No More Learning

Rushworth, but much worse-looking, and with a blackguard character.
I _had_ my doubts at the time about her being right, for he has not even
the air of a gentleman, and now I am sure she was wrong. By the bye,
Flora Ross was dying for Henry the first winter she came out. But were I
to attempt to tell you of all the women whom I have known to be in love
with him, I should never have done. It is you, only you, insensible
Fanny, who can think of him with anything like indifference. But are you
so insensible as you profess yourself? No, no, I see you are not. ”

There was, indeed, so deep a blush over Fanny’s face at that moment as
might warrant strong suspicion in a predisposed mind.

“Excellent creature! I will not tease you. Everything shall take its
course. But, dear Fanny, you must allow that you were not so absolutely
unprepared to have the question asked as your cousin fancies. It is not
possible but that you must have had some thoughts on the subject, some
surmises as to what might be. You must have seen that he was trying to
please you by every attention in his power. Was not he devoted to you
at the ball? And then before the ball, the necklace! Oh! you received
it just as it was meant. You were as conscious as heart could desire. I
remember it perfectly. ”

“Do you mean, then, that your brother knew of the necklace beforehand?
Oh! Miss Crawford, _that_ was not fair. ”

“Knew of it! It was his own doing entirely, his own thought. I am
ashamed to say that it had never entered my head, but I was delighted to
act on his proposal for both your sakes. ”

“I will not say,” replied Fanny, “that I was not half afraid at the time
of its being so, for there was something in your look that frightened
me, but not at first; I was as unsuspicious of it at first--indeed,
indeed I was. It is as true as that I sit here. And had I had an idea
of it, nothing should have induced me to accept the necklace. As to your
brother’s behaviour, certainly I was sensible of a particularity: I had
been sensible of it some little time, perhaps two or three weeks; but
then I considered it as meaning nothing: I put it down as simply being
his way, and was as far from supposing as from wishing him to have any
serious thoughts of me. I had not, Miss Crawford, been an inattentive
observer of what was passing between him and some part of this family in
the summer and autumn. I was quiet, but I was not blind. I could not
but see that Mr. Crawford allowed himself in gallantries which did mean
nothing. ”

“Ah! I cannot deny it. He has now and then been a sad flirt, and
cared very little for the havoc he might be making in young ladies’
affections. I have often scolded him for it, but it is his only fault;
and there is this to be said, that very few young ladies have any
affections worth caring for. And then, Fanny, the glory of fixing one
who has been shot at by so many; of having it in one’s power to pay off
the debts of one’s sex! Oh! I am sure it is not in woman’s nature to
refuse such a triumph. ”

Fanny shook her head. “I cannot think well of a man who sports with any
woman’s feelings; and there may often be a great deal more suffered than
a stander-by can judge of. ”

“I do not defend him. I leave him entirely to your mercy, and when he
has got you at Everingham, I do not care how much you lecture him. But
this I will say, that his fault, the liking to make girls a little
in love with him, is not half so dangerous to a wife’s happiness as a
tendency to fall in love himself, which he has never been addicted to.
And I do seriously and truly believe that he is attached to you in a way
that he never was to any woman before; that he loves you with all his
heart, and will love you as nearly for ever as possible. If any man ever
loved a woman for ever, I think Henry will do as much for you. ”

Fanny could not avoid a faint smile, but had nothing to say.

“I cannot imagine Henry ever to have been happier,” continued Mary
presently, “than when he had succeeded in getting your brother’s
commission. ”

She had made a sure push at Fanny’s feelings here.

“Oh! yes. How very, very kind of him. ”

“I know he must have exerted himself very much, for I know the parties
he had to move. The Admiral hates trouble, and scorns asking favours;
and there are so many young men’s claims to be attended to in the same
way, that a friendship and energy, not very determined, is easily put
by. What a happy creature William must be! I wish we could see him. ”

Poor Fanny’s mind was thrown into the most distressing of all its
varieties. The recollection of what had been done for William was always
the most powerful disturber of every decision against Mr. Crawford; and
she sat thinking deeply of it till Mary, who had been first watching
her complacently, and then musing on something else, suddenly called
her attention by saying: “I should like to sit talking with you here all
day, but we must not forget the ladies below, and so good-bye, my dear,
my amiable, my excellent Fanny, for though we shall nominally part in
the breakfast-parlour, I must take leave of you here. And I do take
leave, longing for a happy reunion, and trusting that when we meet
again, it will be under circumstances which may open our hearts to each
other without any remnant or shadow of reserve. ”

A very, very kind embrace, and some agitation of manner, accompanied
these words.

“I shall see your cousin in town soon: he talks of being there tolerably
soon; and Sir Thomas, I dare say, in the course of the spring; and your
eldest cousin, and the Rushworths, and Julia, I am sure of meeting again
and again, and all but you. I have two favours to ask, Fanny: one is
your correspondence. You must write to me. And the other, that you will
often call on Mrs. Grant, and make her amends for my being gone. ”

The first, at least, of these favours Fanny would rather not have been
asked; but it was impossible for her to refuse the correspondence; it
was impossible for her even not to accede to it more readily than
her own judgment authorised. There was no resisting so much apparent
affection. Her disposition was peculiarly calculated to value a fond
treatment, and from having hitherto known so little of it, she was the
more overcome by Miss Crawford’s. Besides, there was gratitude towards
her, for having made their _tete-a-tete_ so much less painful than her
fears had predicted.

It was over, and she had escaped without reproaches and without
detection. Her secret was still her own; and while that was the case,
she thought she could resign herself to almost everything.

In the evening there was another parting. Henry Crawford came and
sat some time with them; and her spirits not being previously in the
strongest state, her heart was softened for a while towards him, because
he really seemed to feel. Quite unlike his usual self, he scarcely said
anything. He was evidently oppressed, and Fanny must grieve for him,
though hoping she might never see him again till he were the husband of
some other woman.

When it came to the moment of parting, he would take her hand, he would
not be denied it; he said nothing, however, or nothing that she heard,
and when he had left the room, she was better pleased that such a token
of friendship had passed.

On the morrow the Crawfords were gone.



CHAPTER XXXVII

Mr. Crawford gone, Sir Thomas’s next object was that he should be
missed; and he entertained great hope that his niece would find a blank
in the loss of those attentions which at the time she had felt, or
fancied, an evil. She had tasted of consequence in its most flattering
form; and he did hope that the loss of it, the sinking again into
nothing, would awaken very wholesome regrets in her mind. He watched her
with this idea; but he could hardly tell with what success. He hardly
knew whether there were any difference in her spirits or not. She
was always so gentle and retiring that her emotions were beyond his
discrimination. He did not understand her: he felt that he did not; and
therefore applied to Edmund to tell him how she stood affected on the
present occasion, and whether she were more or less happy than she had
been.

Edmund did not discern any symptoms of regret, and thought his father
a little unreasonable in supposing the first three or four days could
produce any.

What chiefly surprised Edmund was, that Crawford’s sister, the friend
and companion who had been so much to her, should not be more visibly
regretted. He wondered that Fanny spoke so seldom of _her_, and had so
little voluntarily to say of her concern at this separation.

Alas! it was this sister, this friend and companion, who was now the
chief bane of Fanny’s comfort. If she could have believed Mary’s future
fate as unconnected with Mansfield as she was determined the brother’s
should be, if she could have hoped her return thither to be as distant
as she was much inclined to think his, she would have been light of
heart indeed; but the more she recollected and observed, the more deeply
was she convinced that everything was now in a fairer train for Miss
Crawford’s marrying Edmund than it had ever been before. On his side the
inclination was stronger, on hers less equivocal. His objections, the
scruples of his integrity, seemed all done away, nobody could tell
how; and the doubts and hesitations of her ambition were equally got
over--and equally without apparent reason. It could only be imputed to
increasing attachment. His good and her bad feelings yielded to love,
and such love must unite them. He was to go to town as soon as some
business relative to Thornton Lacey were completed--perhaps within a
fortnight; he talked of going, he loved to talk of it; and when once
with her again, Fanny could not doubt the rest. Her acceptance must be
as certain as his offer; and yet there were bad feelings still remaining
which made the prospect of it most sorrowful to her, independently, she
believed, independently of self.

In their very last conversation, Miss Crawford, in spite of some amiable
sensations, and much personal kindness, had still been Miss Crawford;
still shewn a mind led astray and bewildered, and without any suspicion
of being so; darkened, yet fancying itself light. She might love, but
she did not deserve Edmund by any other sentiment. Fanny believed there
was scarcely a second feeling in common between them; and she may be
forgiven by older sages for looking on the chance of Miss Crawford’s
future improvement as nearly desperate, for thinking that if Edmund’s
influence in this season of love had already done so little in clearing
her judgment, and regulating her notions, his worth would be finally
wasted on her even in years of matrimony.

Experience might have hoped more for any young people so circumstanced,
and impartiality would not have denied to Miss Crawford’s nature that
participation of the general nature of women which would lead her to
adopt the opinions of the man she loved and respected as her own. But
as such were Fanny’s persuasions, she suffered very much from them, and
could never speak of Miss Crawford without pain.

Sir Thomas, meanwhile, went on with his own hopes and his own
observations, still feeling a right, by all his knowledge of human
nature, to expect to see the effect of the loss of power and consequence
on his niece’s spirits, and the past attentions of the lover producing a
craving for their return; and he was soon afterwards able to account for
his not yet completely and indubitably seeing all this, by the prospect
of another visitor, whose approach he could allow to be quite enough to
support the spirits he was watching. William had obtained a ten days’
leave of absence, to be given to Northamptonshire, and was coming, the
happiest of lieutenants, because the latest made, to shew his happiness
and describe his uniform.

He came; and he would have been delighted to shew his uniform there too,
had not cruel custom prohibited its appearance except on duty. So the
uniform remained at Portsmouth, and Edmund conjectured that before Fanny
had any chance of seeing it, all its own freshness and all the freshness
of its wearer’s feelings must be worn away. It would be sunk into a
badge of disgrace; for what can be more unbecoming, or more worthless,
than the uniform of a lieutenant, who has been a lieutenant a year or
two, and sees others made commanders before him? So reasoned Edmund,
till his father made him the confidant of a scheme which placed Fanny’s
chance of seeing the second lieutenant of H. M. S. Thrush in all his glory
in another light.

This scheme was that she should accompany her brother back to
Portsmouth, and spend a little time with her own family. It had occurred
to Sir Thomas, in one of his dignified musings, as a right and desirable
measure; but before he absolutely made up his mind, he consulted his
son. Edmund considered it every way, and saw nothing but what was right.
The thing was good in itself, and could not be done at a better time;
and he had no doubt of it being highly agreeable to Fanny. This was
enough to determine Sir Thomas; and a decisive “then so it shall be”
closed that stage of the business; Sir Thomas retiring from it with some
feelings of satisfaction, and views of good over and above what he had
communicated to his son; for his prime motive in sending her away had
very little to do with the propriety of her seeing her parents again,
and nothing at all with any idea of making her happy. He certainly
wished her to go willingly, but he as certainly wished her to be
heartily sick of home before her visit ended; and that a little
abstinence from the elegancies and luxuries of Mansfield Park would
bring her mind into a sober state, and incline her to a juster estimate
of the value of that home of greater permanence, and equal comfort, of
which she had the offer.

It was a medicinal project upon his niece’s understanding, which he must
consider as at present diseased. A residence of eight or nine years in
the abode of wealth and plenty had a little disordered her powers of
comparing and judging. Her father’s house would, in all probability,
teach her the value of a good income; and he trusted that she would be
the wiser and happier woman, all her life, for the experiment he had
devised.

Had Fanny been at all addicted to raptures, she must have had a strong
attack of them when she first understood what was intended, when her
uncle first made her the offer of visiting the parents, and brothers,
and sisters, from whom she had been divided almost half her life; of
returning for a couple of months to the scenes of her infancy, with
William for the protector and companion of her journey, and the
certainty of continuing to see William to the last hour of his remaining
on land. Had she ever given way to bursts of delight, it must have been
then, for she was delighted, but her happiness was of a quiet, deep,
heart-swelling sort; and though never a great talker, she was always
more inclined to silence when feeling most strongly. At the moment she
could only thank and accept. Afterwards, when familiarised with the
visions of enjoyment so suddenly opened, she could speak more largely
to William and Edmund of what she felt; but still there were emotions
of tenderness that could not be clothed in words. The remembrance of all
her earliest pleasures, and of what she had suffered in being torn from
them, came over her with renewed strength, and it seemed as if to be
at home again would heal every pain that had since grown out of the
separation. To be in the centre of such a circle, loved by so many,
and more loved by all than she had ever been before; to feel affection
without fear or restraint; to feel herself the equal of those who
surrounded her; to be at peace from all mention of the Crawfords, safe
from every look which could be fancied a reproach on their account. This
was a prospect to be dwelt on with a fondness that could be but half
acknowledged.

Edmund, too--to be two months from _him_ (and perhaps she might be
allowed to make her absence three) must do her good. At a distance,
unassailed by his looks or his kindness, and safe from the perpetual
irritation of knowing his heart, and striving to avoid his confidence,
she should be able to reason herself into a properer state; she should
be able to think of him as in London, and arranging everything there,
without wretchedness. What might have been hard to bear at Mansfield was
to become a slight evil at Portsmouth.

The only drawback was the doubt of her aunt Bertram’s being comfortable
without her. She was of use to no one else; but _there_ she might be
missed to a degree that she did not like to think of; and that part of
the arrangement was, indeed, the hardest for Sir Thomas to accomplish,
and what only _he_ could have accomplished at all.

But he was master at Mansfield Park. When he had really resolved on
any measure, he could always carry it through; and now by dint of long
talking on the subject, explaining and dwelling on the duty of Fanny’s
sometimes seeing her family, he did induce his wife to let her go;
obtaining it rather from submission, however, than conviction, for Lady
Bertram was convinced of very little more than that Sir Thomas thought
Fanny ought to go, and therefore that she must. In the calmness of
her own dressing-room, in the impartial flow of her own meditations,
unbiassed by his bewildering statements, she could not acknowledge any
necessity for Fanny’s ever going near a father and mother who had done
without her so long, while she was so useful to herself. And as to the
not missing her, which under Mrs. Norris’s discussion was the point
attempted to be proved, she set herself very steadily against admitting
any such thing.

Sir Thomas had appealed to her reason, conscience, and dignity. He
called it a sacrifice, and demanded it of her goodness and self-command
as such. But Mrs. Norris wanted to persuade her that Fanny could be very
well spared--_she_ being ready to give up all her own time to her as
requested--and, in short, could not really be wanted or missed.

“That may be, sister,” was all Lady Bertram’s reply. “I dare say you are
very right; but I am sure I shall miss her very much. ”

The next step was to communicate with Portsmouth. Fanny wrote to offer
herself; and her mother’s answer, though short, was so kind--a few
simple lines expressed so natural and motherly a joy in the prospect
of seeing her child again, as to confirm all the daughter’s views of
happiness in being with her--convincing her that she should now find a
warm and affectionate friend in the “mama” who had certainly shewn no
remarkable fondness for her formerly; but this she could easily suppose
to have been her own fault or her own fancy. She had probably alienated
love by the helplessness and fretfulness of a fearful temper, or been
unreasonable in wanting a larger share than any one among so many could
deserve. Now, when she knew better how to be useful, and how to forbear,
and when her mother could be no longer occupied by the incessant
demands of a house full of little children, there would be leisure and
inclination for every comfort, and they should soon be what mother and
daughter ought to be to each other.

William was almost as happy in the plan as his sister. It would be the
greatest pleasure to him to have her there to the last moment before he
sailed, and perhaps find her there still when he came in from his first
cruise. And besides, he wanted her so very much to see the Thrush before
she went out of harbour--the Thrush was certainly the finest sloop in
the service--and there were several improvements in the dockyard, too,
which he quite longed to shew her.

He did not scruple to add that her being at home for a while would be a
great advantage to everybody.

“I do not know how it is,” said he; “but we seem to want some of
your nice ways and orderliness at my father’s. The house is always in
confusion. You will set things going in a better way, I am sure. You
will tell my mother how it all ought to be, and you will be so useful to
Susan, and you will teach Betsey, and make the boys love and mind you.
How right and comfortable it will all be! ”

By the time Mrs. Price’s answer arrived, there remained but a very few
days more to be spent at Mansfield; and for part of one of those days
the young travellers were in a good deal of alarm on the subject of
their journey, for when the mode of it came to be talked of, and Mrs.
Norris found that all her anxiety to save her brother-in-law’s money
was vain, and that in spite of her wishes and hints for a less expensive
conveyance of Fanny, they were to travel post; when she saw Sir Thomas
actually give William notes for the purpose, she was struck with the
idea of there being room for a third in the carriage, and suddenly
seized with a strong inclination to go with them, to go and see her poor
dear sister Price. She proclaimed her thoughts. She must say that she
had more than half a mind to go with the young people; it would be such
an indulgence to her; she had not seen her poor dear sister Price for
more than twenty years; and it would be a help to the young people in
their journey to have her older head to manage for them; and she could
not help thinking her poor dear sister Price would feel it very unkind
of her not to come by such an opportunity.

William and Fanny were horror-struck at the idea.

All the comfort of their comfortable journey would be destroyed at
once. With woeful countenances they looked at each other. Their suspense
lasted an hour or two. No one interfered to encourage or dissuade. Mrs.
Norris was left to settle the matter by herself; and it ended, to the
infinite joy of her nephew and niece, in the recollection that she could
not possibly be spared from Mansfield Park at present; that she was a
great deal too necessary to Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram for her to
be able to answer it to herself to leave them even for a week, and
therefore must certainly sacrifice every other pleasure to that of being
useful to them.

It had, in fact, occurred to her, that though taken to Portsmouth for
nothing, it would be hardly possible for her to avoid paying her own
expenses back again. So her poor dear sister Price was left to all the
disappointment of her missing such an opportunity, and another twenty
years’ absence, perhaps, begun.

Edmund’s plans were affected by this Portsmouth journey, this absence of
Fanny’s. He too had a sacrifice to make to Mansfield Park as well as his
aunt. He had intended, about this time, to be going to London; but he
could not leave his father and mother just when everybody else of most
importance to their comfort was leaving them; and with an effort, felt
but not boasted of, he delayed for a week or two longer a journey which
he was looking forward to with the hope of its fixing his happiness for
ever.

He told Fanny of it. She knew so much already, that she must know
everything. It made the substance of one other confidential discourse
about Miss Crawford; and Fanny was the more affected from feeling it to
be the last time in which Miss Crawford’s name would ever be mentioned
between them with any remains of liberty. Once afterwards she was
alluded to by him. Lady Bertram had been telling her niece in the
evening to write to her soon and often, and promising to be a good
correspondent herself; and Edmund, at a convenient moment, then added
in a whisper, “And _I_ shall write to you, Fanny, when I have anything
worth writing about, anything to say that I think you will like to hear,
and that you will not hear so soon from any other quarter. ” Had she
doubted his meaning while she listened, the glow in his face, when she
looked up at him, would have been decisive.

For this letter she must try to arm herself. That a letter from Edmund
should be a subject of terror! She began to feel that she had not yet
gone through all the changes of opinion and sentiment which the progress
of time and variation of circumstances occasion in this world of
changes. The vicissitudes of the human mind had not yet been exhausted
by her.

Poor Fanny! though going as she did willingly and eagerly, the last
evening at Mansfield Park must still be wretchedness. Her heart was
completely sad at parting. She had tears for every room in the house,
much more for every beloved inhabitant. She clung to her aunt, because
she would miss her; she kissed the hand of her uncle with struggling
sobs, because she had displeased him; and as for Edmund, she could
neither speak, nor look, nor think, when the last moment came with
_him_; and it was not till it was over that she knew he was giving her
the affectionate farewell of a brother.

All this passed overnight, for the journey was to begin very early in
the morning; and when the small, diminished party met at breakfast,
William and Fanny were talked of as already advanced one stage.



CHAPTER XXXVIII

The novelty of travelling, and the happiness of being with William, soon
produced their natural effect on Fanny’s spirits, when Mansfield Park
was fairly left behind; and by the time their first stage was ended, and
they were to quit Sir Thomas’s carriage, she was able to take leave of
the old coachman, and send back proper messages, with cheerful looks.

Of pleasant talk between the brother and sister there was no end.
Everything supplied an amusement to the high glee of William’s mind, and
he was full of frolic and joke in the intervals of their higher-toned
subjects, all of which ended, if they did not begin, in praise of the
Thrush, conjectures how she would be employed, schemes for an action
with some superior force, which (supposing the first lieutenant out of
the way, and William was not very merciful to the first lieutenant) was
to give himself the next step as soon as possible, or speculations upon
prize-money, which was to be generously distributed at home, with only
the reservation of enough to make the little cottage comfortable,
in which he and Fanny were to pass all their middle and later life
together.

Fanny’s immediate concerns, as far as they involved Mr. Crawford, made
no part of their conversation. William knew what had passed, and from
his heart lamented that his sister’s feelings should be so cold towards
a man whom he must consider as the first of human characters; but he was
of an age to be all for love, and therefore unable to blame; and knowing
her wish on the subject, he would not distress her by the slightest
allusion.

She had reason to suppose herself not yet forgotten by Mr. Crawford. She
had heard repeatedly from his sister within the three weeks which had
passed since their leaving Mansfield, and in each letter there had been
a few lines from himself, warm and determined like his speeches.
It
was a correspondence which Fanny found quite as unpleasant as she had
feared. Miss Crawford’s style of writing, lively and affectionate, was
itself an evil, independent of what she was thus forced into reading
from the brother’s pen, for Edmund would never rest till she had read
the chief of the letter to him; and then she had to listen to his
admiration of her language, and the warmth of her attachments. There
had, in fact, been so much of message, of allusion, of recollection, so
much of Mansfield in every letter, that Fanny could not but suppose it
meant for him to hear; and to find herself forced into a purpose of
that kind, compelled into a correspondence which was bringing her the
addresses of the man she did not love, and obliging her to administer
to the adverse passion of the man she did, was cruelly mortifying. Here,
too, her present removal promised advantage. When no longer under the
same roof with Edmund, she trusted that Miss Crawford would have no
motive for writing strong enough to overcome the trouble, and that at
Portsmouth their correspondence would dwindle into nothing.

With such thoughts as these, among ten hundred others, Fanny proceeded
in her journey safely and cheerfully, and as expeditiously as could
rationally be hoped in the dirty month of February. They entered Oxford,
but she could take only a hasty glimpse of Edmund’s college as they
passed along, and made no stop anywhere till they reached Newbury, where
a comfortable meal, uniting dinner and supper, wound up the enjoyments
and fatigues of the day.

The next morning saw them off again at an early hour; and with no
events, and no delays, they regularly advanced, and were in the environs
of Portsmouth while there was yet daylight for Fanny to look around her,
and wonder at the new buildings. They passed the drawbridge, and
entered the town; and the light was only beginning to fail as, guided
by William’s powerful voice, they were rattled into a narrow street,
leading from the High Street, and drawn up before the door of a small
house now inhabited by Mr. Price.

Fanny was all agitation and flutter; all hope and apprehension. The
moment they stopped, a trollopy-looking maidservant, seemingly in
waiting for them at the door, stepped forward, and more intent on
telling the news than giving them any help, immediately began with, “The
Thrush is gone out of harbour, please sir, and one of the officers has
been here to--” She was interrupted by a fine tall boy of eleven years
old, who, rushing out of the house, pushed the maid aside, and while
William was opening the chaise-door himself, called out, “You are just
in time. We have been looking for you this half-hour. The Thrush went
out of harbour this morning. I saw her. It was a beautiful sight. And
they think she will have her orders in a day or two. And Mr. Campbell
was here at four o’clock to ask for you: he has got one of the Thrush’s
boats, and is going off to her at six, and hoped you would be here in
time to go with him. ”

A stare or two at Fanny, as William helped her out of the carriage, was
all the voluntary notice which this brother bestowed; but he made no
objection to her kissing him, though still entirely engaged in detailing
farther particulars of the Thrush’s going out of harbour, in which
he had a strong right of interest, being to commence his career of
seamanship in her at this very time.

Another moment and Fanny was in the narrow entrance-passage of the
house, and in her mother’s arms, who met her there with looks of true
kindness, and with features which Fanny loved the more, because they
brought her aunt Bertram’s before her, and there were her two sisters:
Susan, a well-grown fine girl of fourteen, and Betsey, the youngest of
the family, about five--both glad to see her in their way, though with
no advantage of manner in receiving her. But manner Fanny did not want.
Would they but love her, she should be satisfied.

She was then taken into a parlour, so small that her first conviction
was of its being only a passage-room to something better, and she stood
for a moment expecting to be invited on; but when she saw there was
no other door, and that there were signs of habitation before her, she
called back her thoughts, reproved herself, and grieved lest they should
have been suspected. Her mother, however, could not stay long enough
to suspect anything. She was gone again to the street-door, to welcome
William. “Oh! my dear William, how glad I am to see you. But have you
heard about the Thrush? She is gone out of harbour already; three days
before we had any thought of it; and I do not know what I am to do about
Sam’s things, they will never be ready in time; for she may have her
orders to-morrow, perhaps. It takes me quite unawares. And now you must
be off for Spithead too. Campbell has been here, quite in a worry about
you; and now what shall we do? I thought to have had such a comfortable
evening with you, and here everything comes upon me at once. ”

Her son answered cheerfully, telling her that everything was always for
the best; and making light of his own inconvenience in being obliged to
hurry away so soon.

“To be sure, I had much rather she had stayed in harbour, that I might
have sat a few hours with you in comfort; but as there is a boat ashore,
I had better go off at once, and there is no help for it. Whereabouts
does the Thrush lay at Spithead? Near the Canopus? But no matter; here’s
Fanny in the parlour, and why should we stay in the passage? Come,
mother, you have hardly looked at your own dear Fanny yet. ”

In they both came, and Mrs. Price having kindly kissed her daughter
again, and commented a little on her growth, began with very natural
solicitude to feel for their fatigues and wants as travellers.

“Poor dears! how tired you must both be! and now, what will you have? I
began to think you would never come. Betsey and I have been watching for
you this half-hour. And when did you get anything to eat? And what would
you like to have now? I could not tell whether you would be for some
meat, or only a dish of tea, after your journey, or else I would have
got something ready. And now I am afraid Campbell will be here before
there is time to dress a steak, and we have no butcher at hand. It is
very inconvenient to have no butcher in the street. We were better off
in our last house. Perhaps you would like some tea as soon as it can be
got. ”

They both declared they should prefer it to anything. “Then, Betsey, my
dear, run into the kitchen and see if Rebecca has put the water on; and
tell her to bring in the tea-things as soon as she can. I wish we could
get the bell mended; but Betsey is a very handy little messenger. ”

Betsey went with alacrity, proud to shew her abilities before her fine
new sister.

“Dear me! ” continued the anxious mother, “what a sad fire we have got,
and I dare say you are both starved with cold. Draw your chair nearer,
my dear. I cannot think what Rebecca has been about. I am sure I told
her to bring some coals half an hour ago. Susan, you should have taken
care of the fire. ”

“I was upstairs, mama, moving my things,” said Susan, in a fearless,
self-defending tone, which startled Fanny. “You know you had but just
settled that my sister Fanny and I should have the other room; and I
could not get Rebecca to give me any help. ”

Farther discussion was prevented by various bustles: first, the driver
came to be paid; then there was a squabble between Sam and Rebecca about
the manner of carrying up his sister’s trunk, which he would manage all
his own way; and lastly, in walked Mr. Price himself, his own loud voice
preceding him, as with something of the oath kind he kicked away his
son’s port-manteau and his daughter’s bandbox in the passage, and called
out for a candle; no candle was brought, however, and he walked into the
room.

Fanny with doubting feelings had risen to meet him, but sank down again
on finding herself undistinguished in the dusk, and unthought of. With
a friendly shake of his son’s hand, and an eager voice, he instantly
began--“Ha! welcome back, my boy. Glad to see you. Have you heard the
news? The Thrush went out of harbour this morning. Sharp is the
word, you see! By G--, you are just in time! The doctor has been here
inquiring for you: he has got one of the boats, and is to be off for
Spithead by six, so you had better go with him. I have been to Turner’s
about your mess; it is all in a way to be done. I should not wonder if
you had your orders to-morrow: but you cannot sail with this wind, if
you are to cruise to the westward; and Captain Walsh thinks you will
certainly have a cruise to the westward, with the Elephant. By G--, I
wish you may! But old Scholey was saying, just now, that he thought you
would be sent first to the Texel. Well, well, we are ready, whatever
happens. But by G--, you lost a fine sight by not being here in the
morning to see the Thrush go out of harbour! I would not have been out
of the way for a thousand pounds. Old Scholey ran in at breakfast-time,
to say she had slipped her moorings and was coming out, I jumped up, and
made but two steps to the platform. If ever there was a perfect beauty
afloat, she is one; and there she lays at Spithead, and anybody in
England would take her for an eight-and-twenty. I was upon the platform
two hours this afternoon looking at her. She lays close to the Endymion,
between her and the Cleopatra, just to the eastward of the sheer hulk. ”

“Ha! ” cried William, “_that’s_ just where I should have put her myself.
It’s the best berth at Spithead. But here is my sister, sir; here is
Fanny,” turning and leading her forward; “it is so dark you do not see
her. ”

With an acknowledgment that he had quite forgot her, Mr. Price now
received his daughter; and having given her a cordial hug, and observed
that she was grown into a woman, and he supposed would be wanting a
husband soon, seemed very much inclined to forget her again. Fanny
shrunk back to her seat, with feelings sadly pained by his language and
his smell of spirits; and he talked on only to his son, and only of the
Thrush, though William, warmly interested as he was in that subject,
more than once tried to make his father think of Fanny, and her long
absence and long journey.

After sitting some time longer, a candle was obtained; but as there was
still no appearance of tea, nor, from Betsey’s reports from the kitchen,
much hope of any under a considerable period, William determined to
go and change his dress, and make the necessary preparations for
his removal on board directly, that he might have his tea in comfort
afterwards.

As he left the room, two rosy-faced boys, ragged and dirty, about eight
and nine years old, rushed into it just released from school, and coming
eagerly to see their sister, and tell that the Thrush was gone out of
harbour; Tom and Charles. Charles had been born since Fanny’s going
away, but Tom she had often helped to nurse, and now felt a particular
pleasure in seeing again. Both were kissed very tenderly, but Tom she
wanted to keep by her, to try to trace the features of the baby she had
loved, and talked to, of his infant preference of herself. Tom, however,
had no mind for such treatment: he came home not to stand and be talked
to, but to run about and make a noise; and both boys had soon burst from
her, and slammed the parlour-door till her temples ached.

She had now seen all that were at home; there remained only two brothers
between herself and Susan, one of whom was a clerk in a public office
in London, and the other midshipman on board an Indiaman. But though she
had _seen_ all the members of the family, she had not yet _heard_ all
the noise they could make. Another quarter of an hour brought her a
great deal more. William was soon calling out from the landing-place of
the second story for his mother and for Rebecca. He was in distress
for something that he had left there, and did not find again. A key was
mislaid, Betsey accused of having got at his new hat, and some slight,
but essential alteration of his uniform waistcoat, which he had been
promised to have done for him, entirely neglected.

Mrs. Price, Rebecca, and Betsey all went up to defend themselves, all
talking together, but Rebecca loudest, and the job was to be done as
well as it could in a great hurry; William trying in vain to send Betsey
down again, or keep her from being troublesome where she was; the whole
of which, as almost every door in the house was open, could be plainly
distinguished in the parlour, except when drowned at intervals by the
superior noise of Sam, Tom, and Charles chasing each other up and down
stairs, and tumbling about and hallooing.

Fanny was almost stunned. The smallness of the house and thinness of the
walls brought everything so close to her, that, added to the fatigue of
her journey, and all her recent agitation, she hardly knew how to
bear it. _Within_ the room all was tranquil enough, for Susan having
disappeared with the others, there were soon only her father and herself
remaining; and he, taking out a newspaper, the accustomary loan of a
neighbour, applied himself to studying it, without seeming to recollect
her existence. The solitary candle was held between himself and the
paper, without any reference to her possible convenience; but she had
nothing to do, and was glad to have the light screened from her aching
head, as she sat in bewildered, broken, sorrowful contemplation.

She was at home. But, alas! it was not such a home, she had not such a
welcome, as--she checked herself; she was unreasonable. What right had
she to be of importance to her family? She could have none, so long lost
sight of! William’s concerns must be dearest, they always had been, and
he had every right. Yet to have so little said or asked about herself,
to have scarcely an inquiry made after Mansfield! It did pain her to
have Mansfield forgotten; the friends who had done so much--the dear,
dear friends! But here, one subject swallowed up all the rest. Perhaps
it must be so. The destination of the Thrush must be now preeminently
interesting. A day or two might shew the difference. _She_ only was to
blame. Yet she thought it would not have been so at Mansfield. No, in
her uncle’s house there would have been a consideration of times and
seasons, a regulation of subject, a propriety, an attention towards
everybody which there was not here.

The only interruption which thoughts like these received for nearly half
an hour was from a sudden burst of her father’s, not at all calculated
to compose them. At a more than ordinary pitch of thumping and hallooing
in the passage, he exclaimed, “Devil take those young dogs! How they are
singing out! Ay, Sam’s voice louder than all the rest! That boy is fit
for a boatswain. Holla, you there! Sam, stop your confounded pipe, or I
shall be after you. ”

This threat was so palpably disregarded, that though within five minutes
afterwards the three boys all burst into the room together and sat down,
Fanny could not consider it as a proof of anything more than their
being for the time thoroughly fagged, which their hot faces and panting
breaths seemed to prove, especially as they were still kicking each
other’s shins, and hallooing out at sudden starts immediately under
their father’s eye.

The next opening of the door brought something more welcome: it was for
the tea-things, which she had begun almost to despair of seeing that
evening. Susan and an attendant girl, whose inferior appearance informed
Fanny, to her great surprise, that she had previously seen the upper
servant, brought in everything necessary for the meal; Susan looking, as
she put the kettle on the fire and glanced at her sister, as if divided
between the agreeable triumph of shewing her activity and usefulness,
and the dread of being thought to demean herself by such an office. “She
had been into the kitchen,” she said, “to hurry Sally and help make the
toast, and spread the bread and butter, or she did not know when they
should have got tea, and she was sure her sister must want something
after her journey. ”

Fanny was very thankful. She could not but own that she should be very
glad of a little tea, and Susan immediately set about making it, as if
pleased to have the employment all to herself; and with only a little
unnecessary bustle, and some few injudicious attempts at keeping her
brothers in better order than she could, acquitted herself very well.
Fanny’s spirit was as much refreshed as her body; her head and heart
were soon the better for such well-timed kindness. Susan had an open,
sensible countenance; she was like William, and Fanny hoped to find her
like him in disposition and goodwill towards herself.

In this more placid state of things William reentered, followed not
far behind by his mother and Betsey. He, complete in his lieutenant’s
uniform, looking and moving all the taller, firmer, and more graceful
for it, and with the happiest smile over his face, walked up directly
to Fanny, who, rising from her seat, looked at him for a moment in
speechless admiration, and then threw her arms round his neck to sob out
her various emotions of pain and pleasure.

Anxious not to appear unhappy, she soon recovered herself; and wiping
away her tears, was able to notice and admire all the striking parts
of his dress; listening with reviving spirits to his cheerful hopes of
being on shore some part of every day before they sailed, and even of
getting her to Spithead to see the sloop.

The next bustle brought in Mr. Campbell, the surgeon of the Thrush, a
very well-behaved young man, who came to call for his friend, and for
whom there was with some contrivance found a chair, and with some hasty
washing of the young tea-maker’s, a cup and saucer; and after another
quarter of an hour of earnest talk between the gentlemen, noise rising
upon noise, and bustle upon bustle, men and boys at last all in motion
together, the moment came for setting off; everything was ready, William
took leave, and all of them were gone; for the three boys, in spite
of their mother’s entreaty, determined to see their brother and Mr.
Campbell to the sally-port; and Mr. Price walked off at the same time to
carry back his neighbour’s newspaper.

Something like tranquillity might now be hoped for; and accordingly,
when Rebecca had been prevailed on to carry away the tea-things,
and Mrs. Price had walked about the room some time looking for a
shirt-sleeve, which Betsey at last hunted out from a drawer in the
kitchen, the small party of females were pretty well composed, and the
mother having lamented again over the impossibility of getting Sam ready
in time, was at leisure to think of her eldest daughter and the friends
she had come from.

A few inquiries began: but one of the earliest--“How did sister Bertram
manage about her servants? ” “Was she as much plagued as herself to get
tolerable servants? ”--soon led her mind away from Northamptonshire, and
fixed it on her own domestic grievances, and the shocking character of
all the Portsmouth servants, of whom she believed her own two were the
very worst, engrossed her completely. The Bertrams were all forgotten
in detailing the faults of Rebecca, against whom Susan had also much
to depose, and little Betsey a great deal more, and who did seem so
thoroughly without a single recommendation, that Fanny could not help
modestly presuming that her mother meant to part with her when her year
was up.

“Her year! ” cried Mrs. Price; “I am sure I hope I shall be rid of her
before she has staid a year, for that will not be up till November.
Servants are come to such a pass, my dear, in Portsmouth, that it is
quite a miracle if one keeps them more than half a year. I have no hope
of ever being settled; and if I was to part with Rebecca, I should
only get something worse. And yet I do not think I am a very difficult
mistress to please; and I am sure the place is easy enough, for there is
always a girl under her, and I often do half the work myself. ”

Fanny was silent; but not from being convinced that there might not be a
remedy found for some of these evils. As she now sat looking at Betsey,
she could not but think particularly of another sister, a very pretty
little girl, whom she had left there not much younger when she went into
Northamptonshire, who had died a few years afterwards. There had been
something remarkably amiable about her. Fanny in those early days had
preferred her to Susan; and when the news of her death had at last
reached Mansfield, had for a short time been quite afflicted. The sight
of Betsey brought the image of little Mary back again, but she would
not have pained her mother by alluding to her for the world. While
considering her with these ideas, Betsey, at a small distance, was
holding out something to catch her eyes, meaning to screen it at the
same time from Susan’s.

“What have you got there, my love? ” said Fanny; “come and shew it to
me. ”

It was a silver knife. Up jumped Susan, claiming it as her own, and
trying to get it away; but the child ran to her mother’s protection,
and Susan could only reproach, which she did very warmly, and evidently
hoping to interest Fanny on her side. “It was very hard that she was not
to have her _own_ knife; it was her own knife; little sister Mary had
left it to her upon her deathbed, and she ought to have had it to keep
herself long ago. But mama kept it from her, and was always letting
Betsey get hold of it; and the end of it would be that Betsey would
spoil it, and get it for her own, though mama had _promised_ her that
Betsey should not have it in her own hands. ”

Fanny was quite shocked. Every feeling of duty, honour, and tenderness
was wounded by her sister’s speech and her mother’s reply.

“Now, Susan,” cried Mrs. Price, in a complaining voice, “now, how can
you be so cross? You are always quarrelling about that knife. I wish you
would not be so quarrelsome. Poor little Betsey; how cross Susan is to
you! But you should not have taken it out, my dear, when I sent you to
the drawer. You know I told you not to touch it, because Susan is so
cross about it. I must hide it another time, Betsey. Poor Mary little
thought it would be such a bone of contention when she gave it me to
keep, only two hours before she died. Poor little soul! she could but
just speak to be heard, and she said so prettily, ‘Let sister Susan have
my knife, mama, when I am dead and buried. ’ Poor little dear! she was so
fond of it, Fanny, that she would have it lay by her in bed, all through
her illness. It was the gift of her good godmother, old Mrs. Admiral
Maxwell, only six weeks before she was taken for death. Poor little
sweet creature! Well, she was taken away from evil to come. My own
Betsey” (fondling her), “_you_ have not the luck of such a good
godmother. Aunt Norris lives too far off to think of such little people
as you. ”

Fanny had indeed nothing to convey from aunt Norris, but a message to
say she hoped that her god-daughter was a good girl, and learnt her
book. There had been at one moment a slight murmur in the drawing-room
at Mansfield Park about sending her a prayer-book; but no second sound
had been heard of such a purpose. Mrs. Norris, however, had gone home
and taken down two old prayer-books of her husband with that idea; but,
upon examination, the ardour of generosity went off. One was found
to have too small a print for a child’s eyes, and the other to be too
cumbersome for her to carry about.

Fanny, fatigued and fatigued again, was thankful to accept the first
invitation of going to bed; and before Betsey had finished her cry at
being allowed to sit up only one hour extraordinary in honour of sister,
she was off, leaving all below in confusion and noise again; the boys
begging for toasted cheese, her father calling out for his rum and
water, and Rebecca never where she ought to be.

There was nothing to raise her spirits in the confined and scantily
furnished chamber that she was to share with Susan.