me! I must try to get the better of this.
Her looks say, ‘I will not like you, I am
determined not to like you’; and I say she
shall.”
“Foolish fellow! And so this is her attraction
after all! This it is, her not caring about
you, which gives her such a soft skin, and
makes her so much taller, and produces all
these charms and graces! I do desire that
you will not be making her really unhappy;
a little love, perhaps, may animate and do
her good, but I will not have you plunge her
deep, for she is as good a little creature
as ever lived, and has a great deal of feeling.”
“It can be but for a fortnight,” said
Henry; “and if a fortnight can kill her,
she must have a constitution which nothing
could save. No, I will not do her any harm,
dear little soul! only want her to look kindly
on me, to give me smiles as well as blushes,
to keep a chair for me by herself wherever
we are, and be all animation when I take it
and talk to her; to think as I think, be interested
in all my possessions and pleasures, try to
keep me longer at Mansfield, and feel when
I go away that she shall be never happy again.
I want nothing more.”
“Moderation itself!” said Mary. “I can
have no scruples now. Well, you will have
opportunities enough of endeavouring to recommend
yourself, for we are a great deal together.”
And without attempting any farther remonstrance,
she left Fanny to her fate, a fate which,
had not Fanny’s heart been guarded in a
way unsuspected by Miss Crawford, might have
been a little harder than she deserved; for
although there doubtless are such unconquerable
young ladies of eighteen (or one should not
read about them) as are never to be persuaded
into love against their judgment by all that
talent, manner, attention, and flattery can
do, I have no inclination to believe Fanny
one of them, or to think that with so much
tenderness of disposition, and so much taste
as belonged to her, she could have escaped
heart-whole from the courtship (though the
courtship only of a fortnight) of such a man
as Crawford, in spite of there being some
previous ill opinion of him to be overcome,
had not her affection been engaged elsewhere.
With all the security which love of another
and disesteem of him could give to the peace
of mind he was attacking, his continued attentions—continued,
but not obtrusive, and adapting themselves
more and more to the gentleness and delicacy
of her character—obliged her very soon to
dislike him less than formerly. She had by
no means forgotten the past, and she thought
as ill of him as ever; but she felt his powers:
he was entertaining; and his manners were
so improved, so polite, so seriously and blamelessly
polite, that it was impossible not to be civil
to him in return.
A very few days were enough to effect this;
and at the end of those few days, circumstances
arose which had a tendency rather to forward
his views of pleasing her, inasmuch as they
gave her a degree of happiness which must
dispose her to be pleased with everybody.
William, her brother, the so long absent and
dearly loved brother, was in England again.
She had a letter from him herself, a few hurried
happy lines, written as the ship came up Channel,
and sent into Portsmouth with the first boat
that left the Antwerp at anchor in Spithead;
and when Crawford walked up with the newspaper
in his hand, which he had hoped would bring
the first tidings, he found her trembling
with joy over this letter, and listening with
a glowing, grateful countenance to the kind
invitation which her uncle was most collectedly
dictating in reply.
It was but the day before that Crawford had
made himself thoroughly master of the subject,
or had in fact become at all aware of her
having such a brother, or his being in such
a ship, but the interest then excited had
been very properly lively, determining him
on his return to town to apply for information
as to the probable period of the Antwerp’s
return from the Mediterranean, etc.; and the
good luck which attended his early examination
of ship news the next morning seemed the reward
of his ingenuity in finding out such a method
of pleasing her, as well as of his dutiful
attention to the Admiral, in having for many
years taken in the paper esteemed to have
the earliest naval intelligence. He proved,
however, to be too late. All those fine first
feelings, of which he had hoped to be the
exciter, were already given. But his intention,
the kindness of his intention, was thankfully
acknowledged: quite thankfully and warmly,
for she was elevated beyond the common timidity
of her mind by the flow of her love for William.
This dear William would soon be amongst them.
There could be no doubt of his obtaining leave
of absence immediately, for he was still only
a midshipman; and as his parents, from living
on the spot, must already have seen him, and
be seeing him perhaps daily, his direct holidays
might with justice be instantly given to the
sister, who had been his best correspondent
through a period of seven years, and the uncle
who had done most for his support and advancement;
and accordingly the reply to her reply, fixing
a very early day for his arrival, came as
soon as possible; and scarcely ten days had
passed since Fanny had been in the agitation
of her first dinner-visit, when she found
herself in an agitation of a higher nature,
watching in the hall, in the lobby, on the
stairs, for the first sound of the carriage
which was to bring her a brother.
It came happily while she was thus waiting;
and there being neither ceremony nor fearfulness
to delay the moment of meeting, she was with
him as he entered the house, and the first
minutes of exquisite feeling had no interruption
and no witnesses, unless the servants chiefly
intent upon opening the proper doors could
be called such. This was exactly what Sir
Thomas and Edmund had been separately conniving
at, as each proved to the other by the sympathetic
alacrity with which they both advised Mrs.
Norris’s continuing where she was, instead
of rushing out into the hall as soon as the
noises of the arrival reached them.
William and Fanny soon shewed themselves;
and Sir Thomas had the pleasure of receiving,
in his protege, certainly a very different
person from the one he had equipped seven
years ago, but a young man of an open, pleasant
countenance, and frank, unstudied, but feeling
and respectful manners, and such as confirmed
him his friend.
It was long before Fanny could recover from
the agitating happiness of such an hour as
was formed by the last thirty minutes of expectation,
and the first of fruition; it was some time
even before her happiness could be said to
make her happy, before the disappointment
inseparable from the alteration of person
had vanished, and she could see in him the
same William as before, and talk to him, as
her heart had been yearning to do through
many a past year. That time, however, did
gradually come, forwarded by an affection
on his side as warm as her own, and much less
encumbered by refinement or self-distrust.
She was the first object of his love, but
it was a love which his stronger spirits,
and bolder temper, made it as natural for
him to express as to feel. On the morrow they
were walking about together with true enjoyment,
and every succeeding morrow renewed a tete-a-tete
which Sir Thomas could not but observe with
complacency, even before Edmund had pointed
it out to him.
Excepting the moments of peculiar delight,
which any marked or unlooked-for instance
of Edmund’s consideration of her in the
last few months had excited, Fanny had never
known so much felicity in her life, as in
this unchecked, equal, fearless intercourse
with the brother and friend who was opening
all his heart to her, telling her all his
hopes and fears, plans, and solicitudes respecting
that long thought of, dearly earned, and justly
valued blessing of promotion; who could give
her direct and minute information of the father
and mother, brothers and sisters, of whom
she very seldom heard; who was interested
in all the comforts and all the little hardships
of her home at Mansfield; ready to think of
every member of that home as she directed,
or differing only by a less scrupulous opinion,
and more noisy abuse of their aunt Norris,
and with whom (perhaps the dearest indulgence
of the whole) all the evil and good of their
earliest years could be gone over again, and
every former united pain and pleasure retraced
with the fondest recollection. An advantage
this, a strengthener of love, in which even
the conjugal tie is beneath the fraternal.
Children of the same family, the same blood,
with the same first associations and habits,
have some means of enjoyment in their power,
which no subsequent connexions can supply;
and it must be by a long and unnatural estrangement,
by a divorce which no subsequent connexion
can justify, if such precious remains of the
earliest attachments are ever entirely outlived.
Too often, alas! it is so. Fraternal love,
sometimes almost everything, is at others
worse than nothing. But with William and Fanny
Price it was still a sentiment in all its
prime and freshness, wounded by no opposition
of interest, cooled by no separate attachment,
and feeling the influence of time and absence
only in its increase.
An affection so amiable was advancing each
in the opinion of all who had hearts to value
anything good. Henry Crawford was as much
struck with it as any. He honoured the warm-hearted,
blunt fondness of the young sailor, which
led him to say, with his hands stretched towards
Fanny’s head, “Do you know, I begin to
like that queer fashion already, though when
I first heard of such things being done in
England, I could not believe it; and when
Mrs. Brown, and the other women at the Commissioner’s
at Gibraltar, appeared in the same trim, I
thought they were mad; but Fanny can reconcile
me to anything”; and saw, with lively admiration,
the glow of Fanny’s cheek, the brightness
of her eye, the deep interest, the absorbed
attention, while her brother was describing
any of the imminent hazards, or terrific scenes,
which such a period at sea must supply.
It was a picture which Henry Crawford had
moral taste enough to value. Fanny’s attractions
increased—increased twofold; for the sensibility
which beautified her complexion and illumined
her countenance was an attraction in itself.
He was no longer in doubt of the capabilities
of her heart. She had feeling, genuine feeling.
It would be something to be loved by such
a girl, to excite the first ardours of her
young unsophisticated mind! She interested
him more than he had foreseen. A fortnight
was not enough. His stay became indefinite.
William was often called on by his uncle to
be the talker. His recitals were amusing in
themselves to Sir Thomas, but the chief object
in seeking them was to understand the reciter,
to know the young man by his histories; and
he listened to his clear, simple, spirited
details with full satisfaction, seeing in
them the proof of good principles, professional
knowledge, energy, courage, and cheerfulness,
everything that could deserve or promise well.
Young as he was, William had already seen
a great deal. He had been in the Mediterranean;
in the West Indies; in the Mediterranean again;
had been often taken on shore by the favour
of his captain, and in the course of seven
years had known every variety of danger which
sea and war together could offer. With such
means in his power he had a right to be listened
to; and though Mrs. Norris could fidget about
the room, and disturb everybody in quest of
two needlefuls of thread or a second-hand
shirt button, in the midst of her nephew’s
account of a shipwreck or an engagement, everybody
else was attentive; and even Lady Bertram
could not hear of such horrors unmoved, or
without sometimes lifting her eyes from her
work to say, “Dear me! how disagreeable!
I wonder anybody can ever go to sea.”
To Henry Crawford they gave a different feeling.
He longed to have been at sea, and seen and
done and suffered as much. His heart was warmed,
his fancy fired, and he felt the highest respect
for a lad who, before he was twenty, had gone
through such bodily hardships and given such
proofs of mind. The glory of heroism, of usefulness,
of exertion, of endurance, made his own habits
of selfish indulgence appear in shameful contrast;
and he wished he had been a William Price,
distinguishing himself and working his way
to fortune and consequence with so much self-respect
and happy ardour, instead of what he was!
The wish was rather eager than lasting. He
was roused from the reverie of retrospection
and regret produced by it, by some inquiry
from Edmund as to his plans for the next day’s
hunting; and he found it was as well to be
a man of fortune at once with horses and grooms
at his command. In one respect it was better,
as it gave him the means of conferring a kindness
where he wished to oblige. With spirits, courage,
and curiosity up to anything, William expressed
an inclination to hunt; and Crawford could
mount him without the slightest inconvenience
to himself, and with only some scruples to
obviate in Sir Thomas, who knew better than
his nephew the value of such a loan, and some
alarms to reason away in Fanny. She feared
for William; by no means convinced by all
that he could relate of his own horsemanship
in various countries, of the scrambling parties
in which he had been engaged, the rough horses
and mules he had ridden, or his many narrow
escapes from dreadful falls, that he was at
all equal to the management of a high-fed
hunter in an English fox-chase; nor till he
returned safe and well, without accident or
discredit, could she be reconciled to the
risk, or feel any of that obligation to Mr.
Crawford for lending the horse which he had
fully intended it should produce. When it
was proved, however, to have done William
no harm, she could allow it to be a kindness,
and even reward the owner with a smile when
the animal was one minute tendered to his
use again; and the next, with the greatest
cordiality, and in a manner not to be resisted,
made over to his use entirely so long as he
remained in Northamptonshire.
[End volume one of this edition.
Printed by T. and A. Constable,
Printers to Her Majesty at
the Edinburgh University Press]
CHAPTER XXV
The intercourse of the two families was at
this period more nearly restored to what it
had been in the autumn, than any member of
the old intimacy had thought ever likely to
be again. The return of Henry Crawford, and
the arrival of William Price, had much to
do with it, but much was still owing to Sir
Thomas’s more than toleration of the neighbourly
attempts at the Parsonage. His mind, now disengaged
from the cares which had pressed on him at
first, was at leisure to find the Grants and
their young inmates really worth visiting;
and though infinitely above scheming or contriving
for any the most advantageous matrimonial
establishment that could be among the apparent
possibilities of any one most dear to him,
and disdaining even as a littleness the being
quick-sighted on such points, he could not
avoid perceiving, in a grand and careless
way, that Mr. Crawford was somewhat distinguishing
his niece—nor perhaps refrain (though unconsciously)
from giving a more willing assent to invitations
on that account.
His readiness, however, in agreeing to dine
at the Parsonage, when the general invitation
was at last hazarded, after many debates and
many doubts as to whether it were worth while,
“because Sir Thomas seemed so ill inclined,
and Lady Bertram was so indolent!” proceeded
from good-breeding and goodwill alone, and
had nothing to do with Mr. Crawford, but as
being one in an agreeable group: for it was
in the course of that very visit that he first
began to think that any one in the habit of
such idle observations would have thought
that Mr. Crawford was the admirer of Fanny
Price.
The meeting was generally felt to be a pleasant
one, being composed in a good proportion of
those who would talk and those who would listen;
and the dinner itself was elegant and plentiful,
according to the usual style of the Grants,
and too much according to the usual habits
of all to raise any emotion except in Mrs.
Norris, who could never behold either the
wide table or the number of dishes on it with
patience, and who did always contrive to experience
some evil from the passing of the servants
behind her chair, and to bring away some fresh
conviction of its being impossible among so
many dishes but that some must be cold.
In the evening it was found, according to
the predetermination of Mrs. Grant and her
sister, that after making up the whist-table
there would remain sufficient for a round
game, and everybody being as perfectly complying
and without a choice as on such occasions
they always are, speculation was decided on
almost as soon as whist; and Lady Bertram
soon found herself in the critical situation
of being applied to for her own choice between
the games, and being required either to draw
a card for whist or not. She hesitated. Luckily
Sir Thomas was at hand.
“What shall I do, Sir Thomas? Whist and
speculation; which will amuse me most?”
Sir Thomas, after a moment’s thought, recommended
speculation. He was a whist player himself,
and perhaps might feel that it would not much
amuse him to have her for a partner.
“Very well,” was her ladyship’s contented
answer; “then speculation, if you please,
Mrs. Grant. I know nothing about it, but Fanny
must teach me.”
Here Fanny interposed, however, with anxious
protestations of her own equal ignorance;
she had never played the game nor seen it
played in her life; and Lady Bertram felt
a moment’s indecision again; but upon everybody’s
assuring her that nothing could be so easy,
that it was the easiest game on the cards,
and Henry Crawford’s stepping forward with
a most earnest request to be allowed to sit
between her ladyship and Miss Price, and teach
them both, it was so settled; and Sir Thomas,
Mrs. Norris, and Dr. and Mrs. Grant being
seated at the table of prime intellectual
state and dignity, the remaining six, under
Miss Crawford’s direction, were arranged
round the other. It was a fine arrangement
for Henry Crawford, who was close to Fanny,
and with his hands full of business, having
two persons’ cards to manage as well as
his own; for though it was impossible for
Fanny not to feel herself mistress of the
rules of the game in three minutes, he had
yet to inspirit her play, sharpen her avarice,
and harden her heart, which, especially in
any competition with William, was a work of
some difficulty; and as for Lady Bertram,
he must continue in charge of all her fame
and fortune through the whole evening; and
if quick enough to keep her from looking at
her cards when the deal began, must direct
her in whatever was to be done with them to
the end of it.
He was in high spirits, doing everything with
happy ease, and preeminent in all the lively
turns, quick resources, and playful impudence
that could do honour to the game; and the
round table was altogether a very comfortable
contrast to the steady sobriety and orderly
silence of the other.
Twice had Sir Thomas inquired into the enjoyment
and success of his lady, but in vain; no pause
was long enough for the time his measured
manner needed; and very little of her state
could be known till Mrs. Grant was able, at
the end of the first rubber, to go to her
and pay her compliments.
“I hope your ladyship is pleased with the
game.”
“Oh dear, yes! very entertaining indeed.
A very odd game. I do not know what it is
all about. I am never to see my cards; and
Mr. Crawford does all the rest.”
“Bertram,” said Crawford, some time afterwards,
taking the opportunity of a little languor
in the game, “I have never told you what
happened to me yesterday in my ride home.”
They had been hunting together, and were in
the midst of a good run, and at some distance
from Mansfield, when his horse being found
to have flung a shoe, Henry Crawford had been
obliged to give up, and make the best of his
way back. “I told you I lost my way after
passing that old farmhouse with the yew-trees,
because I can never bear to ask; but I have
not told you that, with my usual luck—for
I never do wrong without gaining by it—I
found myself in due time in the very place
which I had a curiosity to see. I was suddenly,
upon turning the corner of a steepish downy
field, in the midst of a retired little village
between gently rising hills; a small stream
before me to be forded, a church standing
on a sort of knoll to my right—which church
was strikingly large and handsome for the
place, and not a gentleman or half a gentleman’s
house to be seen excepting one—to be presumed
the Parsonage—within a stone’s throw of
the said knoll and church. I found myself,
in short, in Thornton Lacey.”
“It sounds like it,” said Edmund; “but
which way did you turn after passing Sewell’s
farm?”
“I answer no such irrelevant and insidious
questions; though were I to answer all that
you could put in the course of an hour, you
would never be able to prove that it was not
Thornton Lacey—for such it certainly was.”
“You inquired, then?”
“No, I never inquire. But I told a man mending
a hedge that it was Thornton Lacey, and he
agreed to it.”
“You have a good memory. I had forgotten
having ever told you half so much of the place.”
Thornton Lacey was the name of his impending
living, as Miss Crawford well knew; and her
interest in a negotiation for William Price’s
knave increased.
“Well,” continued Edmund, “and how did
you like what you saw?”
“Very much indeed. You are a lucky fellow.
There will be work for five summers at least
before the place is liveable.”
“No, no, not so bad as that. The farmyard
must be moved, I grant you; but I am not aware
of anything else. The house is by no means
bad, and when the yard is removed, there may
be a very tolerable approach to it.”
“The farmyard must be cleared away entirely,
and planted up to shut out the blacksmith’s
shop. The house must be turned to front the
east instead of the north—the entrance and
principal rooms, I mean, must be on that side,
where the view is really very pretty; I am
sure it may be done. And there must be your
approach, through what is at present the garden.
You must make a new garden at what is now
the back of the house; which will be giving
it the best aspect in the world, sloping to
the south-east. The ground seems precisely
formed for it. I rode fifty yards up the lane,
between the church and the house, in order
to look about me; and saw how it might all
be. Nothing can be easier. The meadows beyond
what will be the garden, as well as what now
is, sweeping round from the lane I stood in
to the north-east, that is, to the principal
road through the village, must be all laid
together, of course; very pretty meadows they
are, finely sprinkled with timber. They belong
to the living, I suppose; if not, you must
purchase them. Then the stream—something
must be done with the stream; but I could
not quite determine what. I had two or three
ideas.”
“And I have two or three ideas also,”
said Edmund, “and one of them is, that very
little of your plan for Thornton Lacey will
ever be put in practice. I must be satisfied
with rather less ornament and beauty. I think
the house and premises may be made comfortable,
and given the air of a gentleman’s residence,
without any very heavy expense, and that must
suffice me; and, I hope, may suffice all who
care about me.”
Miss Crawford, a little suspicious and resentful
of a certain tone of voice, and a certain
half-look attending the last expression of
his hope, made a hasty finish of her dealings
with William Price; and securing his knave
at an exorbitant rate, exclaimed, “There,
I will stake my last like a woman of spirit.
No cold prudence for me. I am not born to
sit still and do nothing. If I lose the game,
it shall not be from not striving for it.”
The game was hers, and only did not pay her
for what she had given to secure it. Another
deal proceeded, and Crawford began again about
Thornton Lacey.
“My plan may not be the best possible: I
had not many minutes to form it in; but you
must do a good deal. The place deserves it,
and you will find yourself not satisfied with
much less than it is capable of. (Excuse me,
your ladyship must not see your cards. There,
let them lie just before you.) The place deserves
it, Bertram. You talk of giving it the air
of a gentleman’s residence. That will be
done by the removal of the farmyard; for,
independent of that terrible nuisance, I never
saw a house of the kind which had in itself
so much the air of a gentleman’s residence,
so much the look of a something above a mere
parsonage-house—above the expenditure of
a few hundreds a year. It is not a scrambling
collection of low single rooms, with as many
roofs as windows; it is not cramped into the
vulgar compactness of a square farmhouse:
it is a solid, roomy, mansion-like looking
house, such as one might suppose a respectable
old country family had lived in from generation
to generation, through two centuries at least,
and were now spending from two to three thousand
a year in.” Miss Crawford listened, and
Edmund agreed to this. “The air of a gentleman’s
residence, therefore, you cannot but give
it, if you do anything. But it is capable
of much more. (Let me see, Mary; Lady Bertram
bids a dozen for that queen; no, no, a dozen
is more than it is worth. Lady Bertram does
not bid a dozen. She will have nothing to
say to it. Go on, go on.) By some such improvements
as I have suggested (I do not really require
you to proceed upon my plan, though, by the
bye, I doubt anybody’s striking out a better)
you may give it a higher character. You may
raise it into a place. From being the mere
gentleman’s residence, it becomes, by judicious
improvement, the residence of a man of education,
taste, modern manners, good connexions. All
this may be stamped on it; and that house
receive such an air as to make its owner be
set down as the great landholder of the parish
by every creature travelling the road; especially
as there is no real squire’s house to dispute
the point—a circumstance, between ourselves,
to enhance the value of such a situation in
point of privilege and independence beyond
all calculation. You think with me, I hope”
(turning with a softened voice to Fanny).
“Have you ever seen the place?”
Fanny gave a quick negative, and tried to
hide her interest in the subject by an eager
attention to her brother, who was driving
as hard a bargain, and imposing on her as
much as he could; but Crawford pursued with
“No, no, you must not part with the queen.
You have bought her too dearly, and your brother
does not offer half her value. No, no, sir,
hands off, hands off. Your sister does not
part with the queen. She is quite determined.
The game will be yours,” turning to her
again; “it will certainly be yours.”
“And Fanny had much rather it were William’s,”
said Edmund, smiling at her. “Poor Fanny!
not allowed to cheat herself as she wishes!”
“Mr. Bertram,” said Miss Crawford, a few
minutes afterwards, “you know Henry to be
such a capital improver, that you cannot possibly
engage in anything of the sort at Thornton
Lacey without accepting his help. Only think
how useful he was at Sotherton! Only think
what grand things were produced there by our
all going with him one hot day in August to
drive about the grounds, and see his genius
take fire. There we went, and there we came
home again; and what was done there is not
to be told!”
Fanny’s eyes were turned on Crawford for
a moment with an expression more than grave—even
reproachful; but on catching his, were instantly
withdrawn. With something of consciousness
he shook his head at his sister, and laughingly
replied, “I cannot say there was much done
at Sotherton; but it was a hot day, and we
were all walking after each other, and bewildered.”
As soon as a general buzz gave him shelter,
he added, in a low voice, directed solely
at Fanny, “I should be sorry to have my
powers of planning judged of by the day at
Sotherton. I see things very differently now.
Do not think of me as I appeared then.”
Sotherton was a word to catch Mrs. Norris,
and being just then in the happy leisure which
followed securing the odd trick by Sir Thomas’s
capital play and her own against Dr. and Mrs.
Grant’s great hands, she called out, in
high good-humour, “Sotherton! Yes, that
is a place, indeed, and we had a charming
day there. William, you are quite out of luck;
but the next time you come, I hope dear Mr.
and Mrs. Rushworth will be at home, and I
am sure I can answer for your being kindly
received by both. Your cousins are not of
a sort to forget their relations, and Mr.
Rushworth is a most amiable man. They are
at Brighton now, you know; in one of the best
houses there, as Mr. Rushworth’s fine fortune
gives them a right to be. I do not exactly
know the distance, but when you get back to
Portsmouth, if it is not very far off, you
ought to go over and pay your respects to
them; and I could send a little parcel by
you that I want to get conveyed to your cousins.”
“I should be very happy, aunt; but Brighton
is almost by Beachey Head; and if I could
get so far, I could not expect to be welcome
in such a smart place as that—poor scrubby
midshipman as I am.”
Mrs. Norris was beginning an eager assurance
of the affability he might depend on, when
she was stopped by Sir Thomas’s saying with
authority, “I do not advise your going to
Brighton, William, as I trust you may soon
have more convenient opportunities of meeting;
but my daughters would be happy to see their
cousins anywhere; and you will find Mr. Rushworth
most sincerely disposed to regard all the
connexions of our family as his own.”
“I would rather find him private secretary
to the First Lord than anything else,” was
William’s only answer, in an undervoice,
not meant to reach far, and the subject dropped.
As yet Sir Thomas had seen nothing to remark
in Mr. Crawford’s behaviour; but when the
whist-table broke up at the end of the second
rubber, and leaving Dr. Grant and Mrs. Norris
to dispute over their last play, he became
a looker-on at the other, he found his niece
the object of attentions, or rather of professions,
of a somewhat pointed character.
Henry Crawford was in the first glow of another
scheme about Thornton Lacey; and not being
able to catch Edmund’s ear, was detailing
it to his fair neighbour with a look of considerable
earnestness. His scheme was to rent the house
himself the following winter, that he might
have a home of his own in that neighbourhood;
and it was not merely for the use of it in
the hunting-season (as he was then telling
her), though that consideration had certainly
some weight, feeling as he did that, in spite
of all Dr. Grant’s very great kindness,
it was impossible for him and his horses to
be accommodated where they now were without
material inconvenience; but his attachment
to that neighbourhood did not depend upon
one amusement or one season of the year: he
had set his heart upon having a something
there that he could come to at any time, a
little homestall at his command, where all
the holidays of his year might be spent, and
he might find himself continuing, improving,
and perfecting that friendship and intimacy
with the Mansfield Park family which was increasing
in value to him every day. Sir Thomas heard
and was not offended. There was no want of
respect in the young man’s address; and
Fanny’s reception of it was so proper and
modest, so calm and uninviting, that he had
nothing to censure in her. She said little,
assented only here and there, and betrayed
no inclination either of appropriating any
part of the compliment to herself, or of strengthening
his views in favour of Northamptonshire. Finding
by whom he was observed, Henry Crawford addressed
himself on the same subject to Sir Thomas,
in a more everyday tone, but still with feeling.
“I want to be your neighbour, Sir Thomas,
as you have, perhaps, heard me telling Miss
Price. May I hope for your acquiescence, and
for your not influencing your son against
such a tenant?”
Sir Thomas, politely bowing, replied, “It
is the only way, sir, in which I could not
wish you established as a permanent neighbour;
but I hope, and believe, that Edmund will
occupy his own house at Thornton Lacey. Edmund,
am I saying too much?”
Edmund, on this appeal, had first to hear
what was going on; but, on understanding the
question, was at no loss for an answer.
“Certainly, sir, I have no idea but of residence.
But, Crawford, though I refuse you as a tenant,
come to me as a friend. Consider the house
as half your own every winter, and we will
add to the stables on your own improved plan,
and with all the improvements of your improved
plan that may occur to you this spring.”
“We shall be the losers,” continued Sir
Thomas. “His going, though only eight miles,
will be an unwelcome contraction of our family
circle; but I should have been deeply mortified
if any son of mine could reconcile himself
to doing less. It is perfectly natural that
you should not have thought much on the subject,
Mr. Crawford. But a parish has wants and claims
which can be known only by a clergyman constantly
resident, and which no proxy can be capable
of satisfying to the same extent. Edmund might,
in the common phrase, do the duty of Thornton,
that is, he might read prayers and preach,
without giving up Mansfield Park: he might
ride over every Sunday, to a house nominally
inhabited, and go through divine service;
he might be the clergyman of Thornton Lacey
every seventh day, for three or four hours,
if that would content him. But it will not.
He knows that human nature needs more lessons
than a weekly sermon can convey; and that
if he does not live among his parishioners,
and prove himself, by constant attention,
their well-wisher and friend, he does very
little either for their good or his own.”
Mr. Crawford bowed his acquiescence.
“I repeat again,” added Sir Thomas, “that
Thornton Lacey is the only house in the neighbourhood
in which I should not be happy to wait on
Mr. Crawford as occupier.”
Mr. Crawford bowed his thanks.
“Sir Thomas,” said Edmund, “undoubtedly
understands the duty of a parish priest. We
must hope his son may prove that he knows
it too.”
Whatever effect Sir Thomas’s little harangue
might really produce on Mr. Crawford, it raised
some awkward sensations in two of the others,
two of his most attentive listeners—Miss
Crawford and Fanny. One of whom, having never
before understood that Thornton was so soon
and so completely to be his home, was pondering
with downcast eyes on what it would be not
to see Edmund every day; and the other, startled
from the agreeable fancies she had been previously
indulging on the strength of her brother’s
description, no longer able, in the picture
she had been forming of a future Thornton,
to shut out the church, sink the clergyman,
and see only the respectable, elegant, modernised,
and occasional residence of a man of independent
fortune, was considering Sir Thomas, with
decided ill-will, as the destroyer of all
this, and suffering the more from that involuntary
forbearance which his character and manner
commanded, and from not daring to relieve
herself by a single attempt at throwing ridicule
on his cause.
All the agreeable of her speculation was over
for that hour. It was time to have done with
cards, if sermons prevailed; and she was glad
to find it necessary to come to a conclusion,
and be able to refresh her spirits by a change
of place and neighbour.
The chief of the party were now collected
irregularly round the fire, and waiting the
final break-up. William and Fanny were the
most detached. They remained together at the
otherwise deserted card-table, talking very
comfortably, and not thinking of the rest,
till some of the rest began to think of them.
Henry Crawford’s chair was the first to
be given a direction towards them, and he
sat silently observing them for a few minutes;
himself, in the meanwhile, observed by Sir
Thomas, who was standing in chat with Dr.
Grant.
“This is the assembly night,” said William.
“If I were at Portsmouth I should be at
it, perhaps.”
“But you do not wish yourself at Portsmouth,
William?”
“No, Fanny, that I do not. I shall have
enough of Portsmouth and of dancing too, when
I cannot have you. And I do not know that
there would be any good in going to the assembly,
for I might not get a partner. The Portsmouth
girls turn up their noses at anybody who has
not a commission. One might as well be nothing
as a midshipman. One is nothing, indeed. You
remember the Gregorys; they are grown up amazing
fine girls, but they will hardly speak to
me, because Lucy is courted by a lieutenant.”
“Oh! shame, shame! But never mind it, William”
(her own cheeks in a glow of indignation as
she spoke). “It is not worth minding. It
is no reflection on you; it is no more than
what the greatest admirals have all experienced,
more or less, in their time. You must think
of that, you must try to make up your mind
to it as one of the hardships which fall to
every sailor’s share, like bad weather and
hard living, only with this advantage, that
there will be an end to it, that there will
come a time when you will have nothing of
that sort to endure. When you are a lieutenant!
only think, William, when you are a lieutenant,
how little you will care for any nonsense
of this kind.”
“I begin to think I shall never be a lieutenant,
Fanny. Everybody gets made but me.”
“Oh! my dear William, do not talk so; do
not be so desponding. My uncle says nothing,
but I am sure he will do everything in his
power to get you made. He knows, as well as
you do, of what consequence it is.”
She was checked by the sight of her uncle
much nearer to them than she had any suspicion
of, and each found it necessary to talk of
something else.
“Are you fond of dancing, Fanny?”
“Yes, very; only I am soon tired.”
“I should like to go to a ball with you
and see you dance. Have you never any balls
at Northampton? I should like to see you dance,
and I’d dance with you if you would, for
nobody would know who I was here, and I should
like to be your partner once more. We used
to jump about together many a time, did not
we? when the hand-organ was in the street?
I am a pretty good dancer in my way, but I
dare say you are a better.” And turning
to his uncle, who was now close to them, “Is
not Fanny a very good dancer, sir?”
Fanny, in dismay at such an unprecedented
question, did not know which way to look,
or how to be prepared for the answer. Some
very grave reproof, or at least the coldest
expression of indifference, must be coming
to distress her brother, and sink her to the
ground. But, on the contrary, it was no worse
than, “I am sorry to say that I am unable
to answer your question. I have never seen
Fanny dance since she was a little girl; but
I trust we shall both think she acquits herself
like a gentlewoman when we do see her, which,
perhaps, we may have an opportunity of doing
ere long.”
“I have had the pleasure of seeing your
sister dance, Mr. Price,” said Henry Crawford,
leaning forward, “and will engage to answer
every inquiry which you can make on the subject,
to your entire satisfaction. But I believe”
(seeing Fanny looked distressed) “it must
be at some other time. There is one person
in company who does not like to have Miss
Price spoken of.”
True enough, he had once seen Fanny dance;
and it was equally true that he would now
have answered for her gliding about with quiet,
light elegance, and in admirable time; but,
in fact, he could not for the life of him
recall what her dancing had been, and rather
took it for granted that she had been present
than remembered anything about her.
He passed, however, for an admirer of her
dancing; and Sir Thomas, by no means displeased,
prolonged the conversation on dancing in general,
and was so well engaged in describing the
balls of Antigua, and listening to what his
nephew could relate of the different modes
of dancing which had fallen within his observation,
that he had not heard his carriage announced,
and was first called to the knowledge of it
by the bustle of Mrs. Norris.
“Come, Fanny, Fanny, what are you about?
We are going. Do not you see your aunt is
going? Quick, quick! I cannot bear to keep
good old Wilcox waiting. You should always
remember the coachman and horses. My dear
Sir Thomas, we have settled it that the carriage
should come back for you, and Edmund and William.”
Sir Thomas could not dissent, as it had been
his own arrangement, previously communicated
to his wife and sister; but that seemed forgotten
by Mrs. Norris, who must fancy that she settled
it all herself.
Fanny’s last feeling in the visit was disappointment:
for the shawl which Edmund was quietly taking
from the servant to bring and put round her
shoulders was seized by Mr. Crawford’s quicker
hand, and she was obliged to be indebted to
his more prominent attention.
