No More Learning

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.