No More Learning

She confined herself, or tried to confine herself, to the
simple, indubitable family misery which must envelop all, if it were
indeed a matter of certified guilt and public exposure. The mother’s
sufferings, the father’s; there she paused. Julia’s, Tom’s, Edmund’s;
there a yet longer pause. They were the two on whom it would fall most
horribly. Sir Thomas’s parental solicitude and high sense of honour and
decorum, Edmund’s upright principles, unsuspicious temper, and genuine
strength of feeling, made her think it scarcely possible for them to
support life and reason under such disgrace; and it appeared to her
that, as far as this world alone was concerned, the greatest blessing to
every one of kindred with Mrs. Rushworth would be instant annihilation.

Nothing happened the next day, or the next, to weaken her terrors. Two
posts came in, and brought no refutation, public or private. There was
no second letter to explain away the first from Miss Crawford; there was
no intelligence from Mansfield, though it was now full time for her
to hear again from her aunt. This was an evil omen. She had, indeed,
scarcely the shadow of a hope to soothe her mind, and was reduced to so
low and wan and trembling a condition, as no mother, not unkind, except
Mrs. Price could have overlooked, when the third day did bring the
sickening knock, and a letter was again put into her hands. It bore the
London postmark, and came from Edmund.

“Dear Fanny,--You know our present wretchedness. May God support you
under your share! We have been here two days, but there is nothing to
be done. They cannot be traced. You may not have heard of the last
blow--Julia’s elopement; she is gone to Scotland with Yates. She left
London a few hours before we entered it. At any other time this would
have been felt dreadfully. Now it seems nothing; yet it is an heavy
aggravation. My father is not overpowered. More cannot be hoped. He is
still able to think and act; and I write, by his desire, to propose your
returning home. He is anxious to get you there for my mother’s sake. I
shall be at Portsmouth the morning after you receive this, and hope to
find you ready to set off for Mansfield. My father wishes you to invite
Susan to go with you for a few months. Settle it as you like; say what
is proper; I am sure you will feel such an instance of his kindness at
such a moment! Do justice to his meaning, however I may confuse it. You
may imagine something of my present state. There is no end of the evil
let loose upon us. You will see me early by the mail. --Yours, etc. ”

Never had Fanny more wanted a cordial. Never had she felt such a one
as this letter contained. To-morrow! to leave Portsmouth to-morrow!
She was, she felt she was, in the greatest danger of being exquisitely
happy, while so many were miserable. The evil which brought such good
to her! She dreaded lest she should learn to be insensible of it. To be
going so soon, sent for so kindly, sent for as a comfort, and with leave
to take Susan, was altogether such a combination of blessings as set her
heart in a glow, and for a time seemed to distance every pain, and
make her incapable of suitably sharing the distress even of those
whose distress she thought of most. Julia’s elopement could affect her
comparatively but little; she was amazed and shocked; but it could not
occupy her, could not dwell on her mind. She was obliged to call herself
to think of it, and acknowledge it to be terrible and grievous, or it
was escaping her, in the midst of all the agitating pressing joyful
cares attending this summons to herself.

There is nothing like employment, active indispensable employment, for
relieving sorrow. Employment, even melancholy, may dispel melancholy,
and her occupations were hopeful. She had so much to do, that not even
the horrible story of Mrs. Rushworth--now fixed to the last point of
certainty could affect her as it had done before. She had not time to
be miserable. Within twenty-four hours she was hoping to be gone; her
father and mother must be spoken to, Susan prepared, everything got
ready. Business followed business; the day was hardly long enough. The
happiness she was imparting, too, happiness very little alloyed by the
black communication which must briefly precede it--the joyful consent
of her father and mother to Susan’s going with her--the general
satisfaction with which the going of both seemed regarded, and the
ecstasy of Susan herself, was all serving to support her spirits.

The affliction of the Bertrams was little felt in the family. Mrs. Price
talked of her poor sister for a few minutes, but how to find anything to
hold Susan’s clothes, because Rebecca took away all the boxes and spoilt
them, was much more in her thoughts: and as for Susan, now unexpectedly
gratified in the first wish of her heart, and knowing nothing personally
of those who had sinned, or of those who were sorrowing--if she could
help rejoicing from beginning to end, it was as much as ought to be
expected from human virtue at fourteen.

As nothing was really left for the decision of Mrs. Price, or the good
offices of Rebecca, everything was rationally and duly accomplished,
and the girls were ready for the morrow. The advantage of much sleep
to prepare them for their journey was impossible. The cousin who was
travelling towards them could hardly have less than visited their
agitated spirits--one all happiness, the other all varying and
indescribable perturbation.

By eight in the morning Edmund was in the house. The girls heard his
entrance from above, and Fanny went down. The idea of immediately seeing
him, with the knowledge of what he must be suffering, brought back all
her own first feelings. He so near her, and in misery. She was ready to
sink as she entered the parlour. He was alone, and met her instantly;
and she found herself pressed to his heart with only these words, just
articulate, “My Fanny, my only sister; my only comfort now! ” She could
say nothing; nor for some minutes could he say more.

He turned away to recover himself, and when he spoke again, though his
voice still faltered, his manner shewed the wish of self-command, and
the resolution of avoiding any farther allusion. “Have you breakfasted?
When shall you be ready? Does Susan go? ” were questions following each
other rapidly. His great object was to be off as soon as possible. When
Mansfield was considered, time was precious; and the state of his own
mind made him find relief only in motion. It was settled that he should
order the carriage to the door in half an hour. Fanny answered for their
having breakfasted and being quite ready in half an hour. He had already
ate, and declined staying for their meal. He would walk round the
ramparts, and join them with the carriage. He was gone again; glad to
get away even from Fanny.

He looked very ill; evidently suffering under violent emotions, which he
was determined to suppress. She knew it must be so, but it was terrible
to her.

The carriage came; and he entered the house again at the same
moment, just in time to spend a few minutes with the family, and be a
witness--but that he saw nothing--of the tranquil manner in which the
daughters were parted with, and just in time to prevent their sitting
down to the breakfast-table, which, by dint of much unusual activity,
was quite and completely ready as the carriage drove from the door.
Fanny’s last meal in her father’s house was in character with her first:
she was dismissed from it as hospitably as she had been welcomed.

How her heart swelled with joy and gratitude as she passed the barriers
of Portsmouth, and how Susan’s face wore its broadest smiles, may be
easily conceived. Sitting forwards, however, and screened by her bonnet,
those smiles were unseen.

The journey was likely to be a silent one. Edmund’s deep sighs often
reached Fanny. Had he been alone with her, his heart must have opened
in spite of every resolution; but Susan’s presence drove him quite into
himself, and his attempts to talk on indifferent subjects could never be
long supported.

Fanny watched him with never-failing solicitude, and sometimes catching
his eye, revived an affectionate smile, which comforted her; but the
first day’s journey passed without her hearing a word from him on the
subjects that were weighing him down. The next morning produced a
little more. Just before their setting out from Oxford, while Susan was
stationed at a window, in eager observation of the departure of a
large family from the inn, the other two were standing by the fire; and
Edmund, particularly struck by the alteration in Fanny’s looks, and from
his ignorance of the daily evils of her father’s house, attributing an
undue share of the change, attributing _all_ to the recent event, took
her hand, and said in a low, but very expressive tone, “No wonder--you
must feel it--you must suffer. How a man who had once loved, could
desert you! But _yours_--your regard was new compared with----Fanny,
think of _me_! ”

The first division of their journey occupied a long day, and brought
them, almost knocked up, to Oxford; but the second was over at a much
earlier hour. They were in the environs of Mansfield long before the
usual dinner-time, and as they approached the beloved place, the hearts
of both sisters sank a little. Fanny began to dread the meeting with her
aunts and Tom, under so dreadful a humiliation; and Susan to feel
with some anxiety, that all her best manners, all her lately acquired
knowledge of what was practised here, was on the point of being called
into action. Visions of good and ill breeding, of old vulgarisms and new
gentilities, were before her; and she was meditating much upon silver
forks, napkins, and finger-glasses. Fanny had been everywhere awake to
the difference of the country since February; but when they entered the
Park her perceptions and her pleasures were of the keenest sort. It was
three months, full three months, since her quitting it, and the
change was from winter to summer. Her eye fell everywhere on lawns
and plantations of the freshest green; and the trees, though not fully
clothed, were in that delightful state when farther beauty is known to
be at hand, and when, while much is actually given to the sight, more
yet remains for the imagination. Her enjoyment, however, was for herself
alone. Edmund could not share it. She looked at him, but he was leaning
back, sunk in a deeper gloom than ever, and with eyes closed, as if the
view of cheerfulness oppressed him, and the lovely scenes of home must
be shut out.

It made her melancholy again; and the knowledge of what must be enduring
there, invested even the house, modern, airy, and well situated as it
was, with a melancholy aspect.

By one of the suffering party within they were expected with such
impatience as she had never known before. Fanny had scarcely passed the
solemn-looking servants, when Lady Bertram came from the drawing-room
to meet her; came with no indolent step; and falling on her neck, said,
“Dear Fanny! now I shall be comfortable. ”



CHAPTER XLVII

It had been a miserable party, each of the three believing themselves
most miserable. Mrs. Norris, however, as most attached to Maria, was
really the greatest sufferer. Maria was her first favourite, the dearest
of all; the match had been her own contriving, as she had been wont with
such pride of heart to feel and say, and this conclusion of it almost
overpowered her.

She was an altered creature, quieted, stupefied, indifferent to
everything that passed. The being left with her sister and nephew, and
all the house under her care, had been an advantage entirely thrown
away; she had been unable to direct or dictate, or even fancy herself
useful. When really touched by affliction, her active powers had been
all benumbed; and neither Lady Bertram nor Tom had received from her the
smallest support or attempt at support. She had done no more for them
than they had done for each other. They had been all solitary, helpless,
and forlorn alike; and now the arrival of the others only established
her superiority in wretchedness. Her companions were relieved, but there
was no good for _her_. Edmund was almost as welcome to his brother
as Fanny to her aunt; but Mrs. Norris, instead of having comfort from
either, was but the more irritated by the sight of the person whom, in
the blindness of her anger, she could have charged as the daemon of the
piece. Had Fanny accepted Mr. Crawford this could not have happened.

Susan too was a grievance. She had not spirits to notice her in more
than a few repulsive looks, but she felt her as a spy, and an intruder,
and an indigent niece, and everything most odious. By her other aunt,
Susan was received with quiet kindness. Lady Bertram could not give her
much time, or many words, but she felt her, as Fanny’s sister, to have
a claim at Mansfield, and was ready to kiss and like her; and Susan
was more than satisfied, for she came perfectly aware that nothing but
ill-humour was to be expected from aunt Norris; and was so provided
with happiness, so strong in that best of blessings, an escape from
many certain evils, that she could have stood against a great deal more
indifference than she met with from the others.

She was now left a good deal to herself, to get acquainted with the
house and grounds as she could, and spent her days very happily in so
doing, while those who might otherwise have attended to her were shut
up, or wholly occupied each with the person quite dependent on them, at
this time, for everything like comfort; Edmund trying to bury his own
feelings in exertions for the relief of his brother’s, and Fanny devoted
to her aunt Bertram, returning to every former office with more than
former zeal, and thinking she could never do enough for one who seemed
so much to want her.

To talk over the dreadful business with Fanny, talk and lament, was all
Lady Bertram’s consolation. To be listened to and borne with, and hear
the voice of kindness and sympathy in return, was everything that could
be done for her. To be otherwise comforted was out of the question. The
case admitted of no comfort. Lady Bertram did not think deeply, but,
guided by Sir Thomas, she thought justly on all important points; and
she saw, therefore, in all its enormity, what had happened, and neither
endeavoured herself, nor required Fanny to advise her, to think little
of guilt and infamy.

Her affections were not acute, nor was her mind tenacious. After a time,
Fanny found it not impossible to direct her thoughts to other subjects,
and revive some interest in the usual occupations; but whenever Lady
Bertram _was_ fixed on the event, she could see it only in one light, as
comprehending the loss of a daughter, and a disgrace never to be wiped
off.

Fanny learnt from her all the particulars which had yet transpired. Her
aunt was no very methodical narrator, but with the help of some letters
to and from Sir Thomas, and what she already knew herself, and could
reasonably combine, she was soon able to understand quite as much as she
wished of the circumstances attending the story.

Mrs. Rushworth had gone, for the Easter holidays, to Twickenham, with
a family whom she had just grown intimate with: a family of lively,
agreeable manners, and probably of morals and discretion to suit, for to
_their_ house Mr. Crawford had constant access at all times. His having
been in the same neighbourhood Fanny already knew. Mr. Rushworth had
been gone at this time to Bath, to pass a few days with his mother, and
bring her back to town, and Maria was with these friends without any
restraint, without even Julia; for Julia had removed from Wimpole Street
two or three weeks before, on a visit to some relations of Sir Thomas;
a removal which her father and mother were now disposed to attribute
to some view of convenience on Mr. Yates’s account. Very soon after the
Rushworths’ return to Wimpole Street, Sir Thomas had received a letter
from an old and most particular friend in London, who hearing and
witnessing a good deal to alarm him in that quarter, wrote to recommend
Sir Thomas’s coming to London himself, and using his influence with his
daughter to put an end to the intimacy which was already exposing her to
unpleasant remarks, and evidently making Mr. Rushworth uneasy.

Sir Thomas was preparing to act upon this letter, without communicating
its contents to any creature at Mansfield, when it was followed by
another, sent express from the same friend, to break to him the almost
desperate situation in which affairs then stood with the young people.
Mrs. Rushworth had left her husband’s house: Mr. Rushworth had been
in great anger and distress to _him_ (Mr. Harding) for his advice; Mr.
Harding feared there had been _at_ _least_ very flagrant indiscretion.
The maidservant of Mrs. Rushworth, senior, threatened alarmingly. He
was doing all in his power to quiet everything, with the hope of Mrs.
Rushworth’s return, but was so much counteracted in Wimpole Street by
the influence of Mr. Rushworth’s mother, that the worst consequences
might be apprehended.

This dreadful communication could not be kept from the rest of the
family. Sir Thomas set off, Edmund would go with him, and the others had
been left in a state of wretchedness, inferior only to what followed
the receipt of the next letters from London. Everything was by that time
public beyond a hope. The servant of Mrs. Rushworth, the mother, had
exposure in her power, and supported by her mistress, was not to be
silenced. The two ladies, even in the short time they had been
together, had disagreed; and the bitterness of the elder against her
daughter-in-law might perhaps arise almost as much from the personal
disrespect with which she had herself been treated as from sensibility
for her son.

However that might be, she was unmanageable. But had she been less
obstinate, or of less weight with her son, who was always guided by the
last speaker, by the person who could get hold of and shut him up, the
case would still have been hopeless, for Mrs. Rushworth did not appear
again, and there was every reason to conclude her to be concealed
somewhere with Mr. Crawford, who had quitted his uncle’s house, as for a
journey, on the very day of her absenting herself.

Sir Thomas, however, remained yet a little longer in town, in the hope
of discovering and snatching her from farther vice, though all was lost
on the side of character.

_His_ present state Fanny could hardly bear to think of. There was but
one of his children who was not at this time a source of misery to
him. Tom’s complaints had been greatly heightened by the shock of his
sister’s conduct, and his recovery so much thrown back by it, that even
Lady Bertram had been struck by the difference, and all her alarms were
regularly sent off to her husband; and Julia’s elopement, the additional
blow which had met him on his arrival in London, though its force had
been deadened at the moment, must, she knew, be sorely felt. She saw
that it was. His letters expressed how much he deplored it. Under any
circumstances it would have been an unwelcome alliance; but to have it
so clandestinely formed, and such a period chosen for its completion,
placed Julia’s feelings in a most unfavourable light, and severely
aggravated the folly of her choice. He called it a bad thing, done in
the worst manner, and at the worst time; and though Julia was yet as
more pardonable than Maria as folly than vice, he could not but
regard the step she had taken as opening the worst probabilities of a
conclusion hereafter like her sister’s. Such was his opinion of the set
into which she had thrown herself.

Fanny felt for him most acutely. He could have no comfort but in Edmund.
Every other child must be racking his heart. His displeasure against
herself she trusted, reasoning differently from Mrs. Norris, would now
be done away. _She_ should be justified. Mr. Crawford would have fully
acquitted her conduct in refusing him; but this, though most material
to herself, would be poor consolation to Sir Thomas. Her uncle’s
displeasure was terrible to her; but what could her justification or her
gratitude and attachment do for him? His stay must be on Edmund alone.

She was mistaken, however, in supposing that Edmund gave his father no
present pain. It was of a much less poignant nature than what the others
excited; but Sir Thomas was considering his happiness as very deeply
involved in the offence of his sister and friend; cut off by it, as
he must be, from the woman whom he had been pursuing with undoubted
attachment and strong probability of success; and who, in everything but
this despicable brother, would have been so eligible a connexion. He was
aware of what Edmund must be suffering on his own behalf, in addition
to all the rest, when they were in town: he had seen or conjectured
his feelings; and, having reason to think that one interview with Miss
Crawford had taken place, from which Edmund derived only increased
distress, had been as anxious on that account as on others to get him
out of town, and had engaged him in taking Fanny home to her aunt, with
a view to his relief and benefit, no less than theirs. Fanny was not in
the secret of her uncle’s feelings, Sir Thomas not in the secret of Miss
Crawford’s character. Had he been privy to her conversation with his
son, he would not have wished her to belong to him, though her twenty
thousand pounds had been forty.

That Edmund must be for ever divided from Miss Crawford did not admit
of a doubt with Fanny; and yet, till she knew that he felt the same, her
own conviction was insufficient. She thought he did, but she wanted to
be assured of it. If he would now speak to her with the unreserve which
had sometimes been too much for her before, it would be most consoling;
but _that_ she found was not to be. She seldom saw him: never alone. He
probably avoided being alone with her. What was to be inferred? That
his judgment submitted to all his own peculiar and bitter share of this
family affliction, but that it was too keenly felt to be a subject of
the slightest communication. This must be his state. He yielded, but it
was with agonies which did not admit of speech. Long, long would it be
ere Miss Crawford’s name passed his lips again, or she could hope for a
renewal of such confidential intercourse as had been.

It _was_ long. They reached Mansfield on Thursday, and it was not till
Sunday evening that Edmund began to talk to her on the subject. Sitting
with her on Sunday evening--a wet Sunday evening--the very time of
all others when, if a friend is at hand, the heart must be opened, and
everything told; no one else in the room, except his mother, who,
after hearing an affecting sermon, had cried herself to sleep, it was
impossible not to speak; and so, with the usual beginnings, hardly to
be traced as to what came first, and the usual declaration that if she
would listen to him for a few minutes, he should be very brief, and
certainly never tax her kindness in the same way again; she need not
fear a repetition; it would be a subject prohibited entirely: he entered
upon the luxury of relating circumstances and sensations of the first
interest to himself, to one of whose affectionate sympathy he was quite
convinced.
How Fanny listened, with what curiosity and concern, what pain and what
delight, how the agitation of his voice was watched, and how carefully
her own eyes were fixed on any object but himself, may be imagined. The
opening was alarming. He had seen Miss Crawford. He had been invited to
see her. He had received a note from Lady Stornaway to beg him to call;
and regarding it as what was meant to be the last, last interview
of friendship, and investing her with all the feelings of shame and
wretchedness which Crawford’s sister ought to have known, he had gone to
her in such a state of mind, so softened, so devoted, as made it for a
few moments impossible to Fanny’s fears that it should be the last. But
as he proceeded in his story, these fears were over. She had met him,
he said, with a serious--certainly a serious--even an agitated air;
but before he had been able to speak one intelligible sentence, she had
introduced the subject in a manner which he owned had shocked him. “‘I
heard you were in town,’ said she; ‘I wanted to see you. Let us talk
over this sad business. What can equal the folly of our two relations? ’
I could not answer, but I believe my looks spoke. She felt reproved.
Sometimes how quick to feel! With a graver look and voice she then
added, ‘I do not mean to defend Henry at your sister’s expense. ’ So
she began, but how she went on, Fanny, is not fit, is hardly fit to be
repeated to you. I cannot recall all her words. I would not dwell upon
them if I could. Their substance was great anger at the _folly_ of each.
She reprobated her brother’s folly in being drawn on by a woman whom he
had never cared for, to do what must lose him the woman he adored; but
still more the folly of poor Maria, in sacrificing such a situation,
plunging into such difficulties, under the idea of being really loved
by a man who had long ago made his indifference clear. Guess what I must
have felt. To hear the woman whom--no harsher name than folly given!
So voluntarily, so freely, so coolly to canvass it! No reluctance, no
horror, no feminine, shall I say, no modest loathings? This is what the
world does. For where, Fanny, shall we find a woman whom nature had so
richly endowed? Spoilt, spoilt! ”

After a little reflection, he went on with a sort of desperate calmness.
“I will tell you everything, and then have done for ever. She saw it
only as folly, and that folly stamped only by exposure. The want of
common discretion, of caution: his going down to Richmond for the whole
time of her being at Twickenham; her putting herself in the power of
a servant; it was the detection, in short--oh, Fanny! it was the
detection, not the offence, which she reprobated. It was the imprudence
which had brought things to extremity, and obliged her brother to give
up every dearer plan in order to fly with her. ”

He stopt. “And what,” said Fanny (believing herself required to speak),
“what could you say? ”

“Nothing, nothing to be understood. I was like a man stunned. She
went on, began to talk of you; yes, then she began to talk of you,
regretting, as well she might, the loss of such a--. There she spoke
very rationally. But she has always done justice to you. ‘He has thrown
away,’ said she, ‘such a woman as he will never see again. She would
have fixed him; she would have made him happy for ever. ’ My dearest
Fanny, I am giving you, I hope, more pleasure than pain by this
retrospect of what might have been--but what never can be now. You do
not wish me to be silent? If you do, give me but a look, a word, and I
have done. ”

No look or word was given.

“Thank God,” said he. “We were all disposed to wonder, but it seems to
have been the merciful appointment of Providence that the heart which
knew no guile should not suffer. She spoke of you with high praise and
warm affection; yet, even here, there was alloy, a dash of evil; for in
the midst of it she could exclaim, ‘Why would not she have him? It is
all her fault. Simple girl! I shall never forgive her. Had she accepted
him as she ought, they might now have been on the point of marriage, and
Henry would have been too happy and too busy to want any other object.
He would have taken no pains to be on terms with Mrs. Rushworth again.
It would have all ended in a regular standing flirtation, in yearly
meetings at Sotherton and Everingham. ’ Could you have believed it
possible? But the charm is broken. My eyes are opened. ”

“Cruel! ” said Fanny, “quite cruel. At such a moment to give way to
gaiety, to speak with lightness, and to you! Absolute cruelty. ”

“Cruelty, do you call it? We differ there. No, hers is not a cruel
nature. I do not consider her as meaning to wound my feelings. The evil
lies yet deeper: in her total ignorance, unsuspiciousness of there being
such feelings; in a perversion of mind which made it natural to her to
treat the subject as she did. She was speaking only as she had been used
to hear others speak, as she imagined everybody else would speak. Hers
are not faults of temper. She would not voluntarily give unnecessary
pain to any one, and though I may deceive myself, I cannot but think
that for me, for my feelings, she would--Hers are faults of principle,
Fanny; of blunted delicacy and a corrupted, vitiated mind. Perhaps it
is best for me, since it leaves me so little to regret. Not so, however.
Gladly would I submit to all the increased pain of losing her, rather
than have to think of her as I do. I told her so. ”

“Did you? ”

“Yes; when I left her I told her so. ”

“How long were you together? ”

“Five-and-twenty minutes. Well, she went on to say that what remained
now to be done was to bring about a marriage between them. She spoke of
it, Fanny, with a steadier voice than I can. ” He was obliged to pause
more than once as he continued. “‘We must persuade Henry to marry
her,’ said she; ‘and what with honour, and the certainty of having shut
himself out for ever from Fanny, I do not despair of it. Fanny he must
give up. I do not think that even _he_ could now hope to succeed with
one of her stamp, and therefore I hope we may find no insuperable
difficulty. My influence, which is not small shall all go that way; and
when once married, and properly supported by her own family, people of
respectability as they are, she may recover her footing in society to a
certain degree. In some circles, we know, she would never be admitted,
but with good dinners, and large parties, there will always be those
who will be glad of her acquaintance; and there is, undoubtedly, more
liberality and candour on those points than formerly. What I advise
is, that your father be quiet. Do not let him injure his own cause by
interference. Persuade him to let things take their course. If by any
officious exertions of his, she is induced to leave Henry’s protection,
there will be much less chance of his marrying her than if she remain
with him. I know how he is likely to be influenced. Let Sir Thomas trust
to his honour and compassion, and it may all end well; but if he get his
daughter away, it will be destroying the chief hold. ’”

After repeating this, Edmund was so much affected that Fanny, watching
him with silent, but most tender concern, was almost sorry that the
subject had been entered on at all. It was long before he could speak
again. At last, “Now, Fanny,” said he, “I shall soon have done. I have
told you the substance of all that she said. As soon as I could speak,
I replied that I had not supposed it possible, coming in such a state of
mind into that house as I had done, that anything could occur to make
me suffer more, but that she had been inflicting deeper wounds in almost
every sentence. That though I had, in the course of our acquaintance,
been often sensible of some difference in our opinions, on points,
too, of some moment, it had not entered my imagination to conceive the
difference could be such as she had now proved it. That the manner in
which she treated the dreadful crime committed by her brother and my
sister (with whom lay the greater seduction I pretended not to say),
but the manner in which she spoke of the crime itself, giving it every
reproach but the right; considering its ill consequences only as they
were to be braved or overborne by a defiance of decency and impudence in
wrong; and last of all, and above all, recommending to us a compliance,
a compromise, an acquiescence in the continuance of the sin, on the
chance of a marriage which, thinking as I now thought of her brother,
should rather be prevented than sought; all this together most
grievously convinced me that I had never understood her before, and
that, as far as related to mind, it had been the creature of my own
imagination, not Miss Crawford, that I had been too apt to dwell on
for many months past. That, perhaps, it was best for me; I had less to
regret in sacrificing a friendship, feelings, hopes which must, at any
rate, have been torn from me now. And yet, that I must and would confess
that, could I have restored her to what she had appeared to me before,
I would infinitely prefer any increase of the pain of parting, for the
sake of carrying with me the right of tenderness and esteem. This is
what I said, the purport of it; but, as you may imagine, not spoken
so collectedly or methodically as I have repeated it to you. She was
astonished, exceedingly astonished--more than astonished. I saw her
change countenance. She turned extremely red. I imagined I saw a
mixture of many feelings: a great, though short struggle; half a wish of
yielding to truths, half a sense of shame, but habit, habit carried
it. She would have laughed if she could. It was a sort of laugh, as she
answered, ‘A pretty good lecture, upon my word. Was it part of your last
sermon? At this rate you will soon reform everybody at Mansfield and
Thornton Lacey; and when I hear of you next, it may be as a celebrated
preacher in some great society of Methodists, or as a missionary into
foreign parts. ’ She tried to speak carelessly, but she was not so
careless as she wanted to appear. I only said in reply, that from my
heart I wished her well, and earnestly hoped that she might soon learn
to think more justly, and not owe the most valuable knowledge we could
any of us acquire, the knowledge of ourselves and of our duty, to the
lessons of affliction, and immediately left the room. I had gone a few
steps, Fanny, when I heard the door open behind me. ‘Mr. Bertram,’ said
she. I looked back. ‘Mr. Bertram,’ said she, with a smile; but it was
a smile ill-suited to the conversation that had passed, a saucy playful
smile, seeming to invite in order to subdue me; at least it appeared so
to me. I resisted; it was the impulse of the moment to resist, and still
walked on. I have since, sometimes, for a moment, regretted that I did
not go back, but I know I was right, and such has been the end of our
acquaintance. And what an acquaintance has it been! How have I been
deceived! Equally in brother and sister deceived! I thank you for your
patience, Fanny. This has been the greatest relief, and now we will have
done. ”

And such was Fanny’s dependence on his words, that for five minutes
she thought they _had_ done. Then, however, it all came on again, or
something very like it, and nothing less than Lady Bertram’s rousing
thoroughly up could really close such a conversation. Till that
happened, they continued to talk of Miss Crawford alone, and how she had
attached him, and how delightful nature had made her, and how excellent
she would have been, had she fallen into good hands earlier. Fanny, now
at liberty to speak openly, felt more than justified in adding to
his knowledge of her real character, by some hint of what share his
brother’s state of health might be supposed to have in her wish for a
complete reconciliation. This was not an agreeable intimation. Nature
resisted it for a while. It would have been a vast deal pleasanter to
have had her more disinterested in her attachment; but his vanity was
not of a strength to fight long against reason. He submitted to believe
that Tom’s illness had influenced her, only reserving for himself this
consoling thought, that considering the many counteractions of opposing
habits, she had certainly been _more_ attached to him than could have
been expected, and for his sake been more near doing right. Fanny
thought exactly the same; and they were also quite agreed in their
opinion of the lasting effect, the indelible impression, which such
a disappointment must make on his mind. Time would undoubtedly abate
somewhat of his sufferings, but still it was a sort of thing which he
never could get entirely the better of; and as to his ever meeting with
any other woman who could--it was too impossible to be named but with
indignation. Fanny’s friendship was all that he had to cling to.



CHAPTER XLVIII

Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery. I quit such odious subjects
as soon as I can, impatient to restore everybody, not greatly in fault
themselves, to tolerable comfort, and to have done with all the rest.

My Fanny, indeed, at this very time, I have the satisfaction of knowing,
must have been happy in spite of everything. She must have been a happy
creature in spite of all that she felt, or thought she felt, for the
distress of those around her. She had sources of delight that must force
their way. She was returned to Mansfield Park, she was useful, she was
beloved; she was safe from Mr. Crawford; and when Sir Thomas came back
she had every proof that could be given in his then melancholy state of
spirits, of his perfect approbation and increased regard; and happy as
all this must make her, she would still have been happy without any of
it, for Edmund was no longer the dupe of Miss Crawford.

It is true that Edmund was very far from happy himself. He was suffering
from disappointment and regret, grieving over what was, and wishing for
what could never be. She knew it was so, and was sorry; but it was with
a sorrow so founded on satisfaction, so tending to ease, and so much in
harmony with every dearest sensation, that there are few who might not
have been glad to exchange their greatest gaiety for it.

Sir Thomas, poor Sir Thomas, a parent, and conscious of errors in his
own conduct as a parent, was the longest to suffer. He felt that he
ought not to have allowed the marriage; that his daughter’s sentiments
had been sufficiently known to him to render him culpable in authorising
it; that in so doing he had sacrificed the right to the expedient, and
been governed by motives of selfishness and worldly wisdom. These were
reflections that required some time to soften; but time will do almost
everything; and though little comfort arose on Mrs. Rushworth’s side for
the misery she had occasioned, comfort was to be found greater than
he had supposed in his other children. Julia’s match became a less
desperate business than he had considered it at first. She was humble,
and wishing to be forgiven; and Mr. Yates, desirous of being really
received into the family, was disposed to look up to him and be guided.
He was not very solid; but there was a hope of his becoming less
trifling, of his being at least tolerably domestic and quiet; and at any
rate, there was comfort in finding his estate rather more, and his debts
much less, than he had feared, and in being consulted and treated as
the friend best worth attending to. There was comfort also in Tom, who
gradually regained his health, without regaining the thoughtlessness and
selfishness of his previous habits. He was the better for ever for his
illness. He had suffered, and he had learned to think: two advantages
that he had never known before; and the self-reproach arising from the
deplorable event in Wimpole Street, to which he felt himself accessory
by all the dangerous intimacy of his unjustifiable theatre, made an
impression on his mind which, at the age of six-and-twenty, with no want
of sense or good companions, was durable in its happy effects. He became
what he ought to be: useful to his father, steady and quiet, and not
living merely for himself.

Here was comfort indeed! and quite as soon as Sir Thomas could place
dependence on such sources of good, Edmund was contributing to his
father’s ease by improvement in the only point in which he had given
him pain before--improvement in his spirits. After wandering about and
sitting under trees with Fanny all the summer evenings, he had so well
talked his mind into submission as to be very tolerably cheerful again.

These were the circumstances and the hopes which gradually brought their
alleviation to Sir Thomas, deadening his sense of what was lost, and
in part reconciling him to himself; though the anguish arising from the
conviction of his own errors in the education of his daughters was never
to be entirely done away.

Too late he became aware how unfavourable to the character of any young
people must be the totally opposite treatment which Maria and Julia had
been always experiencing at home, where the excessive indulgence and
flattery of their aunt had been continually contrasted with his own
severity. He saw how ill he had judged, in expecting to counteract what
was wrong in Mrs. Norris by its reverse in himself; clearly saw that he
had but increased the evil by teaching them to repress their spirits in
his presence so as to make their real disposition unknown to him, and
sending them for all their indulgences to a person who had been able to
attach them only by the blindness of her affection, and the excess of
her praise.

Here had been grievous mismanagement; but, bad as it was, he gradually
grew to feel that it had not been the most direful mistake in his plan
of education. Something must have been wanting _within_, or time would
have worn away much of its ill effect. He feared that principle, active
principle, had been wanting; that they had never been properly taught
to govern their inclinations and tempers by that sense of duty which can
alone suffice. They had been instructed theoretically in their religion,
but never required to bring it into daily practice. To be distinguished
for elegance and accomplishments, the authorised object of their youth,
could have had no useful influence that way, no moral effect on the
mind. He had meant them to be good, but his cares had been directed to
the understanding and manners, not the disposition; and of the necessity
of self-denial and humility, he feared they had never heard from any
lips that could profit them.

Bitterly did he deplore a deficiency which now he could scarcely
comprehend to have been possible. Wretchedly did he feel, that with all
the cost and care of an anxious and expensive education, he had brought
up his daughters without their understanding their first duties, or his
being acquainted with their character and temper.

The high spirit and strong passions of Mrs. Rushworth, especially, were
made known to him only in their sad result. She was not to be prevailed
on to leave Mr. Crawford. She hoped to marry him, and they continued
together till she was obliged to be convinced that such hope was vain,
and till the disappointment and wretchedness arising from the conviction
rendered her temper so bad, and her feelings for him so like hatred,
as to make them for a while each other’s punishment, and then induce a
voluntary separation.

She had lived with him to be reproached as the ruin of all his happiness
in Fanny, and carried away no better consolation in leaving him than
that she _had_ divided them. What can exceed the misery of such a mind
in such a situation?

Mr. Rushworth had no difficulty in procuring a divorce; and so ended a
marriage contracted under such circumstances as to make any better end
the effect of good luck not to be reckoned on. She had despised him,
and loved another; and he had been very much aware that it was so. The
indignities of stupidity, and the disappointments of selfish passion,
can excite little pity. His punishment followed his conduct, as did a
deeper punishment the deeper guilt of his wife. _He_ was released from
the engagement to be mortified and unhappy, till some other pretty girl
could attract him into matrimony again, and he might set forward on a
second, and, it is to be hoped, more prosperous trial of the state: if
duped, to be duped at least with good humour and good luck; while she
must withdraw with infinitely stronger feelings to a retirement and
reproach which could allow no second spring of hope or character.

Where she could be placed became a subject of most melancholy and
momentous consultation. Mrs. Norris, whose attachment seemed to augment
with the demerits of her niece, would have had her received at home
and countenanced by them all. Sir Thomas would not hear of it; and Mrs.
Norris’s anger against Fanny was so much the greater, from considering
_her_ residence there as the motive. She persisted in placing his
scruples to _her_ account, though Sir Thomas very solemnly assured her
that, had there been no young woman in question, had there been no young
person of either sex belonging to him, to be endangered by the society
or hurt by the character of Mrs. Rushworth, he would never have offered
so great an insult to the neighbourhood as to expect it to notice her.
As a daughter, he hoped a penitent one, she should be protected by him,
and secured in every comfort, and supported by every encouragement to do
right, which their relative situations admitted; but farther than _that_
he could not go. Maria had destroyed her own character, and he would
not, by a vain attempt to restore what never could be restored, by
affording his sanction to vice, or in seeking to lessen its disgrace, be
anywise accessory to introducing such misery in another man’s family as
he had known himself.

It ended in Mrs. Norris’s resolving to quit Mansfield and devote herself
to her unfortunate Maria, and in an establishment being formed for them
in another country, remote and private, where, shut up together with
little society, on one side no affection, on the other no judgment,
it may be reasonably supposed that their tempers became their mutual
punishment.

Mrs. Norris’s removal from Mansfield was the great supplementary comfort
of Sir Thomas’s life. His opinion of her had been sinking from the day
of his return from Antigua: in every transaction together from that
period, in their daily intercourse, in business, or in chat, she had
been regularly losing ground in his esteem, and convincing him that
either time had done her much disservice, or that he had considerably
over-rated her sense, and wonderfully borne with her manners before. He
had felt her as an hourly evil, which was so much the worse, as there
seemed no chance of its ceasing but with life; she seemed a part of
himself that must be borne for ever.