No More Learning

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?