No More Learning

I am unwilling
to fancy myself neglected for a _young_ one. Adieu! my dear sweet Fanny,
this is a long letter from London: write me a pretty one in reply to
gladden Henry’s eyes, when he comes back, and send me an account of all
the dashing young captains whom you disdain for his sake. ”

There was great food for meditation in this letter, and chiefly for
unpleasant meditation; and yet, with all the uneasiness it supplied, it
connected her with the absent, it told her of people and things about
whom she had never felt so much curiosity as now, and she would
have been glad to have been sure of such a letter every week. Her
correspondence with her aunt Bertram was her only concern of higher
interest.

As for any society in Portsmouth, that could at all make amends for
deficiencies at home, there were none within the circle of her father’s
and mother’s acquaintance to afford her the smallest satisfaction: she
saw nobody in whose favour she could wish to overcome her own shyness
and reserve. The men appeared to her all coarse, the women all pert,
everybody underbred; and she gave as little contentment as she received
from introductions either to old or new acquaintance. The young ladies
who approached her at first with some respect, in consideration of her
coming from a baronet’s family, were soon offended by what they termed
“airs”; for, as she neither played on the pianoforte nor wore fine
pelisses, they could, on farther observation, admit no right of
superiority.

The first solid consolation which Fanny received for the evils of home,
the first which her judgment could entirely approve, and which gave any
promise of durability, was in a better knowledge of Susan, and a hope of
being of service to her. Susan had always behaved pleasantly to herself,
but the determined character of her general manners had astonished
and alarmed her, and it was at least a fortnight before she began to
understand a disposition so totally different from her own. Susan saw
that much was wrong at home, and wanted to set it right. That a girl of
fourteen, acting only on her own unassisted reason, should err in the
method of reform, was not wonderful; and Fanny soon became more disposed
to admire the natural light of the mind which could so early distinguish
justly, than to censure severely the faults of conduct to which it led.
Susan was only acting on the same truths, and pursuing the same system,
which her own judgment acknowledged, but which her more supine and
yielding temper would have shrunk from asserting. Susan tried to be
useful, where _she_ could only have gone away and cried; and that Susan
was useful she could perceive; that things, bad as they were, would
have been worse but for such interposition, and that both her mother and
Betsey were restrained from some excesses of very offensive indulgence
and vulgarity.

In every argument with her mother, Susan had in point of reason the
advantage, and never was there any maternal tenderness to buy her off.
The blind fondness which was for ever producing evil around her she had
never known. There was no gratitude for affection past or present to
make her better bear with its excesses to the others.

All this became gradually evident, and gradually placed Susan before her
sister as an object of mingled compassion and respect. That her manner
was wrong, however, at times very wrong, her measures often ill-chosen
and ill-timed, and her looks and language very often indefensible, Fanny
could not cease to feel; but she began to hope they might be rectified.
Susan, she found, looked up to her and wished for her good opinion; and
new as anything like an office of authority was to Fanny, new as it
was to imagine herself capable of guiding or informing any one, she did
resolve to give occasional hints to Susan, and endeavour to exercise for
her advantage the juster notions of what was due to everybody, and what
would be wisest for herself, which her own more favoured education had
fixed in her.

Her influence, or at least the consciousness and use of it, originated
in an act of kindness by Susan, which, after many hesitations of
delicacy, she at last worked herself up to. It had very early occurred
to her that a small sum of money might, perhaps, restore peace for
ever on the sore subject of the silver knife, canvassed as it now was
continually, and the riches which she was in possession of herself,
her uncle having given her 10 pounds at parting, made her as able as she was
willing to be generous. But she was so wholly unused to confer favours,
except on the very poor, so unpractised in removing evils, or bestowing
kindnesses among her equals, and so fearful of appearing to elevate
herself as a great lady at home, that it took some time to determine
that it would not be unbecoming in her to make such a present. It
was made, however, at last: a silver knife was bought for Betsey, and
accepted with great delight, its newness giving it every advantage
over the other that could be desired; Susan was established in the full
possession of her own, Betsey handsomely declaring that now she had got
one so much prettier herself, she should never want _that_ again; and
no reproach seemed conveyed to the equally satisfied mother, which Fanny
had almost feared to be impossible. The deed thoroughly answered: a
source of domestic altercation was entirely done away, and it was the
means of opening Susan’s heart to her, and giving her something more to
love and be interested in. Susan shewed that she had delicacy: pleased
as she was to be mistress of property which she had been struggling for
at least two years, she yet feared that her sister’s judgment had been
against her, and that a reproof was designed her for having so struggled
as to make the purchase necessary for the tranquillity of the house.

Her temper was open. She acknowledged her fears, blamed herself for
having contended so warmly; and from that hour Fanny, understanding the
worth of her disposition and perceiving how fully she was inclined to
seek her good opinion and refer to her judgment, began to feel again the
blessing of affection, and to entertain the hope of being useful to a
mind so much in need of help, and so much deserving it. She gave advice,
advice too sound to be resisted by a good understanding, and given so
mildly and considerately as not to irritate an imperfect temper, and she
had the happiness of observing its good effects not unfrequently.
More was not expected by one who, while seeing all the obligation and
expediency of submission and forbearance, saw also with sympathetic
acuteness of feeling all that must be hourly grating to a girl like
Susan. Her greatest wonder on the subject soon became--not that Susan
should have been provoked into disrespect and impatience against her
better knowledge--but that so much better knowledge, so many good
notions should have been hers at all; and that, brought up in the midst
of negligence and error, she should have formed such proper opinions
of what ought to be; she, who had had no cousin Edmund to direct her
thoughts or fix her principles.

The intimacy thus begun between them was a material advantage to
each. By sitting together upstairs, they avoided a great deal of the
disturbance of the house; Fanny had peace, and Susan learned to think it
no misfortune to be quietly employed. They sat without a fire; but
that was a privation familiar even to Fanny, and she suffered the
less because reminded by it of the East room. It was the only point of
resemblance. In space, light, furniture, and prospect, there was
nothing alike in the two apartments; and she often heaved a sigh at the
remembrance of all her books and boxes, and various comforts there. By
degrees the girls came to spend the chief of the morning upstairs, at
first only in working and talking, but after a few days, the remembrance
of the said books grew so potent and stimulative that Fanny found it
impossible not to try for books again. There were none in her father’s
house; but wealth is luxurious and daring, and some of hers found its
way to a circulating library. She became a subscriber; amazed at being
anything _in propria persona_, amazed at her own doings in every way, to
be a renter, a chuser of books! And to be having any one’s improvement
in view in her choice! But so it was. Susan had read nothing, and Fanny
longed to give her a share in her own first pleasures, and inspire a
taste for the biography and poetry which she delighted in herself.

In this occupation she hoped, moreover, to bury some of the
recollections of Mansfield, which were too apt to seize her mind if her
fingers only were busy; and, especially at this time, hoped it might
be useful in diverting her thoughts from pursuing Edmund to London,
whither, on the authority of her aunt’s last letter, she knew he was
gone. She had no doubt of what would ensue. The promised notification
was hanging over her head. The postman’s knock within the neighbourhood
was beginning to bring its daily terrors, and if reading could banish
the idea for even half an hour, it was something gained.



CHAPTER XLI

A week was gone since Edmund might be supposed in town, and Fanny had
heard nothing of him. There were three different conclusions to be drawn
from his silence, between which her mind was in fluctuation; each of
them at times being held the most probable. Either his going had been
again delayed, or he had yet procured no opportunity of seeing Miss
Crawford alone, or he was too happy for letter-writing!

One morning, about this time, Fanny having now been nearly four weeks
from Mansfield, a point which she never failed to think over and
calculate every day, as she and Susan were preparing to remove, as
usual, upstairs, they were stopped by the knock of a visitor, whom they
felt they could not avoid, from Rebecca’s alertness in going to the
door, a duty which always interested her beyond any other.

It was a gentleman’s voice; it was a voice that Fanny was just turning
pale about, when Mr. Crawford walked into the room.

Good sense, like hers, will always act when really called upon; and she
found that she had been able to name him to her mother, and recall her
remembrance of the name, as that of “William’s friend,” though she could
not previously have believed herself capable of uttering a syllable
at such a moment. The consciousness of his being known there only as
William’s friend was some support. Having introduced him, however, and
being all reseated, the terrors that occurred of what this visit might
lead to were overpowering, and she fancied herself on the point of
fainting away.

While trying to keep herself alive, their visitor, who had at first
approached her with as animated a countenance as ever, was wisely and
kindly keeping his eyes away, and giving her time to recover, while he
devoted himself entirely to her mother, addressing her, and attending
to her with the utmost politeness and propriety, at the same time with
a degree of friendliness, of interest at least, which was making his
manner perfect.

Mrs. Price’s manners were also at their best. Warmed by the sight of
such a friend to her son, and regulated by the wish of appearing to
advantage before him, she was overflowing with gratitude--artless,
maternal gratitude--which could not be unpleasing. Mr. Price was out,
which she regretted very much. Fanny was just recovered enough to
feel that _she_ could not regret it; for to her many other sources of
uneasiness was added the severe one of shame for the home in which he
found her. She might scold herself for the weakness, but there was no
scolding it away. She was ashamed, and she would have been yet more
ashamed of her father than of all the rest.

They talked of William, a subject on which Mrs. Price could never tire;
and Mr. Crawford was as warm in his commendation as even her heart could
wish. She felt that she had never seen so agreeable a man in her life;
and was only astonished to find that, so great and so agreeable as he
was, he should be come down to Portsmouth neither on a visit to the
port-admiral, nor the commissioner, nor yet with the intention of going
over to the island, nor of seeing the dockyard. Nothing of all that she
had been used to think of as the proof of importance, or the employment
of wealth, had brought him to Portsmouth. He had reached it late the
night before, was come for a day or two, was staying at the Crown, had
accidentally met with a navy officer or two of his acquaintance since
his arrival, but had no object of that kind in coming.

By the time he had given all this information, it was not unreasonable
to suppose that Fanny might be looked at and spoken to; and she was
tolerably able to bear his eye, and hear that he had spent half an hour
with his sister the evening before his leaving London; that she had
sent her best and kindest love, but had had no time for writing; that he
thought himself lucky in seeing Mary for even half an hour, having spent
scarcely twenty-four hours in London, after his return from Norfolk,
before he set off again; that her cousin Edmund was in town, had been in
town, he understood, a few days; that he had not seen him himself, but
that he was well, had left them all well at Mansfield, and was to dine,
as yesterday, with the Frasers.

Fanny listened collectedly, even to the last-mentioned circumstance;
nay, it seemed a relief to her worn mind to be at any certainty; and the
words, “then by this time it is all settled,” passed internally, without
more evidence of emotion than a faint blush.

After talking a little more about Mansfield, a subject in which her
interest was most apparent, Crawford began to hint at the expediency of
an early walk. “It was a lovely morning, and at that season of the year
a fine morning so often turned off, that it was wisest for everybody
not to delay their exercise”; and such hints producing nothing, he soon
proceeded to a positive recommendation to Mrs. Price and her
daughters to take their walk without loss of time. Now they came to an
understanding. Mrs. Price, it appeared, scarcely ever stirred out of
doors, except of a Sunday; she owned she could seldom, with her large
family, find time for a walk. “Would she not, then, persuade her
daughters to take advantage of such weather, and allow him the pleasure
of attending them? ” Mrs. Price was greatly obliged and very complying.
“Her daughters were very much confined; Portsmouth was a sad place; they
did not often get out; and she knew they had some errands in the town,
which they would be very glad to do. ” And the consequence was, that
Fanny, strange as it was--strange, awkward, and distressing--found
herself and Susan, within ten minutes, walking towards the High Street
with Mr. Crawford.

It was soon pain upon pain, confusion upon confusion; for they were
hardly in the High Street before they met her father, whose
appearance was not the better from its being Saturday. He stopt; and,
ungentlemanlike as he looked, Fanny was obliged to introduce him to Mr.
Crawford. She could not have a doubt of the manner in which Mr. Crawford
must be struck. He must be ashamed and disgusted altogether. He must
soon give her up, and cease to have the smallest inclination for the
match; and yet, though she had been so much wanting his affection to
be cured, this was a sort of cure that would be almost as bad as the
complaint; and I believe there is scarcely a young lady in the United
Kingdoms who would not rather put up with the misfortune of being sought
by a clever, agreeable man, than have him driven away by the vulgarity
of her nearest relations.

Mr. Crawford probably could not regard his future father-in-law with any
idea of taking him for a model in dress; but (as Fanny instantly, and to
her great relief, discerned) her father was a very different man, a
very different Mr. Price in his behaviour to this most highly respected
stranger, from what he was in his own family at home. His manners
now, though not polished, were more than passable: they were grateful,
animated, manly; his expressions were those of an attached father, and
a sensible man; his loud tones did very well in the open air, and there
was not a single oath to be heard. Such was his instinctive compliment
to the good manners of Mr. Crawford; and, be the consequence what it
might, Fanny’s immediate feelings were infinitely soothed.

The conclusion of the two gentlemen’s civilities was an offer of Mr.
Price’s to take Mr. Crawford into the dockyard, which Mr. Crawford,
desirous of accepting as a favour what was intended as such, though
he had seen the dockyard again and again, and hoping to be so much the
longer with Fanny, was very gratefully disposed to avail himself of, if
the Miss Prices were not afraid of the fatigue; and as it was somehow or
other ascertained, or inferred, or at least acted upon, that they were
not at all afraid, to the dockyard they were all to go; and but for
Mr. Crawford, Mr. Price would have turned thither directly, without the
smallest consideration for his daughters’ errands in the High Street. He
took care, however, that they should be allowed to go to the shops they
came out expressly to visit; and it did not delay them long, for Fanny
could so little bear to excite impatience, or be waited for, that before
the gentlemen, as they stood at the door, could do more than begin upon
the last naval regulations, or settle the number of three-deckers now in
commission, their companions were ready to proceed.

They were then to set forward for the dockyard at once, and the walk
would have been conducted--according to Mr. Crawford’s opinion--in a
singular manner, had Mr. Price been allowed the entire regulation of it,
as the two girls, he found, would have been left to follow, and keep up
with them or not, as they could, while they walked on together at their
own hasty pace. He was able to introduce some improvement occasionally,
though by no means to the extent he wished; he absolutely would not walk
away from them; and at any crossing or any crowd, when Mr. Price was
only calling out, “Come, girls; come, Fan; come, Sue, take care of
yourselves; keep a sharp lookout! ” he would give them his particular
attendance.

Once fairly in the dockyard, he began to reckon upon some happy
intercourse with Fanny, as they were very soon joined by a brother
lounger of Mr. Price’s, who was come to take his daily survey of how
things went on, and who must prove a far more worthy companion than
himself; and after a time the two officers seemed very well satisfied
going about together, and discussing matters of equal and never-failing
interest, while the young people sat down upon some timbers in the yard,
or found a seat on board a vessel in the stocks which they all went to
look at. Fanny was most conveniently in want of rest. Crawford could not
have wished her more fatigued or more ready to sit down; but he could
have wished her sister away. A quick-looking girl of Susan’s age was the
very worst third in the world: totally different from Lady Bertram, all
eyes and ears; and there was no introducing the main point before her.
He must content himself with being only generally agreeable, and letting
Susan have her share of entertainment, with the indulgence, now and
then, of a look or hint for the better-informed and conscious Fanny.
Norfolk was what he had mostly to talk of: there he had been some time,
and everything there was rising in importance from his present schemes.
Such a man could come from no place, no society, without importing
something to amuse; his journeys and his acquaintance were all of use,
and Susan was entertained in a way quite new to her. For Fanny, somewhat
more was related than the accidental agreeableness of the parties he had
been in. For her approbation, the particular reason of his going into
Norfolk at all, at this unusual time of year, was given. It had been
real business, relative to the renewal of a lease in which the welfare
of a large and--he believed--industrious family was at stake. He had
suspected his agent of some underhand dealing; of meaning to bias
him against the deserving; and he had determined to go himself, and
thoroughly investigate the merits of the case. He had gone, had done
even more good than he had foreseen, had been useful to more than his
first plan had comprehended, and was now able to congratulate himself
upon it, and to feel that in performing a duty, he had secured agreeable
recollections for his own mind. He had introduced himself to some
tenants whom he had never seen before; he had begun making acquaintance
with cottages whose very existence, though on his own estate, had been
hitherto unknown to him. This was aimed, and well aimed, at Fanny. It
was pleasing to hear him speak so properly; here he had been acting as
he ought to do. To be the friend of the poor and the oppressed! Nothing
could be more grateful to her; and she was on the point of giving him an
approving look, when it was all frightened off by his adding a something
too pointed of his hoping soon to have an assistant, a friend, a guide
in every plan of utility or charity for Everingham: a somebody that
would make Everingham and all about it a dearer object than it had ever
been yet.

She turned away, and wished he would not say such things. She was
willing to allow he might have more good qualities than she had been
wont to suppose. She began to feel the possibility of his turning out
well at last; but he was and must ever be completely unsuited to her,
and ought not to think of her.

He perceived that enough had been said of Everingham, and that it would
be as well to talk of something else, and turned to Mansfield. He could
not have chosen better; that was a topic to bring back her attention and
her looks almost instantly. It was a real indulgence to her to hear or
to speak of Mansfield. Now so long divided from everybody who knew the
place, she felt it quite the voice of a friend when he mentioned it,
and led the way to her fond exclamations in praise of its beauties and
comforts, and by his honourable tribute to its inhabitants allowed her
to gratify her own heart in the warmest eulogium, in speaking of her
uncle as all that was clever and good, and her aunt as having the
sweetest of all sweet tempers.

He had a great attachment to Mansfield himself; he said so; he looked
forward with the hope of spending much, very much, of his time there;
always there, or in the neighbourhood. He particularly built upon a very
happy summer and autumn there this year; he felt that it would be so: he
depended upon it; a summer and autumn infinitely superior to the last.
As animated, as diversified, as social, but with circumstances of
superiority undescribable.

“Mansfield, Sotherton, Thornton Lacey,” he continued; “what a society
will be comprised in those houses! And at Michaelmas, perhaps, a fourth
may be added: some small hunting-box in the vicinity of everything so
dear; for as to any partnership in Thornton Lacey, as Edmund Bertram
once good-humouredly proposed, I hope I foresee two objections: two
fair, excellent, irresistible objections to that plan. ”

Fanny was doubly silenced here; though when the moment was passed,
could regret that she had not forced herself into the acknowledged
comprehension of one half of his meaning, and encouraged him to say
something more of his sister and Edmund. It was a subject which she must
learn to speak of, and the weakness that shrunk from it would soon be
quite unpardonable.

When Mr. Price and his friend had seen all that they wished, or had time
for, the others were ready to return; and in the course of their walk
back, Mr. Crawford contrived a minute’s privacy for telling Fanny that
his only business in Portsmouth was to see her; that he was come down
for a couple of days on her account, and hers only, and because he could
not endure a longer total separation. She was sorry, really sorry; and
yet in spite of this and the two or three other things which she wished
he had not said, she thought him altogether improved since she had seen
him; he was much more gentle, obliging, and attentive to other people’s
feelings than he had ever been at Mansfield; she had never seen him so
agreeable--so _near_ being agreeable; his behaviour to her father could
not offend, and there was something particularly kind and proper in the
notice he took of Susan. He was decidedly improved. She wished the next
day over, she wished he had come only for one day; but it was not
so very bad as she would have expected: the pleasure of talking of
Mansfield was so very great!

Before they parted, she had to thank him for another pleasure, and one
of no trivial kind. Her father asked him to do them the honour of taking
his mutton with them, and Fanny had time for only one thrill of horror,
before he declared himself prevented by a prior engagement. He was
engaged to dinner already both for that day and the next; he had met
with some acquaintance at the Crown who would not be denied; he should
have the honour, however, of waiting on them again on the morrow, etc. ,
and so they parted--Fanny in a state of actual felicity from escaping so
horrible an evil!

To have had him join their family dinner-party, and see all their
deficiencies, would have been dreadful! Rebecca’s cookery and Rebecca’s
waiting, and Betsey’s eating at table without restraint, and pulling
everything about as she chose, were what Fanny herself was not yet
enough inured to for her often to make a tolerable meal. _She_ was nice
only from natural delicacy, but _he_ had been brought up in a school of
luxury and epicurism.



CHAPTER XLII

The Prices were just setting off for church the next day when Mr.
Crawford appeared again. He came, not to stop, but to join them; he was
asked to go with them to the Garrison chapel, which was exactly what he
had intended, and they all walked thither together.

The family were now seen to advantage. Nature had given them no
inconsiderable share of beauty, and every Sunday dressed them in their
cleanest skins and best attire. Sunday always brought this comfort to
Fanny, and on this Sunday she felt it more than ever. Her poor mother
now did not look so very unworthy of being Lady Bertram’s sister as she
was but too apt to look. It often grieved her to the heart to think of
the contrast between them; to think that where nature had made so little
difference, circumstances should have made so much, and that her mother,
as handsome as Lady Bertram, and some years her junior, should have an
appearance so much more worn and faded, so comfortless, so slatternly,
so shabby. But Sunday made her a very creditable and tolerably
cheerful-looking Mrs. Price, coming abroad with a fine family of
children, feeling a little respite of her weekly cares, and only
discomposed if she saw her boys run into danger, or Rebecca pass by with
a flower in her hat.

In chapel they were obliged to divide, but Mr. Crawford took care not to
be divided from the female branch; and after chapel he still continued
with them, and made one in the family party on the ramparts.

Mrs. Price took her weekly walk on the ramparts every fine Sunday
throughout the year, always going directly after morning service and
staying till dinner-time. It was her public place: there she met her
acquaintance, heard a little news, talked over the badness of the
Portsmouth servants, and wound up her spirits for the six days ensuing.

Thither they now went; Mr. Crawford most happy to consider the Miss
Prices as his peculiar charge; and before they had been there long,
somehow or other, there was no saying how, Fanny could not have believed
it, but he was walking between them with an arm of each under his,
and she did not know how to prevent or put an end to it. It made her
uncomfortable for a time, but yet there were enjoyments in the day and
in the view which would be felt.

The day was uncommonly lovely. It was really March; but it was April in
its mild air, brisk soft wind, and bright sun, occasionally clouded for
a minute; and everything looked so beautiful under the influence of such
a sky, the effects of the shadows pursuing each other on the ships at
Spithead and the island beyond, with the ever-varying hues of the sea,
now at high water, dancing in its glee and dashing against the ramparts
with so fine a sound, produced altogether such a combination of charms
for Fanny, as made her gradually almost careless of the circumstances
under which she felt them. Nay, had she been without his arm, she would
soon have known that she needed it, for she wanted strength for a two
hours’ saunter of this kind, coming, as it generally did, upon a week’s
previous inactivity. Fanny was beginning to feel the effect of being
debarred from her usual regular exercise; she had lost ground as to
health since her being in Portsmouth; and but for Mr. Crawford and the
beauty of the weather would soon have been knocked up now.

The loveliness of the day, and of the view, he felt like herself. They
often stopt with the same sentiment and taste, leaning against the wall,
some minutes, to look and admire; and considering he was not Edmund,
Fanny could not but allow that he was sufficiently open to the charms
of nature, and very well able to express his admiration. She had a few
tender reveries now and then, which he could sometimes take advantage
of to look in her face without detection; and the result of these looks
was, that though as bewitching as ever, her face was less blooming than
it ought to be. She _said_ she was very well, and did not like to be
supposed otherwise; but take it all in all, he was convinced that her
present residence could not be comfortable, and therefore could not
be salutary for her, and he was growing anxious for her being again at
Mansfield, where her own happiness, and his in seeing her, must be so
much greater.

“You have been here a month, I think? ” said he.

“No; not quite a month. It is only four weeks to-morrow since I left
Mansfield. ”

“You are a most accurate and honest reckoner. I should call that a
month. ”

“I did not arrive here till Tuesday evening. ”

“And it is to be a two months’ visit, is not? ”

“Yes. My uncle talked of two months. I suppose it will not be less. ”

“And how are you to be conveyed back again? Who comes for you? ”

“I do not know. I have heard nothing about it yet from my aunt. Perhaps
I may be to stay longer. It may not be convenient for me to be fetched
exactly at the two months’ end. ”

After a moment’s reflection, Mr.
Crawford replied, “I know Mansfield, I
know its way, I know its faults towards _you_. I know the danger of
your being so far forgotten, as to have your comforts give way to the
imaginary convenience of any single being in the family. I am aware
that you may be left here week after week, if Sir Thomas cannot settle
everything for coming himself, or sending your aunt’s maid for you,
without involving the slightest alteration of the arrangements which he
may have laid down for the next quarter of a year. This will not do. Two
months is an ample allowance; I should think six weeks quite enough.
I am considering your sister’s health,” said he, addressing himself to
Susan, “which I think the confinement of Portsmouth unfavourable to. She
requires constant air and exercise. When you know her as well as I do,
I am sure you will agree that she does, and that she ought never to
be long banished from the free air and liberty of the country. If,
therefore” (turning again to Fanny), “you find yourself growing unwell,
and any difficulties arise about your returning to Mansfield, without
waiting for the two months to be ended, _that_ must not be regarded
as of any consequence, if you feel yourself at all less strong or
comfortable than usual, and will only let my sister know it, give her
only the slightest hint, she and I will immediately come down, and take
you back to Mansfield. You know the ease and the pleasure with which
this would be done. You know all that would be felt on the occasion. ”

Fanny thanked him, but tried to laugh it off.

“I am perfectly serious,” he replied, “as you perfectly know. And I
hope you will not be cruelly concealing any tendency to indisposition.
Indeed, you shall _not_; it shall not be in your power; for so long only
as you positively say, in every letter to Mary, ‘I am well,’ and I
know you cannot speak or write a falsehood, so long only shall you be
considered as well. ”

Fanny thanked him again, but was affected and distressed to a degree
that made it impossible for her to say much, or even to be certain of
what she ought to say. This was towards the close of their walk. He
attended them to the last, and left them only at the door of their own
house, when he knew them to be going to dinner, and therefore pretended
to be waited for elsewhere.

“I wish you were not so tired,” said he, still detaining Fanny after all
the others were in the house--“I wish I left you in stronger health. Is
there anything I can do for you in town? I have half an idea of going
into Norfolk again soon. I am not satisfied about Maddison. I am sure
he still means to impose on me if possible, and get a cousin of his own
into a certain mill, which I design for somebody else. I must come to an
understanding with him. I must make him know that I will not be tricked
on the south side of Everingham, any more than on the north: that I will
be master of my own property. I was not explicit enough with him before.
The mischief such a man does on an estate, both as to the credit of his
employer and the welfare of the poor, is inconceivable. I have a great
mind to go back into Norfolk directly, and put everything at once on
such a footing as cannot be afterwards swerved from. Maddison is a
clever fellow; I do not wish to displace him, provided he does not try
to displace _me_; but it would be simple to be duped by a man who has no
right of creditor to dupe me, and worse than simple to let him give me a
hard-hearted, griping fellow for a tenant, instead of an honest man,
to whom I have given half a promise already. Would it not be worse than
simple? Shall I go? Do you advise it? ”

“I advise! You know very well what is right. ”

“Yes. When you give me your opinion, I always know what is right. Your
judgment is my rule of right. ”

“Oh, no! do not say so. We have all a better guide in ourselves, if we
would attend to it, than any other person can be. Good-bye; I wish you a
pleasant journey to-morrow. ”

“Is there nothing I can do for you in town? ”

“Nothing; I am much obliged to you. ”

“Have you no message for anybody? ”

“My love to your sister, if you please; and when you see my cousin, my
cousin Edmund, I wish you would be so good as to say that I suppose I
shall soon hear from him. ”

“Certainly; and if he is lazy or negligent, I will write his excuses
myself. ”

He could say no more, for Fanny would be no longer detained. He pressed
her hand, looked at her, and was gone. _He_ went to while away the next
three hours as he could, with his other acquaintance, till the best
dinner that a capital inn afforded was ready for their enjoyment, and
_she_ turned in to her more simple one immediately.

Their general fare bore a very different character; and could he have
suspected how many privations, besides that of exercise, she endured in
her father’s house, he would have wondered that her looks were not much
more affected than he found them. She was so little equal to Rebecca’s
puddings and Rebecca’s hashes, brought to table, as they all were, with
such accompaniments of half-cleaned plates, and not half-cleaned knives
and forks, that she was very often constrained to defer her heartiest
meal till she could send her brothers in the evening for biscuits and
buns. After being nursed up at Mansfield, it was too late in the day
to be hardened at Portsmouth; and though Sir Thomas, had he known all,
might have thought his niece in the most promising way of being starved,
both mind and body, into a much juster value for Mr. Crawford’s good
company and good fortune, he would probably have feared to push his
experiment farther, lest she might die under the cure.

Fanny was out of spirits all the rest of the day. Though tolerably
secure of not seeing Mr. Crawford again, she could not help being low.
It was parting with somebody of the nature of a friend; and though, in
one light, glad to have him gone, it seemed as if she was now deserted
by everybody; it was a sort of renewed separation from Mansfield; and
she could not think of his returning to town, and being frequently with
Mary and Edmund, without feelings so near akin to envy as made her hate
herself for having them.

Her dejection had no abatement from anything passing around her; a
friend or two of her father’s, as always happened if he was not with
them, spent the long, long evening there; and from six o’clock till
half-past nine, there was little intermission of noise or grog. She
was very low. The wonderful improvement which she still fancied in Mr.
Crawford was the nearest to administering comfort of anything within the
current of her thoughts. Not considering in how different a circle she
had been just seeing him, nor how much might be owing to contrast, she
was quite persuaded of his being astonishingly more gentle and regardful
of others than formerly. And, if in little things, must it not be so in
great? So anxious for her health and comfort, so very feeling as he now
expressed himself, and really seemed, might not it be fairly supposed
that he would not much longer persevere in a suit so distressing to her?



CHAPTER XLIII

It was presumed that Mr. Crawford was travelling back, to London, on the
morrow, for nothing more was seen of him at Mr. Price’s; and two days
afterwards, it was a fact ascertained to Fanny by the following letter
from his sister, opened and read by her, on another account, with the
most anxious curiosity:--

“I have to inform you, my dearest Fanny, that Henry has been down to
Portsmouth to see you; that he had a delightful walk with you to the
dockyard last Saturday, and one still more to be dwelt on the next day,
on the ramparts; when the balmy air, the sparkling sea, and your sweet
looks and conversation were altogether in the most delicious harmony,
and afforded sensations which are to raise ecstasy even in retrospect.
This, as well as I understand, is to be the substance of my information.
He makes me write, but I do not know what else is to be communicated,
except this said visit to Portsmouth, and these two said walks, and his
introduction to your family, especially to a fair sister of yours, a
fine girl of fifteen, who was of the party on the ramparts, taking her
first lesson, I presume, in love. I have not time for writing much, but
it would be out of place if I had, for this is to be a mere letter of
business, penned for the purpose of conveying necessary information,
which could not be delayed without risk of evil. My dear, dear Fanny,
if I had you here, how I would talk to you! You should listen to me till
you were tired, and advise me till you were still tired more; but it is
impossible to put a hundredth part of my great mind on paper, so I will
abstain altogether, and leave you to guess what you like. I have no news
for you. You have politics, of course; and it would be too bad to plague
you with the names of people and parties that fill up my time. I ought
to have sent you an account of your cousin’s first party, but I was
lazy, and now it is too long ago; suffice it, that everything was just
as it ought to be, in a style that any of her connexions must have been
gratified to witness, and that her own dress and manners did her the
greatest credit. My friend, Mrs. Fraser, is mad for such a house, and it
would not make _me_ miserable. I go to Lady Stornaway after Easter;
she seems in high spirits, and very happy. I fancy Lord S. is very
good-humoured and pleasant in his own family, and I do not think him so
very ill-looking as I did--at least, one sees many worse. He will not
do by the side of your cousin Edmund. Of the last-mentioned hero, what
shall I say? If I avoided his name entirely, it would look suspicious.
I will say, then, that we have seen him two or three times, and that
my friends here are very much struck with his gentlemanlike appearance.
Mrs. Fraser (no bad judge) declares she knows but three men in town
who have so good a person, height, and air; and I must confess, when he
dined here the other day, there were none to compare with him, and
we were a party of sixteen. Luckily there is no distinction of dress
nowadays to tell tales, but--but--but Yours affectionately. ”

“I had almost forgot (it was Edmund’s fault: he gets into my head more
than does me good) one very material thing I had to say from Henry and
myself--I mean about our taking you back into Northamptonshire. My dear
little creature, do not stay at Portsmouth to lose your pretty looks.
Those vile sea-breezes are the ruin of beauty and health. My poor aunt
always felt affected if within ten miles of the sea, which the Admiral
of course never believed, but I know it was so. I am at your service
and Henry’s, at an hour’s notice. I should like the scheme, and we would
make a little circuit, and shew you Everingham in our way, and perhaps
you would not mind passing through London, and seeing the inside of St.
George’s, Hanover Square. Only keep your cousin Edmund from me at such
a time: I should not like to be tempted. What a long letter! one word
more. Henry, I find, has some idea of going into Norfolk again upon
some business that _you_ approve; but this cannot possibly be permitted
before the middle of next week; that is, he cannot anyhow be spared till
after the 14th, for _we_ have a party that evening. The value of a man
like Henry, on such an occasion, is what you can have no conception
of; so you must take it upon my word to be inestimable. He will see the
Rushworths, which own I am not sorry for--having a little curiosity, and
so I think has he--though he will not acknowledge it. ”

This was a letter to be run through eagerly, to be read deliberately,
to supply matter for much reflection, and to leave everything in greater
suspense than ever. The only certainty to be drawn from it was, that
nothing decisive had yet taken place. Edmund had not yet spoken. How
Miss Crawford really felt, how she meant to act, or might act without
or against her meaning; whether his importance to her were quite what
it had been before the last separation; whether, if lessened, it were
likely to lessen more, or to recover itself, were subjects for endless
conjecture, and to be thought of on that day and many days to come,
without producing any conclusion. The idea that returned the oftenest
was that Miss Crawford, after proving herself cooled and staggered by
a return to London habits, would yet prove herself in the end too much
attached to him to give him up. She would try to be more ambitious than
her heart would allow. She would hesitate, she would tease, she would
condition, she would require a great deal, but she would finally accept.

This was Fanny’s most frequent expectation. A house in town--that, she
thought, must be impossible. Yet there was no saying what Miss Crawford
might not ask. The prospect for her cousin grew worse and worse. The
woman who could speak of him, and speak only of his appearance! What an
unworthy attachment! To be deriving support from the commendations of
Mrs. Fraser! _She_ who had known him intimately half a year! Fanny was
ashamed of her. Those parts of the letter which related only to Mr.
Crawford and herself, touched her, in comparison, slightly. Whether Mr.
Crawford went into Norfolk before or after the 14th was certainly no
concern of hers, though, everything considered, she thought he _would_
go without delay. That Miss Crawford should endeavour to secure a
meeting between him and Mrs. Rushworth, was all in her worst line of
conduct, and grossly unkind and ill-judged; but she hoped _he_ would
not be actuated by any such degrading curiosity. He acknowledged no such
inducement, and his sister ought to have given him credit for better
feelings than her own.

She was yet more impatient for another letter from town after receiving
this than she had been before; and for a few days was so unsettled by
it altogether, by what had come, and what might come, that her usual
readings and conversation with Susan were much suspended. She could
not command her attention as she wished. If Mr. Crawford remembered her
message to her cousin, she thought it very likely, most likely, that he
would write to her at all events; it would be most consistent with his
usual kindness; and till she got rid of this idea, till it gradually
wore off, by no letters appearing in the course of three or four days
more, she was in a most restless, anxious state.

At length, a something like composure succeeded. Suspense must be
submitted to, and must not be allowed to wear her out, and make her
useless. Time did something, her own exertions something more, and she
resumed her attentions to Susan, and again awakened the same interest in
them.

Susan was growing very fond of her, and though without any of the early
delight in books which had been so strong in Fanny, with a disposition
much less inclined to sedentary pursuits, or to information for
information’s sake, she had so strong a desire of not _appearing_
ignorant, as, with a good clear understanding, made her a most
attentive, profitable, thankful pupil. Fanny was her oracle. Fanny’s
explanations and remarks were a most important addition to every essay,
or every chapter of history. What Fanny told her of former times dwelt
more on her mind than the pages of Goldsmith; and she paid her sister
the compliment of preferring her style to that of any printed author.
The early habit of reading was wanting.

Their conversations, however, were not always on subjects so high as
history or morals. Others had their hour; and of lesser matters, none
returned so often, or remained so long between them, as Mansfield Park,
a description of the people, the manners, the amusements, the ways
of Mansfield Park. Susan, who had an innate taste for the genteel and
well-appointed, was eager to hear, and Fanny could not but indulge
herself in dwelling on so beloved a theme. She hoped it was not wrong;
though, after a time, Susan’s very great admiration of everything
said or done in her uncle’s house, and earnest longing to go into
Northamptonshire, seemed almost to blame her for exciting feelings which
could not be gratified.

Poor Susan was very little better fitted for home than her elder sister;
and as Fanny grew thoroughly to understand this, she began to feel that
when her own release from Portsmouth came, her happiness would have a
material drawback in leaving Susan behind. That a girl so capable of
being made everything good should be left in such hands, distressed her
more and more. Were _she_ likely to have a home to invite her to, what
a blessing it would be! And had it been possible for her to return Mr.
Crawford’s regard, the probability of his being very far from objecting
to such a measure would have been the greatest increase of all her own
comforts. She thought he was really good-tempered, and could fancy his
entering into a plan of that sort most pleasantly.



CHAPTER XLIV

Seven weeks of the two months were very nearly gone, when the one
letter, the letter from Edmund, so long expected, was put into Fanny’s
hands. As she opened, and saw its length, she prepared herself for a
minute detail of happiness and a profusion of love and praise towards
the fortunate creature who was now mistress of his fate. These were the
contents--

“My Dear Fanny,--Excuse me that I have not written before. Crawford told
me that you were wishing to hear from me, but I found it impossible to
write from London, and persuaded myself that you would understand my
silence. Could I have sent a few happy lines, they should not have been
wanting, but nothing of that nature was ever in my power. I am returned
to Mansfield in a less assured state than when I left it. My hopes are
much weaker. You are probably aware of this already. So very fond of you
as Miss Crawford is, it is most natural that she should tell you enough
of her own feelings to furnish a tolerable guess at mine. I will not be
prevented, however, from making my own communication. Our confidences in
you need not clash. I ask no questions. There is something soothing
in the idea that we have the same friend, and that whatever unhappy
differences of opinion may exist between us, we are united in our love
of you. It will be a comfort to me to tell you how things now are, and
what are my present plans, if plans I can be said to have. I have been
returned since Saturday. I was three weeks in London, and saw her (for
London) very often. I had every attention from the Frasers that could be
reasonably expected. I dare say I was not reasonable in carrying with
me hopes of an intercourse at all like that of Mansfield. It was her
manner, however, rather than any unfrequency of meeting. Had she been
different when I did see her, I should have made no complaint, but from
the very first she was altered: my first reception was so unlike what I
had hoped, that I had almost resolved on leaving London again directly.
I need not particularise. You know the weak side of her character, and
may imagine the sentiments and expressions which were torturing me. She
was in high spirits, and surrounded by those who were giving all the
support of their own bad sense to her too lively mind. I do not like
Mrs. Fraser. She is a cold-hearted, vain woman, who has married entirely
from convenience, and though evidently unhappy in her marriage,
places her disappointment not to faults of judgment, or temper, or
disproportion of age, but to her being, after all, less affluent than
many of her acquaintance, especially than her sister, Lady Stornaway,
and is the determined supporter of everything mercenary and ambitious,
provided it be only mercenary and ambitious enough. I look upon her
intimacy with those two sisters as the greatest misfortune of her life
and mine. They have been leading her astray for years. Could she be
detached from them! --and sometimes I do not despair of it, for the
affection appears to me principally on their side. They are very fond of
her; but I am sure she does not love them as she loves you. When I think
of her great attachment to you, indeed, and the whole of her judicious,
upright conduct as a sister, she appears a very different creature,
capable of everything noble, and I am ready to blame myself for a too
harsh construction of a playful manner. I cannot give her up, Fanny. She
is the only woman in the world whom I could ever think of as a wife. If
I did not believe that she had some regard for me, of course I should
not say this, but I do believe it. I am convinced that she is not
without a decided preference. I have no jealousy of any individual. It
is the influence of the fashionable world altogether that I am jealous
of. It is the habits of wealth that I fear. Her ideas are not higher
than her own fortune may warrant, but they are beyond what our incomes
united could authorise. There is comfort, however, even here. I could
better bear to lose her because not rich enough, than because of my
profession. That would only prove her affection not equal to sacrifices,
which, in fact, I am scarcely justified in asking; and, if I am refused,
that, I think, will be the honest motive. Her prejudices, I trust, are
not so strong as they were. You have my thoughts exactly as they arise,
my dear Fanny; perhaps they are sometimes contradictory, but it will
not be a less faithful picture of my mind. Having once begun, it is a
pleasure to me to tell you all I feel. I cannot give her up. Connected
as we already are, and, I hope, are to be, to give up Mary Crawford
would be to give up the society of some of those most dear to me; to
banish myself from the very houses and friends whom, under any other
distress, I should turn to for consolation. The loss of Mary I must
consider as comprehending the loss of Crawford and of Fanny. Were it a
decided thing, an actual refusal, I hope I should know how to bear it,
and how to endeavour to weaken her hold on my heart, and in the course
of a few years--but I am writing nonsense. Were I refused, I must bear
it; and till I am, I can never cease to try for her. This is the truth.
The only question is _how_? What may be the likeliest means? I have
sometimes thought of going to London again after Easter, and sometimes
resolved on doing nothing till she returns to Mansfield.