No More Learning

Yates must have been irksome;
but of him, trifling and confident, idle and expensive, it was every way
vexatious. In himself he was wearisome, but as the friend of Tom and
the admirer of Julia he became offensive. Sir Thomas had been quite
indifferent to Mr. Crawford’s going or staying: but his good wishes
for Mr. Yates’s having a pleasant journey, as he walked with him to the
hall-door, were given with genuine satisfaction. Mr. Yates had staid to
see the destruction of every theatrical preparation at Mansfield, the
removal of everything appertaining to the play: he left the house in all
the soberness of its general character; and Sir Thomas hoped, in seeing
him out of it, to be rid of the worst object connected with the scheme,
and the last that must be inevitably reminding him of its existence.

Mrs. Norris contrived to remove one article from his sight that might
have distressed him. The curtain, over which she had presided with such
talent and such success, went off with her to her cottage, where she
happened to be particularly in want of green baize.



CHAPTER XXI

Sir Thomas’s return made a striking change in the ways of the family,
independent of Lovers’ Vows. Under his government, Mansfield was an
altered place. Some members of their society sent away, and the spirits
of many others saddened--it was all sameness and gloom compared with
the past--a sombre family party rarely enlivened. There was little
intercourse with the Parsonage. Sir Thomas, drawing back from intimacies
in general, was particularly disinclined, at this time, for any
engagements but in one quarter. The Rushworths were the only addition to
his own domestic circle which he could solicit.

Edmund did not wonder that such should be his father’s feelings, nor
could he regret anything but the exclusion of the Grants. “But they,” he
observed to Fanny, “have a claim. They seem to belong to us; they seem
to be part of ourselves. I could wish my father were more sensible of
their very great attention to my mother and sisters while he was away. I
am afraid they may feel themselves neglected. But the truth is, that my
father hardly knows them. They had not been here a twelvemonth when he
left England. If he knew them better, he would value their society as it
deserves; for they are in fact exactly the sort of people he would
like. We are sometimes a little in want of animation among ourselves: my
sisters seem out of spirits, and Tom is certainly not at his ease. Dr.
and Mrs. Grant would enliven us, and make our evenings pass away with
more enjoyment even to my father. ”

“Do you think so? ” said Fanny: “in my opinion, my uncle would not like
_any_ addition. I think he values the very quietness you speak of, and
that the repose of his own family circle is all he wants. And it does
not appear to me that we are more serious than we used to be--I mean
before my uncle went abroad. As well as I can recollect, it was always
much the same. There was never much laughing in his presence; or, if
there is any difference, it is not more, I think, than such an absence
has a tendency to produce at first. There must be a sort of shyness; but
I cannot recollect that our evenings formerly were ever merry, except
when my uncle was in town. No young people’s are, I suppose, when those
they look up to are at home”.

“I believe you are right, Fanny,” was his reply, after a short
consideration. “I believe our evenings are rather returned to what they
were, than assuming a new character. The novelty was in their being
lively. Yet, how strong the impression that only a few weeks will give!
I have been feeling as if we had never lived so before. ”

“I suppose I am graver than other people,” said Fanny. “The evenings do
not appear long to me. I love to hear my uncle talk of the West Indies.
I could listen to him for an hour together. It entertains _me_ more than
many other things have done; but then I am unlike other people, I dare
say. ”

“Why should you dare say _that_? ” (smiling). “Do you want to be told
that you are only unlike other people in being more wise and discreet?
But when did you, or anybody, ever get a compliment from me, Fanny? Go
to my father if you want to be complimented. He will satisfy you. Ask
your uncle what he thinks, and you will hear compliments enough: and
though they may be chiefly on your person, you must put up with it, and
trust to his seeing as much beauty of mind in time. ”

Such language was so new to Fanny that it quite embarrassed her.

“Your uncle thinks you very pretty, dear Fanny--and that is the long and
the short of the matter. Anybody but myself would have made something
more of it, and anybody but you would resent that you had not been
thought very pretty before; but the truth is, that your uncle never
did admire you till now--and now he does. Your complexion is so
improved! --and you have gained so much countenance! --and your
figure--nay, Fanny, do not turn away about it--it is but an uncle. If
you cannot bear an uncle’s admiration, what is to become of you? You
must really begin to harden yourself to the idea of being worth looking
at. You must try not to mind growing up into a pretty woman. ”

“Oh! don’t talk so, don’t talk so,” cried Fanny, distressed by more
feelings than he was aware of; but seeing that she was distressed, he
had done with the subject, and only added more seriously--

“Your uncle is disposed to be pleased with you in every respect; and I
only wish you would talk to him more. You are one of those who are too
silent in the evening circle. ”

“But I do talk to him more than I used. I am sure I do. Did not you hear
me ask him about the slave-trade last night? ”

“I did--and was in hopes the question would be followed up by others. It
would have pleased your uncle to be inquired of farther. ”

“And I longed to do it--but there was such a dead silence! And while
my cousins were sitting by without speaking a word, or seeming at all
interested in the subject, I did not like--I thought it would appear as
if I wanted to set myself off at their expense, by shewing a curiosity
and pleasure in his information which he must wish his own daughters to
feel. ”

“Miss Crawford was very right in what she said of you the other day:
that you seemed almost as fearful of notice and praise as other women
were of neglect. We were talking of you at the Parsonage, and those were
her words. She has great discernment. I know nobody who distinguishes
characters better. For so young a woman it is remarkable! She certainly
understands _you_ better than you are understood by the greater part of
those who have known you so long; and with regard to some others, I can
perceive, from occasional lively hints, the unguarded expressions of
the moment, that she could define _many_ as accurately, did not delicacy
forbid it. I wonder what she thinks of my father! She must admire him
as a fine-looking man, with most gentlemanlike, dignified, consistent
manners; but perhaps, having seen him so seldom, his reserve may be
a little repulsive. Could they be much together, I feel sure of their
liking each other. He would enjoy her liveliness and she has talents to
value his powers. I wish they met more frequently! I hope she does not
suppose there is any dislike on his side. ”

“She must know herself too secure of the regard of all the rest of you,”
said Fanny, with half a sigh, “to have any such apprehension. And Sir
Thomas’s wishing just at first to be only with his family, is so very
natural, that she can argue nothing from that. After a little while, I
dare say, we shall be meeting again in the same sort of way, allowing
for the difference of the time of year. ”

“This is the first October that she has passed in the country since her
infancy. I do not call Tunbridge or Cheltenham the country; and November
is a still more serious month, and I can see that Mrs. Grant is very
anxious for her not finding Mansfield dull as winter comes on. ”

Fanny could have said a great deal, but it was safer to say nothing, and
leave untouched all Miss Crawford’s resources--her accomplishments, her
spirits, her importance, her friends, lest it should betray her into
any observations seemingly unhandsome. Miss Crawford’s kind opinion of
herself deserved at least a grateful forbearance, and she began to talk
of something else.

“To-morrow, I think, my uncle dines at Sotherton, and you and Mr.
Bertram too. We shall be quite a small party at home. I hope my uncle
may continue to like Mr. Rushworth. ”

“That is impossible, Fanny. He must like him less after to-morrow’s
visit, for we shall be five hours in his company. I should dread
the stupidity of the day, if there were not a much greater evil to
follow--the impression it must leave on Sir Thomas. He cannot much
longer deceive himself. I am sorry for them all, and would give
something that Rushworth and Maria had never met. ”

In this quarter, indeed, disappointment was impending over Sir Thomas.
Not all his good-will for Mr. Rushworth, not all Mr. Rushworth’s
deference for him, could prevent him from soon discerning some part of
the truth--that Mr. Rushworth was an inferior young man, as ignorant
in business as in books, with opinions in general unfixed, and without
seeming much aware of it himself.

He had expected a very different son-in-law; and beginning to feel
grave on Maria’s account, tried to understand _her_ feelings. Little
observation there was necessary to tell him that indifference was the
most favourable state they could be in. Her behaviour to Mr. Rushworth
was careless and cold. She could not, did not like him. Sir Thomas
resolved to speak seriously to her. Advantageous as would be the
alliance, and long standing and public as was the engagement, her
happiness must not be sacrificed to it. Mr. Rushworth had, perhaps, been
accepted on too short an acquaintance, and, on knowing him better, she
was repenting.

With solemn kindness Sir Thomas addressed her: told her his fears,
inquired into her wishes, entreated her to be open and sincere, and
assured her that every inconvenience should be braved, and the connexion
entirely given up, if she felt herself unhappy in the prospect of it. He
would act for her and release her. Maria had a moment’s struggle as she
listened, and only a moment’s: when her father ceased, she was able to
give her answer immediately, decidedly, and with no apparent agitation.
She thanked him for his great attention, his paternal kindness, but he
was quite mistaken in supposing she had the smallest desire of breaking
through her engagement, or was sensible of any change of opinion or
inclination since her forming it. She had the highest esteem for Mr.
Rushworth’s character and disposition, and could not have a doubt of her
happiness with him.

Sir Thomas was satisfied; too glad to be satisfied, perhaps, to urge the
matter quite so far as his judgment might have dictated to others. It
was an alliance which he could not have relinquished without pain;
and thus he reasoned. Mr. Rushworth was young enough to improve. Mr.
Rushworth must and would improve in good society; and if Maria could now
speak so securely of her happiness with him, speaking certainly without
the prejudice, the blindness of love, she ought to be believed. Her
feelings, probably, were not acute; he had never supposed them to be
so; but her comforts might not be less on that account; and if she could
dispense with seeing her husband a leading, shining character, there
would certainly be everything else in her favour. A well-disposed young
woman, who did not marry for love, was in general but the more attached
to her own family; and the nearness of Sotherton to Mansfield
must naturally hold out the greatest temptation, and would, in all
probability, be a continual supply of the most amiable and innocent
enjoyments. Such and such-like were the reasonings of Sir Thomas,
happy to escape the embarrassing evils of a rupture, the wonder,
the reflections, the reproach that must attend it; happy to secure a
marriage which would bring him such an addition of respectability
and influence, and very happy to think anything of his daughter’s
disposition that was most favourable for the purpose.

To her the conference closed as satisfactorily as to him. She was in a
state of mind to be glad that she had secured her fate beyond recall:
that she had pledged herself anew to Sotherton; that she was safe from
the possibility of giving Crawford the triumph of governing her actions,
and destroying her prospects; and retired in proud resolve, determined
only to behave more cautiously to Mr. Rushworth in future, that her
father might not be again suspecting her.

Had Sir Thomas applied to his daughter within the first three or four
days after Henry Crawford’s leaving Mansfield, before her feelings were
at all tranquillised, before she had given up every hope of him, or
absolutely resolved on enduring his rival, her answer might have been
different; but after another three or four days, when there was no
return, no letter, no message, no symptom of a softened heart, no hope
of advantage from separation, her mind became cool enough to seek all
the comfort that pride and self revenge could give.

Henry Crawford had destroyed her happiness, but he should not know that
he had done it; he should not destroy her credit, her appearance, her
prosperity, too. He should not have to think of her as pining in the
retirement of Mansfield for _him_, rejecting Sotherton and London,
independence and splendour, for _his_ sake. Independence was more
needful than ever; the want of it at Mansfield more sensibly felt. She
was less and less able to endure the restraint which her father imposed.
The liberty which his absence had given was now become absolutely
necessary. She must escape from him and Mansfield as soon as possible,
and find consolation in fortune and consequence, bustle and the world,
for a wounded spirit. Her mind was quite determined, and varied not.

To such feelings delay, even the delay of much preparation, would have
been an evil, and Mr. Rushworth could hardly be more impatient for the
marriage than herself. In all the important preparations of the mind
she was complete: being prepared for matrimony by an hatred of home,
restraint, and tranquillity; by the misery of disappointed affection,
and contempt of the man she was to marry. The rest might wait. The
preparations of new carriages and furniture might wait for London and
spring, when her own taste could have fairer play.

The principals being all agreed in this respect, it soon appeared that a
very few weeks would be sufficient for such arrangements as must precede
the wedding.

Mrs. Rushworth was quite ready to retire, and make way for the fortunate
young woman whom her dear son had selected; and very early in November
removed herself, her maid, her footman, and her chariot, with true
dowager propriety, to Bath, there to parade over the wonders of
Sotherton in her evening parties; enjoying them as thoroughly, perhaps,
in the animation of a card-table, as she had ever done on the spot; and
before the middle of the same month the ceremony had taken place which
gave Sotherton another mistress.

It was a very proper wedding. The bride was elegantly dressed; the two
bridesmaids were duly inferior; her father gave her away; her mother
stood with salts in her hand, expecting to be agitated; her aunt tried
to cry; and the service was impressively read by Dr. Grant. Nothing
could be objected to when it came under the discussion of the
neighbourhood, except that the carriage which conveyed the bride and
bridegroom and Julia from the church-door to Sotherton was the same
chaise which Mr. Rushworth had used for a twelvemonth before. In
everything else the etiquette of the day might stand the strictest
investigation.

It was done, and they were gone. Sir Thomas felt as an anxious father
must feel, and was indeed experiencing much of the agitation which his
wife had been apprehensive of for herself, but had fortunately escaped.
Mrs. Norris, most happy to assist in the duties of the day, by spending
it at the Park to support her sister’s spirits, and drinking the health
of Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth in a supernumerary glass or two, was all
joyous delight; for she had made the match; she had done everything;
and no one would have supposed, from her confident triumph, that she
had ever heard of conjugal infelicity in her life, or could have the
smallest insight into the disposition of the niece who had been brought
up under her eye.

The plan of the young couple was to proceed, after a few days, to
Brighton, and take a house there for some weeks. Every public place was
new to Maria, and Brighton is almost as gay in winter as in summer. When
the novelty of amusement there was over, it would be time for the wider
range of London.

Julia was to go with them to Brighton. Since rivalry between the sisters
had ceased, they had been gradually recovering much of their former good
understanding; and were at least sufficiently friends to make each of
them exceedingly glad to be with the other at such a time. Some other
companion than Mr. Rushworth was of the first consequence to his lady;
and Julia was quite as eager for novelty and pleasure as Maria, though
she might not have struggled through so much to obtain them, and could
better bear a subordinate situation.

Their departure made another material change at Mansfield, a chasm
which required some time to fill up. The family circle became greatly
contracted; and though the Miss Bertrams had latterly added little to
its gaiety, they could not but be missed. Even their mother missed them;
and how much more their tenderhearted cousin, who wandered about
the house, and thought of them, and felt for them, with a degree of
affectionate regret which they had never done much to deserve!



CHAPTER XXII

Fanny’s consequence increased on the departure of her cousins. Becoming,
as she then did, the only young woman in the drawing-room, the only
occupier of that interesting division of a family in which she had
hitherto held so humble a third, it was impossible for her not to be
more looked at, more thought of and attended to, than she had ever been
before; and “Where is Fanny? ” became no uncommon question, even without
her being wanted for any one’s convenience.

Not only at home did her value increase, but at the Parsonage too. In
that house, which she had hardly entered twice a year since Mr. Norris’s
death, she became a welcome, an invited guest, and in the gloom and dirt
of a November day, most acceptable to Mary Crawford. Her visits there,
beginning by chance, were continued by solicitation. Mrs. Grant,
really eager to get any change for her sister, could, by the easiest
self-deceit, persuade herself that she was doing the kindest thing by
Fanny, and giving her the most important opportunities of improvement in
pressing her frequent calls.

Fanny, having been sent into the village on some errand by her aunt
Norris, was overtaken by a heavy shower close to the Parsonage; and
being descried from one of the windows endeavouring to find shelter
under the branches and lingering leaves of an oak just beyond their
premises, was forced, though not without some modest reluctance on her
part, to come in. A civil servant she had withstood; but when Dr. Grant
himself went out with an umbrella, there was nothing to be done but to
be very much ashamed, and to get into the house as fast as possible; and
to poor Miss Crawford, who had just been contemplating the dismal rain
in a very desponding state of mind, sighing over the ruin of all her
plan of exercise for that morning, and of every chance of seeing a
single creature beyond themselves for the next twenty-four hours, the
sound of a little bustle at the front door, and the sight of Miss Price
dripping with wet in the vestibule, was delightful. The value of an
event on a wet day in the country was most forcibly brought before her.
She was all alive again directly, and among the most active in being
useful to Fanny, in detecting her to be wetter than she would at first
allow, and providing her with dry clothes; and Fanny, after being
obliged to submit to all this attention, and to being assisted and
waited on by mistresses and maids, being also obliged, on returning
downstairs, to be fixed in their drawing-room for an hour while the rain
continued, the blessing of something fresh to see and think of was thus
extended to Miss Crawford, and might carry on her spirits to the period
of dressing and dinner.

The two sisters were so kind to her, and so pleasant, that Fanny might
have enjoyed her visit could she have believed herself not in the way,
and could she have foreseen that the weather would certainly clear at
the end of the hour, and save her from the shame of having Dr. Grant’s
carriage and horses out to take her home, with which she was threatened.
As to anxiety for any alarm that her absence in such weather might
occasion at home, she had nothing to suffer on that score; for as her
being out was known only to her two aunts, she was perfectly aware that
none would be felt, and that in whatever cottage aunt Norris might chuse
to establish her during the rain, her being in such cottage would be
indubitable to aunt Bertram.

It was beginning to look brighter, when Fanny, observing a harp in the
room, asked some questions about it, which soon led to an acknowledgment
of her wishing very much to hear it, and a confession, which could
hardly be believed, of her having never yet heard it since its being
in Mansfield. To Fanny herself it appeared a very simple and natural
circumstance. She had scarcely ever been at the Parsonage since the
instrument’s arrival, there had been no reason that she should; but Miss
Crawford, calling to mind an early expressed wish on the subject, was
concerned at her own neglect; and “Shall I play to you now? ” and “What
will you have? ” were questions immediately following with the readiest
good-humour.

She played accordingly; happy to have a new listener, and a listener who
seemed so much obliged, so full of wonder at the performance, and who
shewed herself not wanting in taste. She played till Fanny’s eyes,
straying to the window on the weather’s being evidently fair, spoke what
she felt must be done.

“Another quarter of an hour,” said Miss Crawford, “and we shall see how
it will be. Do not run away the first moment of its holding up. Those
clouds look alarming. ”

“But they are passed over,” said Fanny.
“I have been watching them. This
weather is all from the south. ”

“South or north, I know a black cloud when I see it; and you must not
set forward while it is so threatening. And besides, I want to play
something more to you--a very pretty piece--and your cousin Edmund’s
prime favourite. You must stay and hear your cousin’s favourite. ”

Fanny felt that she must; and though she had not waited for that
sentence to be thinking of Edmund, such a memento made her particularly
awake to his idea, and she fancied him sitting in that room again
and again, perhaps in the very spot where she sat now, listening with
constant delight to the favourite air, played, as it appeared to her,
with superior tone and expression; and though pleased with it herself,
and glad to like whatever was liked by him, she was more sincerely
impatient to go away at the conclusion of it than she had been before;
and on this being evident, she was so kindly asked to call again, to
take them in her walk whenever she could, to come and hear more of the
harp, that she felt it necessary to be done, if no objection arose at
home.

Such was the origin of the sort of intimacy which took place between
them within the first fortnight after the Miss Bertrams’ going away--an
intimacy resulting principally from Miss Crawford’s desire of something
new, and which had little reality in Fanny’s feelings. Fanny went to her
every two or three days: it seemed a kind of fascination: she could not
be easy without going, and yet it was without loving her, without ever
thinking like her, without any sense of obligation for being sought
after now when nobody else was to be had; and deriving no higher
pleasure from her conversation than occasional amusement, and _that_
often at the expense of her judgment, when it was raised by pleasantry
on people or subjects which she wished to be respected. She went,
however, and they sauntered about together many an half-hour in Mrs.
Grant’s shrubbery, the weather being unusually mild for the time of
year, and venturing sometimes even to sit down on one of the benches now
comparatively unsheltered, remaining there perhaps till, in the midst
of some tender ejaculation of Fanny’s on the sweets of so protracted
an autumn, they were forced, by the sudden swell of a cold gust shaking
down the last few yellow leaves about them, to jump up and walk for
warmth.

“This is pretty, very pretty,” said Fanny, looking around her as
they were thus sitting together one day; “every time I come into this
shrubbery I am more struck with its growth and beauty. Three years ago,
this was nothing but a rough hedgerow along the upper side of the field,
never thought of as anything, or capable of becoming anything; and now
it is converted into a walk, and it would be difficult to say whether
most valuable as a convenience or an ornament; and perhaps, in another
three years, we may be forgetting--almost forgetting what it was before.
How wonderful, how very wonderful the operations of time, and the
changes of the human mind! ” And following the latter train of thought,
she soon afterwards added: “If any one faculty of our nature may be
called _more_ wonderful than the rest, I do think it is memory. There
seems something more speakingly incomprehensible in the powers,
the failures, the inequalities of memory, than in any other of our
intelligences. The memory is sometimes so retentive, so serviceable, so
obedient; at others, so bewildered and so weak; and at others again, so
tyrannic, so beyond control! We are, to be sure, a miracle every way;
but our powers of recollecting and of forgetting do seem peculiarly past
finding out. ”

Miss Crawford, untouched and inattentive, had nothing to say; and
Fanny, perceiving it, brought back her own mind to what she thought must
interest.

“It may seem impertinent in _me_ to praise, but I must admire the taste
Mrs. Grant has shewn in all this. There is such a quiet simplicity in
the plan of the walk! Not too much attempted! ”

“Yes,” replied Miss Crawford carelessly, “it does very well for a
place of this sort. One does not think of extent _here_; and between
ourselves, till I came to Mansfield, I had not imagined a country parson
ever aspired to a shrubbery, or anything of the kind. ”

“I am so glad to see the evergreens thrive! ” said Fanny, in reply. “My
uncle’s gardener always says the soil here is better than his own, and
so it appears from the growth of the laurels and evergreens in general.
The evergreen! How beautiful, how welcome, how wonderful the evergreen!
When one thinks of it, how astonishing a variety of nature! In some
countries we know the tree that sheds its leaf is the variety, but that
does not make it less amazing that the same soil and the same sun should
nurture plants differing in the first rule and law of their existence.
You will think me rhapsodising; but when I am out of doors, especially
when I am sitting out of doors, I am very apt to get into this sort of
wondering strain. One cannot fix one’s eyes on the commonest natural
production without finding food for a rambling fancy. ”

“To say the truth,” replied Miss Crawford, “I am something like the
famous Doge at the court of Lewis XIV. ; and may declare that I see no
wonder in this shrubbery equal to seeing myself in it. If anybody had
told me a year ago that this place would be my home, that I should be
spending month after month here, as I have done, I certainly should
not have believed them. I have now been here nearly five months; and,
moreover, the quietest five months I ever passed. ”

“_Too_ quiet for you, I believe. ”

“I should have thought so _theoretically_ myself, but,” and her eyes
brightened as she spoke, “take it all and all, I never spent so happy a
summer. But then,” with a more thoughtful air and lowered voice, “there
is no saying what it may lead to. ”

Fanny’s heart beat quick, and she felt quite unequal to surmising
or soliciting anything more. Miss Crawford, however, with renewed
animation, soon went on--

“I am conscious of being far better reconciled to a country residence
than I had ever expected to be. I can even suppose it pleasant to
spend _half_ the year in the country, under certain circumstances,
very pleasant. An elegant, moderate-sized house in the centre of family
connexions; continual engagements among them; commanding the first
society in the neighbourhood; looked up to, perhaps, as leading it even
more than those of larger fortune, and turning from the cheerful round
of such amusements to nothing worse than a _tete-a-tete_ with the person
one feels most agreeable in the world. There is nothing frightful in
such a picture, is there, Miss Price? One need not envy the new Mrs.
Rushworth with such a home as _that_. ”

“Envy Mrs. Rushworth! ” was all that Fanny attempted to say. “Come, come,
it would be very un-handsome in us to be severe on Mrs. Rushworth, for I
look forward to our owing her a great many gay, brilliant, happy hours.
I expect we shall be all very much at Sotherton another year. Such
a match as Miss Bertram has made is a public blessing; for the first
pleasures of Mr. Rushworth’s wife must be to fill her house, and give
the best balls in the country. ”

Fanny was silent, and Miss Crawford relapsed into thoughtfulness, till
suddenly looking up at the end of a few minutes, she exclaimed, “Ah!
here he is. ” It was not Mr. Rushworth, however, but Edmund, who then
appeared walking towards them with Mrs. Grant. “My sister and Mr.
Bertram. I am so glad your eldest cousin is gone, that he may be Mr.
Bertram again. There is something in the sound of Mr. _Edmund_ Bertram
so formal, so pitiful, so younger-brother-like, that I detest it. ”

“How differently we feel! ” cried Fanny. “To me, the sound of _Mr. _
Bertram is so cold and nothing-meaning, so entirely without warmth or
character! It just stands for a gentleman, and that’s all. But there is
nobleness in the name of Edmund. It is a name of heroism and renown; of
kings, princes, and knights; and seems to breathe the spirit of chivalry
and warm affections. ”

“I grant you the name is good in itself, and _Lord_ Edmund or _Sir_
Edmund sound delightfully; but sink it under the chill, the annihilation
of a Mr. , and Mr. Edmund is no more than Mr. John or Mr. Thomas. Well,
shall we join and disappoint them of half their lecture upon sitting
down out of doors at this time of year, by being up before they can
begin? ”

Edmund met them with particular pleasure. It was the first time of his
seeing them together since the beginning of that better acquaintance
which he had been hearing of with great satisfaction. A friendship
between two so very dear to him was exactly what he could have wished:
and to the credit of the lover’s understanding, be it stated, that he
did not by any means consider Fanny as the only, or even as the greater
gainer by such a friendship.

“Well,” said Miss Crawford, “and do you not scold us for our imprudence?
What do you think we have been sitting down for but to be talked to
about it, and entreated and supplicated never to do so again? ”

“Perhaps I might have scolded,” said Edmund, “if either of you had been
sitting down alone; but while you do wrong together, I can overlook a
great deal. ”

“They cannot have been sitting long,” cried Mrs. Grant, “for when I went
up for my shawl I saw them from the staircase window, and then they were
walking. ”

“And really,” added Edmund, “the day is so mild, that your sitting down
for a few minutes can be hardly thought imprudent. Our weather must
not always be judged by the calendar. We may sometimes take greater
liberties in November than in May. ”

“Upon my word,” cried Miss Crawford, “you are two of the most
disappointing and unfeeling kind friends I ever met with! There is no
giving you a moment’s uneasiness. You do not know how much we have been
suffering, nor what chills we have felt! But I have long thought Mr.
Bertram one of the worst subjects to work on, in any little manoeuvre
against common sense, that a woman could be plagued with. I had very
little hope of _him_ from the first; but you, Mrs. Grant, my sister, my
own sister, I think I had a right to alarm you a little. ”

“Do not flatter yourself, my dearest Mary. You have not the smallest
chance of moving me. I have my alarms, but they are quite in a different
quarter; and if I could have altered the weather, you would have had a
good sharp east wind blowing on you the whole time--for here are some of
my plants which Robert _will_ leave out because the nights are so mild,
and I know the end of it will be, that we shall have a sudden change of
weather, a hard frost setting in all at once, taking everybody (at least
Robert) by surprise, and I shall lose every one; and what is worse, cook
has just been telling me that the turkey, which I particularly wished
not to be dressed till Sunday, because I know how much more Dr. Grant
would enjoy it on Sunday after the fatigues of the day, will not keep
beyond to-morrow. These are something like grievances, and make me think
the weather most unseasonably close. ”

“The sweets of housekeeping in a country village! ” said Miss Crawford
archly. “Commend me to the nurseryman and the poulterer. ”

“My dear child, commend Dr. Grant to the deanery of Westminster or St.
Paul’s, and I should be as glad of your nurseryman and poulterer as you
could be. But we have no such people in Mansfield. What would you have
me do? ”

“Oh! you can do nothing but what you do already: be plagued very often,
and never lose your temper. ”

“Thank you; but there is no escaping these little vexations, Mary, live
where we may; and when you are settled in town and I come to see you, I
dare say I shall find you with yours, in spite of the nurseryman and
the poulterer, perhaps on their very account. Their remoteness and
unpunctuality, or their exorbitant charges and frauds, will be drawing
forth bitter lamentations. ”

“I mean to be too rich to lament or to feel anything of the sort.
A large income is the best recipe for happiness I ever heard of. It
certainly may secure all the myrtle and turkey part of it. ”

“You intend to be very rich? ” said Edmund, with a look which, to Fanny’s
eye, had a great deal of serious meaning.

“To be sure. Do not you? Do not we all? ”

“I cannot intend anything which it must be so completely beyond my power
to command. Miss Crawford may chuse her degree of wealth. She has only
to fix on her number of thousands a year, and there can be no doubt of
their coming. My intentions are only not to be poor. ”

“By moderation and economy, and bringing down your wants to your income,
and all that. I understand you--and a very proper plan it is for a
person at your time of life, with such limited means and indifferent
connexions. What can _you_ want but a decent maintenance? You have
not much time before you; and your relations are in no situation to do
anything for you, or to mortify you by the contrast of their own wealth
and consequence. Be honest and poor, by all means--but I shall not envy
you; I do not much think I shall even respect you. I have a much greater
respect for those that are honest and rich. ”

“Your degree of respect for honesty, rich or poor, is precisely what
I have no manner of concern with. I do not mean to be poor. Poverty
is exactly what I have determined against. Honesty, in the something
between, in the middle state of worldly circumstances, is all that I am
anxious for your not looking down on. ”

“But I do look down upon it, if it might have been higher. I must
look down upon anything contented with obscurity when it might rise to
distinction. ”

“But how may it rise? How may my honesty at least rise to any
distinction? ”

This was not so very easy a question to answer, and occasioned an “Oh! ”
of some length from the fair lady before she could add, “You ought to be
in parliament, or you should have gone into the army ten years ago. ”

“_That_ is not much to the purpose now; and as to my being in
parliament, I believe I must wait till there is an especial assembly for
the representation of younger sons who have little to live on. No, Miss
Crawford,” he added, in a more serious tone, “there _are_ distinctions
which I should be miserable if I thought myself without any
chance--absolutely without chance or possibility of obtaining--but they
are of a different character. ”

A look of consciousness as he spoke, and what seemed a consciousness
of manner on Miss Crawford’s side as she made some laughing answer,
was sorrowfull food for Fanny’s observation; and finding herself quite
unable to attend as she ought to Mrs. Grant, by whose side she was now
following the others, she had nearly resolved on going home immediately,
and only waited for courage to say so, when the sound of the great clock
at Mansfield Park, striking three, made her feel that she had
really been much longer absent than usual, and brought the previous
self-inquiry of whether she should take leave or not just then, and how,
to a very speedy issue. With undoubting decision she directly began her
adieus; and Edmund began at the same time to recollect that his mother
had been inquiring for her, and that he had walked down to the Parsonage
on purpose to bring her back.

Fanny’s hurry increased; and without in the least expecting Edmund’s
attendance, she would have hastened away alone; but the general pace was
quickened, and they all accompanied her into the house, through which it
was necessary to pass. Dr. Grant was in the vestibule, and as they stopt
to speak to him she found, from Edmund’s manner, that he _did_ mean to
go with her. He too was taking leave. She could not but be thankful. In
the moment of parting, Edmund was invited by Dr. Grant to eat his mutton
with him the next day; and Fanny had barely time for an unpleasant
feeling on the occasion, when Mrs. Grant, with sudden recollection,
turned to her and asked for the pleasure of her company too. This was
so new an attention, so perfectly new a circumstance in the events of
Fanny’s life, that she was all surprise and embarrassment; and while
stammering out her great obligation, and her “but she did not suppose it
would be in her power,” was looking at Edmund for his opinion and help.
But Edmund, delighted with her having such an happiness offered, and
ascertaining with half a look, and half a sentence, that she had no
objection but on her aunt’s account, could not imagine that his mother
would make any difficulty of sparing her, and therefore gave his decided
open advice that the invitation should be accepted; and though Fanny
would not venture, even on his encouragement, to such a flight of
audacious independence, it was soon settled, that if nothing were heard
to the contrary, Mrs. Grant might expect her.

“And you know what your dinner will be,” said Mrs. Grant, smiling--“the
turkey, and I assure you a very fine one; for, my dear,” turning to her
husband, “cook insists upon the turkey’s being dressed to-morrow. ”

“Very well, very well,” cried Dr. Grant, “all the better; I am glad
to hear you have anything so good in the house. But Miss Price and Mr.
Edmund Bertram, I dare say, would take their chance. We none of us want
to hear the bill of fare. A friendly meeting, and not a fine dinner,
is all we have in view. A turkey, or a goose, or a leg of mutton, or
whatever you and your cook chuse to give us. ”

The two cousins walked home together; and, except in the immediate
discussion of this engagement, which Edmund spoke of with the warmest
satisfaction, as so particularly desirable for her in the intimacy which
he saw with so much pleasure established, it was a silent walk; for
having finished that subject, he grew thoughtful and indisposed for any
other.



CHAPTER XXIII

“But why should Mrs. Grant ask Fanny? ” said Lady Bertram. “How came she
to think of asking Fanny? Fanny never dines there, you know, in this
sort of way. I cannot spare her, and I am sure she does not want to go.
Fanny, you do not want to go, do you? ”

“If you put such a question to her,” cried Edmund, preventing his
cousin’s speaking, “Fanny will immediately say No; but I am sure, my
dear mother, she would like to go; and I can see no reason why she
should not. ”

“I cannot imagine why Mrs. Grant should think of asking her? She never
did before. She used to ask your sisters now and then, but she never
asked Fanny. ”

“If you cannot do without me, ma’am--” said Fanny, in a self-denying
tone.

“But my mother will have my father with her all the evening. ”

“To be sure, so I shall. ”

“Suppose you take my father’s opinion, ma’am. ”

“That’s well thought of. So I will, Edmund. I will ask Sir Thomas, as
soon as he comes in, whether I can do without her. ”

“As you please, ma’am, on that head; but I meant my father’s opinion
as to the _propriety_ of the invitation’s being accepted or not; and
I think he will consider it a right thing by Mrs. Grant, as well as by
Fanny, that being the _first_ invitation it should be accepted. ”

“I do not know. We will ask him. But he will be very much surprised that
Mrs. Grant should ask Fanny at all. ”

There was nothing more to be said, or that could be said to any purpose,
till Sir Thomas were present; but the subject involving, as it did,
her own evening’s comfort for the morrow, was so much uppermost in Lady
Bertram’s mind, that half an hour afterwards, on his looking in for a
minute in his way from his plantation to his dressing-room, she called
him back again, when he had almost closed the door, with “Sir Thomas,
stop a moment--I have something to say to you. ”

Her tone of calm languor, for she never took the trouble of raising her
voice, was always heard and attended to; and Sir Thomas came back. Her
story began; and Fanny immediately slipped out of the room; for to hear
herself the subject of any discussion with her uncle was more than her
nerves could bear. She was anxious, she knew--more anxious perhaps than
she ought to be--for what was it after all whether she went or staid?
but if her uncle were to be a great while considering and deciding, and
with very grave looks, and those grave looks directed to her, and
at last decide against her, she might not be able to appear properly
submissive and indifferent. Her cause, meanwhile, went on well. It
began, on Lady Bertram’s part, with--“I have something to tell you that
will surprise you. Mrs.