MANSFIELD PARK..........................................................................................................................................1

Jane Austen..............................................................................................................................................1

About thirty years ago Miss Maria Ward, of Huntingdon, with only seven thousand pounds, had the good

luck to captivate Sir Thomas Bertram, of Mansfield Park, in the county of Northampton, and to be thereby

raised to the rank of a baronet's lady, with all the comforts and consequences of an handsome house and large

income. All Huntingdon exclaimed on the greatness of the match, and her uncle, the lawyer, himself, allowed

her to be at least three thousand pounds short of any equitable claim to it. She had two sisters to be benefited

by her elevation; and such of their acquaintance as thought Miss Ward and Miss Frances quite as handsome

as Miss Maria, did not scruple to predict their marrying with almost equal advantage. But there certainly are

not so many men of large fortune in the world as there are pretty women to deserve them. Miss Ward, at the

end of half a dozen years, found herself obliged to be attached to the Rev. Mr. Norris, a friend of her

brotherinlaw, with scarcely any private fortune, and Miss Frances fared yet worse. Miss Ward's match,

indeed, when it came to the point, was not contemptible: Sir Thomas being happily able to give his friend an

income in the living of Mansfield; and Mr. and Mrs. Norris began their career of conjugal felicity with very

little less than a thousand a year. But Miss Frances married, in the common phrase, to disoblige her family,

and by fixing on a lieutenant of marines, without education, fortune, or connexions, did it very thoroughly.

She could hardly have made a more untoward choice. Sir Thomas Bertram had interest, which, from principle

as well as pridefrom a general wish of doing right, and a desire of seeing all that were connected with him

in situations of respectability, he would have been glad to exert for the advantage of Lady Bertram's sister;

but her husband's profession was such as no interest could reach; and before he had time to devise any other

method of assisting them, an absolute breach between the sisters had taken place. It was the natural result of

the conduct of each party, and such as a very imprudent marriage almost always produces. To save herself

from useless remonstrance, Mrs. Price never wrote to her family on the subject till actually married. Lady

Bertram, who was a woman of very tranquil feelings, and a temper remarkably easy and indolent, would have

contented herself with merely giving up her sister, and thinking no more of the matter; but Mrs. Norris had a

spirit of activity, which could not be satisfied till she had written a long and angry letter to Fanny, to point out

the folly of her conduct, and threaten her with all its possible ill consequences. Mrs. Price, in her turn, was

injured and angry; and an answer, which comprehended each sister in its bitterness, and bestowed such very

disrespectful reflections on the pride of Sir Thomas as Mrs. Norris could not possibly keep to herself, put an

Their homes were so distant, and the circles in which they moved so distinct, as almost to preclude the means

of ever hearing of each other's existence during the eleven following years, or, at least, to make it very

wonderful to Sir Thomas that Mrs. Norris should ever have it in her power to tell them, as she now and then

did, in an angry voice, that Fanny had got another child. By the end of eleven years, however, Mrs. Price

could no longer afford to cherish pride or resentment, or to lose one connexion that might possibly assist her.

A large and still increasing family, an husband disabled for active service, but not the less equal to company

and good liquor, and a very small income to supply their wants, made her eager to regain the friends she had

so carelessly sacrificed; and she addressed Lady Bertram in a letter which spoke so much contrition and

despondence, such a superfluity of children, and such a want of almost everything else, as could not but

dispose them all to a reconciliation. She was preparing for her ninth lyingin; and after bewailing the

circumstance, and imploring their countenance as sponsors to the expected child, she could not conceal how

important she felt they might be to the future maintenance of the eight already in being. Her eldest was a boy

of ten years old, a fine spirited fellow, who longed to be out in the world; but what could she do? Was there

any chance of his being hereafter useful to Sir Thomas in the concerns of his West Indian property? No

situation would be beneath him; or what did Sir Thomas think of Woolwich? or how could a boy be sent out

The letter was not unproductive. It reestablished peace and kindness. Sir Thomas sent friendly advice and

professions, Lady Bertram dispatched money and babylinen, and Mrs. Norris wrote the letters.

Such were its immediate effects, and within a twelvemonth a more important advantage to Mrs. Price resulted

from it. Mrs. Norris was often observing to the others that she could not get her poor sister and her family out

of her head, and that, much as they had all done for her, she seemed to be wanting to do more; and at length

she could not but own it to be her wish that poor Mrs. Price should be relieved from the charge and expense

of one child entirely out of her great number. "What if they were among them to undertake the care of her

eldest daughter, a girl now nine years old, of an age to require more attention than her poor mother could

possibly give? The trouble and expense of it to them would be nothing, compared with the benevolence of the

action." Lady Bertram agreed with her instantly. "I think we cannot do better," said she; "let us send for the

Sir Thomas could not give so instantaneous and unqualified a consent. He debated and hesitated;it was a

serious charge; a girl so brought up must be adequately provided for, or there would be cruelty instead of

kindness in taking her from her family. He thought of his own four children, of his two sons, of cousins in

love, etc.;but no sooner had he deliberately begun to state his objections, than Mrs. Norris interrupted him

"My dear Sir Thomas, I perfectly comprehend you, and do justice to the generosity and delicacy of your

notions, which indeed are quite of a piece with your general conduct; and I entirely agree with you in the

main as to the propriety of doing everything one could by way of providing for a child one had in a manner

taken into one's own hands; and I am sure I should be the last person in the world to withhold my mite upon

such an occasion. Having no children of my own, who should I look to in any little matter I may ever have to

bestow, but the children of my sisters? and I am sure Mr. Norris is too justbut you know I am a woman

of few words and professions. Do not let us be frightened from a good deed by a trifle. Give a girl an

education, and introduce her properly into the world, and ten to one but she has the means of settling well,

without farther expense to anybody. A niece of ours, Sir Thomas, I may say, or at least of_yours_, would not

grow up in this neighbourhood without many advantages. I don't say she would be so handsome as her

cousins. I dare say she would not; but she would be introduced into the society of this country under such

very favourable circumstances as, in all human probability, would get her a creditable establishment. You are

thinking of your sons but do not you know that, of all things upon earth, _that_ is the least likely to

happen, brought up as they would be, always together like brothers and sisters? It is morally impossible. I

never knew an instance of it. It is, in fact, the only sure way of providing against the connexion. Suppose her

a pretty girl, and seen by Tom or Edmund for the first time seven years hence, and I dare say there would be

mischief. The very idea of her having been suffered to grow up at a distance from us all in poverty and

neglect, would be enough to make either of the dear, sweettempered boys in love with her. But breed her up

with them from this time, and suppose her even to have the beauty of an angel, and she will never be more to

"There is a great deal of truth in what you say," replied Sir Thomas, "and far be it from me to throw any

fanciful impediment in the way of a plan which would be so consistent with the relative situations of each. I

only meant to observe that it ought not to be lightly engaged in, and that to make it really serviceable to Mrs.

Price, and creditable to ourselves, we must secure to the child, or consider ourselves engaged to secure to her

hereafter, as circumstances may arise, the provision of a gentlewoman, if no such establishment should offer

"I thoroughly understand you," cried Mrs. Norris, "you are everything that is generous and considerate, and I

am sure we shall never disagree on this point. Whatever I can do, as you well know, I am always ready

enough to do for the good of those I love; and, though I could never feel for this little girl the hundredth part

of the regard I bear your own dear children, nor consider her, in any respect, so much my own, I should hate

myself if I were capable of neglecting her. Is not she a sister's child? and could I bear to see her want while I

had a bit of bread to give her? My dear Sir Thomas, with all my faults I have a warm heart; and, poor as I am,

would rather deny myself the necessaries of life than do an ungenerous thing. So, if you are not against it, I

will write to my poor sister tomorrow, and make the proposal; and, as soon as matters are settled, _I_ will

engage to get the child to Mansfield; _you_ shall have no trouble about it. My own trouble, you know, I

never regard. I will send Nanny to London on purpose, and she may have a bed at her cousin the saddler's,

and the child be appointed to meet her there. They may easily get her from Portsmouth to town by the coach,

under the care of any creditable person that may chance to be going. I dare say there is always some reputable

Except to the attack on Nanny's cousin, Sir Thomas no longer made any objection, and a more respectable,

though less economical rendezvous being accordingly substituted, everything was considered as settled, and

the pleasures of so benevolent a scheme were already enjoyed. The division of gratifying sensations ought

not, in strict justice, to have been equal; for Sir Thomas was fully resolved to be the real and consistent patron

of the selected child, and Mrs. Norris had not the least intention of being at any expense whatever in her

maintenance. As far as walking, talking, and contriving reached, she was thoroughly benevolent, and nobody

knew better how to dictate liberality to others; but her love of money was equal to her love of directing, and

she knew quite as well how to save her own as to spend that of her friends. Having married on a narrower

income than she had been used to look forward to, she had, from the first, fancied a very strict line of

economy necessary; and what was begun as a matter of prudence, soon grew into a matter of choice, as an

object of that needful solicitude which there were no children to supply. Had there been a family to provide

for, Mrs. Norris might never have saved her money; but having no care of that kind, there was nothing to

impede her frugality, or lessen the comfort of making a yearly addition to an income which they had never

lived up to. Under this infatuating principle, counteracted by no real affection for her sister, it was impossible

for her to aim at more than the credit of projecting and arranging so expensive a charity; though perhaps she

might so little know herself as to walk home to the Parsonage, after this conversation, in the happy belief of

When the subject was brought forward again, her views were more fully explained; and, in reply to Lady

Bertram's calm inquiry of "Where shall the child come to first, sister, to you or to us?" Sir Thomas heard with

some surprise that it would be totally out of Mrs. Norris's power to take any share in the personal charge of

her. He had been considering her as a particularly welcome addition at the Parsonage, as a desirable

companion to an aunt who had no children of her own; but he found himself wholly mistaken. Mrs. Norris

was sorry to say that the little girl's staying with them, at least as things then were, was quite out of the

question. Poor Mr. Norris's indifferent state of health made it an impossibility: he could no more bear the

noise of a child than he could fly; if, indeed, he should ever get well of his gouty complaints, it would be a

different matter: she should then be glad to take her turn, and think nothing of the inconvenience; but just

now, poor Mr. Norris took up every moment of her time, and the very mention of such a thing she was sure

"Then she had better come to us," said Lady Bertram, with the utmost composure. After a short pause Sir

Thomas added with dignity, "Yes, let her home be in this house. We will endeavour to do our duty by her,

and she will, at least, have the advantage of companions of her own age, and of a regular instructress."

"Very true," cried Mrs. Norris, "which are both very important considerations; and it will be just the same to

Miss Lee whether she has three girls to teach, or only twothere can be no difference. I only wish I could be

more useful; but you see I do all in my power. I am not one of those that spare their own trouble; and Nanny

shall fetch her, however it may put me to inconvenience to have my chief counsellor away for three days. I

suppose, sister, you will put the child in the little white attic, near the old nurseries. It will be much the best

place for her, so near Miss Lee, and not far from the girls, and close by the housemaids, who could either of

them help to dress her, you know, and take care of her clothes, for I suppose you would not think it fair to

expect Ellis to wait on her as well as the others. Indeed, I do not see that you could possibly place her

"I hope she will prove a welldisposed girl," continued Mrs. Norris, "and be sensible of her uncommon good

"Should her disposition be really bad," said Sir Thomas, "we must not, for our own children's sake, continue

her in the family; but there is no reason to expect so great an evil. We shall probably see much to wish altered

in her, and must prepare ourselves for gross ignorance, some meanness of opinions, and very distressing

vulgarity of manner; but these are not incurable faults; nor, I trust, can they be dangerous for her associates.

Had my daughters been _younger_ than herself, I should have considered the introduction of such a

companion as a matter of very serious moment; but, as it is, I hope there can be nothing to fear for _them_,

"That is exactly what I think," cried Mrs. Norris, "and what I was saying to my husband this morning. It will

be an education for the child, said I, only being with her cousins; if Miss Lee taught her nothing, she would

"I hope she will not tease my poor pug," said Lady Bertram; "I have but just got Julia to leave it alone."

"There will be some difficulty in our way, Mrs. Norris," observed Sir Thomas, "as to the distinction proper to

be made between the girls as they grow up: how to preserve in the minds of my _daughters_ the

consciousness of what they are, without making them think too lowly of their cousin; and how, without

depressing her spirits too far, to make her remember that she is not a _Miss Bertram_. I should wish to see

them very good friends, and would, on no account, authorise in my girls the smallest degree of arrogance

towards their relation; but still they cannot be equals. Their rank, fortune, rights, and expectations will always

be different. It is a point of great delicacy, and you must assist us in our endeavours to choose exactly the

Mrs. Norris was quite at his service; and though she perfectly agreed with him as to its being a most difficult

It will be readily believed that Mrs. Norris did not write to her sister in vain. Mrs. Price seemed rather

surprised that a girl should be fixed on, when she had so many fine boys, but accepted the offer most

thankfully, assuring them of her daughter's being a very welldisposed, goodhumoured girl, and trusting

they would never have cause to throw her off. She spoke of her farther as somewhat delicate and puny, but

was sanguine in the hope of her being materially better for change of air. Poor woman! she probably thought

The little girl performed her long journey in safety; and at Northampton was met by Mrs. Norris, who thus

regaled in the credit of being foremost to welcome her, and in the importance of leading her in to the others,

Fanny Price was at this time just ten years old, and though there might not be much in her first appearance to

captivate, there was, at least, nothing to disgust her relations. She was small of her age, with no glow of

complexion, nor any other striking beauty; exceedingly timid and shy, and shrinking from notice; but her air,

though awkward, was not vulgar, her voice was sweet, and when she spoke her countenance was pretty. Sir

Thomas and Lady Bertram received her very kindly; and Sir Thomas, seeing how much she needed

encouragement, tried to be all that was conciliating: but he had to work against a most untoward gravity of

deportment; and Lady Bertram, without taking half so much trouble, or speaking one word where he spoke

ten, by the mere aid of a goodhumoured smile, became immediately the less awful character of the two.

The young people were all at home, and sustained their share in the introduction very well, with much good

humour, and no embarrassment, at least on the part of the sons, who, at seventeen and sixteen, and tall of

their age, had all the grandeur of men in the eyes of their little cousin. The two girls were more at a loss from

being younger and in greater awe of their father, who addressed them on the occasion with rather an

injudicious particularity. But they were too much used to company and praise to have anything like natural

shyness; and their confidence increasing from their cousin's total want of it, they were soon able to take a full

They were a remarkably fine family, the sons very welllooking, the daughters decidedly handsome, and all

of them wellgrown and forward of their age, which produced as striking a difference between the cousins in

person, as education had given to their address; and no one would have supposed the girls so nearly of an age

as they really were. There were in fact but two years between the youngest and Fanny. Julia Bertram was

only twelve, and Maria but a year older. The little visitor meanwhile was as unhappy as possible. Afraid of

everybody, ashamed of herself, and longing for the home she had left, she knew not how to look up, and

could scarcely speak to be heard, or without crying. Mrs. Norris had been talking to her the whole way from

Northampton of her wonderful good fortune, and the extraordinary degree of gratitude and good behaviour

which it ought to produce, and her consciousness of misery was therefore increased by the idea of its being a

wicked thing for her not to be happy. The fatigue, too, of so long a journey, became soon no trifling evil. In

vain were the wellmeant condescensions of Sir Thomas, and all the officious prognostications of Mrs.

Norris that she would be a good girl; in vain did Lady Bertram smile and make her sit on the sofa with herself

and pug, and vain was even the sight of a gooseberry tart towards giving her comfort; she could scarcely

swallow two mouthfuls before tears interrupted her, and sleep seeming to be her likeliest friend, she was

"This is not a very promising beginning," said Mrs. Norris, when Fanny had left the room. "After all that I

said to her as we came along, I thought she would have behaved better; I told her how much might depend

upon her acquitting herself well at first. I wish there may not be a little sulkiness of temperher poor mother

had a good deal; but we must make allowances for such a childand I do not know that her being sorry to

leave her home is really against her, for, with all its faults, it _was_ her home, and she cannot as yet

understand how much she has changed for the better; but then there is moderation in all things."

It required a longer time, however, than Mrs. Norris was inclined to allow, to reconcile Fanny to the novelty

of Mansfield Park, and the separation from everybody she had been used to. Her feelings were very acute,

and too little understood to be properly attended to. Nobody meant to be unkind, but nobody put themselves

The holiday allowed to the Miss Bertrams the next day, on purpose to afford leisure for getting acquainted

with, and entertaining their young cousin, produced little union. They could not but hold her cheap on finding

that she had but two sashes, and had never learned French; and when they perceived her to be little struck

with the duet they were so good as to play, they could do no more than make her a generous present of some

of their least valued toys, and leave her to herself, while they adjourned to whatever might be the favourite

Fanny, whether near or from her cousins, whether in the schoolroom, the drawingroom, or the shrubbery,

was equally forlorn, finding something to fear in every person and place. She was disheartened by Lady

Bertram's silence, awed by Sir Thomas's grave looks, and quite overcome by Mrs. Norris's admonitions. Her

elder cousins mortified her by reflections on her size, and abashed her by noticing her shyness: Miss Lee

wondered at her ignorance, and the maidservants sneered at her clothes; and when to these sorrows was

added the idea of the brothers and sisters among whom she had always been important as playfellow,

The grandeur of the house astonished, but could not console her. The rooms were too large for her to move in

with ease: whatever she touched she expected to injure, and she crept about in constant terror of something or

other; often retreating towards her own chamber to cry; and the little girl who was spoken of in the

drawingroom when she left it at night as seeming so desirably sensible of her peculiar good fortune, ended

every day's sorrows by sobbing herself to sleep. A week had passed in this way, and no suspicion of it

conveyed by her quiet passive manner, when she was found one morning by her cousin Edmund, the

"My dear little cousin," said he, with all the gentleness of an excellent nature, "what can be the matter?" And

sitting down by her, he was at great pains to overcome her shame in being so surprised, and persuade her to

speak openly. "Was she ill? or was anybody angry with her? or had she quarrelled with Maria and Julia? or

was she puzzled about anything in her lesson that he could explain? Did she, in short, want anything he could

possibly get her, or do for her? For a long while no answer could be obtained beyond a "no, nonot at

allno, thank you"; but he still persevered; and no sooner had he begun to revert to her own home, than her

increased sobs explained to him where the grievance lay. He tried to console her.

"You are sorry to leave Mama, my dear little Fanny," said he, "which shows you to be a very good girl; but

you must remember that you are with relations and friends, who all love you, and wish to make you happy.

Let us walk out in the park, and you shall tell me all about your brothers and sisters."

On pursuing the subject, he found that, dear as all these brothers and sisters generally were, there was one

among them who ran more in her thoughts than the rest. It was William whom she talked of most, and wanted

most to see. William, the eldest, a year older than herself, her constant companion and friend; her advocate

with her mother (of whom he was the darling) in every distress. "William did not like she should come away;

he had told her he should miss her very much indeed." "But William will write to you, I dare say." "Yes, he

had promised he would, but he had told _her_ to write first." "And when shall you do it?" She hung her head

"If that be all your difficulty, I will furnish you with paper and every other material, and you may write your

"Then let it be done now. Come with me into the breakfastroom, we shall find everything there, and be sure

"Yes, depend upon me it shall: it shall go with the other letters; and, as your uncle will frank it, it will cost

Fanny thought it a bold measure, but offered no further resistance; and they went together into the

breakfastroom, where Edmund prepared her paper, and ruled her lines with all the goodwill that her brother

could himself have felt, and probably with somewhat more exactness. He continued with her the whole time

of her writing, to assist her with his penknife or his orthography, as either were wanted; and added to these

attentions, which she felt very much, a kindness to her brother which delighted her beyond all the rest. He

wrote with his own hand his love to his cousin William, and sent him half a guinea under the seal. Fanny's

feelings on the occasion were such as she believed herself incapable of expressing; but her countenance and a

few artless words fully conveyed all their gratitude and delight, and her cousin began to find her an

interesting object. He talked to her more, and, from all that she said, was convinced of her having an

affectionate heart, and a strong desire of doing right; and he could perceive her to be farther entitled to

attention by great sensibility of her situation, and great timidity. He had never knowingly given her pain, but

he now felt that she required more positive kindness; and with that view endeavoured, in the first place, to

lessen her fears of them all, and gave her especially a great deal of good advice as to playing with Maria and

From this day Fanny grew more comfortable. She felt that she had a friend, and the kindness of her cousin

Edmund gave her better spirits with everybody else. The place became less strange, and the people less

formidable; and if there were some amongst them whom she could not cease to fear, she began at least to

know their ways, and to catch the best manner of conforming to them. The little rusticities and

awkwardnesses which had at first made grievous inroads on the tranquillity of all, and not least of herself,

necessarily wore away, and she was no longer materially afraid to appear before her uncle, nor did her aunt

Norris's voice make her start very much. To her cousins she became occasionally an acceptable companion.

Though unworthy, from inferiority of age and strength, to be their constant associate, their pleasures and

schemes were sometimes of a nature to make a third very useful, especially when that third was of an

obliging, yielding temper; and they could not but own, when their aunt inquired into her faults, or their

brother Edmund urged her claims to their kindness, that "Fanny was goodnatured enough."

Edmund was uniformly kind himself; and she had nothing worse to endure on the part of Tom than that sort

of merriment which a young man of seventeen will always think fair with a child of ten. He was just entering

into life, full of spirits, and with all the liberal dispositions of an eldest son, who feels born only for expense

and enjoyment. His kindness to his little cousin was consistent with his situation and rights: he made her

As her appearance and spirits improved, Sir Thomas and Mrs. Norris thought with greater satisfaction of their

benevolent plan; and it was pretty soon decided between them that, though far from clever, she showed a

tractable disposition, and seemed likely to give them little trouble. A mean opinion of her abilities was not

confined to _them_. Fanny could read, work, and write, but she had been taught nothing more; and as her

cousins found her ignorant of many things with which they had been long familiar, they thought her

prodigiously stupid, and for the first two or three weeks were continually bringing some fresh report of it into

the drawingroom. "Dear mama, only think, my cousin cannot put the map of Europe together or my

cousin cannot tell the principal rivers in Russia or, she never heard of Asia Minoror she does not know

the difference between watercolours and crayons! How strange!Did you ever hear anything so stupid?"

"My dear," their considerate aunt would reply, "it is very bad, but you must not expect everybody to be as

"But, aunt, she is really so very ignorant!Do you know, we asked her last night which way she would go to

get to Ireland; and she said, she should cross to the Isle of Wight. She thinks of nothing but the Isle of Wight,

and she calls it _the_ _Island_, as if there were no other island in the world. I am sure I should have been

ashamed of myself, if I had not known better long before I was so old as she is. I cannot remember the time

when I did not know a great deal that she has not the least notion of yet. How long ago it is, aunt, since we

used to repeat the chronological order of the kings of England, with the dates of their accession, and most of

"Yes," added the other; "and of the Roman emperors as low as Severus; besides a great deal of the heathen

mythology, and all the metals, semimetals, planets, and distinguished philosophers."

"Very true indeed, my dears, but you are blessed with wonderful memories, and your poor cousin has

probably none at all. There is a vast deal of difference in memories, as well as in everything else, and

therefore you must make allowance for your cousin, and pity her deficiency. And remember that, if you are

ever so forward and clever yourselves, you should always be modest; for, much as you know already, there is

"Yes, I know there is, till I am seventeen. But I must tell you another thing of Fanny, so odd and so stupid.

"To be sure, my dear, that is very stupid indeed, and shows a great want of genius and emulation. But, all

things considered, I do not know whether it is not as well that it should be so, for, though you know (owing to

me) your papa and mama are so good as to bring her up with you, it is not at all necessary that she should be

as accomplished as you are;on the contrary, it is much more desirable that there should be a difference."

Such were the counsels by which Mrs. Norris assisted to form her nieces' minds; and it is not very wonderful

that, with all their promising talents and early information, they should be entirely deficient in the less

common acquirements of selfknowledge, generosity and humility. In everything but disposition they were

admirably taught. Sir Thomas did not know what was wanting, because, though a truly anxious father, he was

not outwardly affectionate, and the reserve of his manner repressed all the flow of their spirits before him.

To the education of her daughters Lady Bertram paid not the smallest attention. She had not time for such

cares. She was a woman who spent her days in sitting, nicely dressed, on a sofa, doing some long piece of

needlework, of little use and no beauty, thinking more of her pug than her children, but very indulgent to the

latter when it did not put herself to inconvenience, guided in everything important by Sir Thomas, and in

smaller concerns by her sister. Had she possessed greater leisure for the service of her girls, she would

probably have supposed it unnecessary, for they were under the care of a governess, with proper masters, and

could want nothing more. As for Fanny's being stupid at learning, "she could only say it was very unlucky,

but some people _were_ stupid, and Fanny must take more pains: she did not know what else was to be done;

and, except her being so dull, she must add she saw no harm in the poor little thing, and always found her

Fanny, with all her faults of ignorance and timidity, was fixed at Mansfield Park, and learning to transfer in

its favour much of her attachment to her former home, grew up there not unhappily among her cousins. There

was no positive illnature in Maria or Julia; and though Fanny was often mortified by their treatment of her,

From about the time of her entering the family, Lady Bertram, in consequence of a little illhealth, and a

great deal of indolence, gave up the house in town, which she had been used to occupy every spring, and

remained wholly in the country, leaving Sir Thomas to attend his duty in Parliament, with whatever increase

or diminution of comfort might arise from her absence. In the country, therefore, the Miss Bertrams

continued to exercise their memories, practise their duets, and grow tall and womanly: and their father saw

them becoming in person, manner, and accomplishments, everything that could satisfy his anxiety. His eldest

son was careless and extravagant, and had already given him much uneasiness; but his other children

promised him nothing but good. His daughters, he felt, while they retained the name of Bertram, must be

giving it new grace, and in quitting it, he trusted, would extend its respectable alliances; and the character of

Edmund, his strong good sense and uprightness of mind, bid most fairly for utility, honour, and happiness to

Amid the cares and the complacency which his own children suggested, Sir Thomas did not forget to do what

he could for the children of Mrs. Price: he assisted her liberally in the education and disposal of her sons as

they became old enough for a determinate pursuit; and Fanny, though almost totally separated from her

family, was sensible of the truest satisfaction in hearing of any kindness towards them, or of anything at all

promising in their situation or conduct. Once, and once only, in the course of many years, had she the

happiness of being with William. Of the rest she saw nothing: nobody seemed to think of her ever going

amongst them again, even for a visit, nobody at home seemed to want her; but William determining, soon

after her removal, to be a sailor, was invited to spend a week with his sister in Northamptonshire before he

went to sea. Their eager affection in meeting, their exquisite delight in being together, their hours of happy

mirth, and moments of serious conference, may be imagined; as well as the sanguine views and spirits of the

boy even to the last, and the misery of the girl when he left her. Luckily the visit happened in the Christmas

holidays, when she could directly look for comfort to her cousin Edmund; and he told her such charming

things of what William was to do, and be hereafter, in consequence of his profession, as made her gradually

admit that the separation might have some use. Edmund's friendship never failed her: his leaving Eton for

Oxford made no change in his kind dispositions, and only afforded more frequent opportunities of proving

them. Without any display of doing more than the rest, or any fear of doing too much, he was always true to

her interests, and considerate of her feelings, trying to make her good qualities understood, and to conquer the

diffidence which prevented their being more apparent; giving her advice, consolation, and encouragement.

Kept back as she was by everybody else, his single support could not bring her forward; but his attentions

were otherwise of the highest importance in assisting the improvement of her mind, and extending its

pleasures. He knew her to be clever, to have a quick apprehension as well as good sense, and a fondness for

reading, which, properly directed, must be an education in itself. Miss Lee taught her French, and heard her

read the daily portion of history; but he recommended the books which charmed her leisure hours, he

encouraged her taste, and corrected her judgment: he made reading useful by talking to her of what she read,

and heightened its attraction by judicious praise. In return for such services she loved him better than

The first event of any importance in the family was the death of Mr. Norris, which happened when Fanny was

about fifteen, and necessarily introduced alterations and novelties. Mrs. Norris, on quitting the Parsonage,

removed first to the Park, and afterwards to a small house of Sir Thomas's in the village, and consoled herself

for the loss of her husband by considering that she could do very well without him; and for her reduction of

The living was hereafter for Edmund; and, had his uncle died a few years sooner, it would have been duly

given to some friend to hold till he were old enough for orders. But Tom's extravagance had, previous to that

event, been so great as to render a different disposal of the next presentation necessary, and the younger

brother must help to pay for the pleasures of the elder. There was another family living actually held for

Edmund; but though this circumstance had made the arrangement somewhat easier to Sir Thomas's

conscience, he could not but feel it to be an act of injustice, and he earnestly tried to impress his eldest son

with the same conviction, in the hope of its producing a better effect than anything he had yet been able to

"I blush for you, Tom," said he, in his most dignified manner; "I blush for the expedient which I am driven

on, and I trust I may pity your feelings as a brother on the occasion. You have robbed Edmund for ten,

twenty, thirty years, perhaps for life, of more than half the income which ought to be his. It may hereafter be

in my power, or in yours (I hope it will), to procure him better preferment; but it must not be forgotten that no

benefit of that sort would have been beyond his natural claims on us, and that nothing can, in fact, be an

equivalent for the certain advantage which he is now obliged to forego through the urgency of your debts."

Tom listened with some shame and some sorrow; but escaping as quickly as possible, could soon with

cheerful selfishness reflect, firstly, that he had not been half so much in debt as some of his friends; secondly,

that his father had made a most tiresome piece of work of it; and, thirdly, that the future incumbent, whoever

On Mr. Norris's death the presentation became the right of a Dr. Grant, who came consequently to reside at

Mansfield; and on proving to be a hearty man of fortyfive, seemed likely to disappoint Mr. Bertram's

calculations. But "no, he was a shortnecked, apoplectic sort of fellow, and, plied well with good things,

He had a wife about fifteen years his junior, but no children; and they entered the neighbourhood with the

The time was now come when Sir Thomas expected his sisterinlaw to claim her share in their niece, the

change in Mrs. Norris's situation, and the improvement in Fanny's age, seeming not merely to do away any

former objection to their living together, but even to give it the most decided eligibility; and as his own

circumstances were rendered less fair than heretofore, by some recent losses on his West India estate, in

addition to his eldest son's extravagance, it became not undesirable to himself to be relieved from the expense

of her support, and the obligation of her future provision. In the fullness of his belief that such a thing must

be, he mentioned its probability to his wife; and the first time of the subject's occurring to her again

happening to be when Fanny was present, she calmly observed to her, "So, Fanny, you are going to leave us,

Fanny was too much surprised to do more than repeat her aunt's words, "Going to leave you?"

"Yes, my dear; why should you be astonished? You have been five years with us, and my sister always meant

to take you when Mr. Norris died. But you must come up and tack on my patterns all the same."

The news was as disagreeable to Fanny as it had been unexpected. She had never received kindness from her

"Yes, I dare say you will; _that's_ natural enough. I suppose you have had as little to vex you since you came

"Never, my dear; but you are sure of a comfortable home. It can make very little difference to you, whether

Fanny left the room with a very sorrowful heart; she could not feel the difference to be so small, she could

not think of living with her aunt with anything like satisfaction. As soon as she met with Edmund she told

"Cousin," said she, "something is going to happen which I do not like at all; and though you have often

persuaded me into being reconciled to things that I disliked at first, you will not be able to do it now. I am

"Yes; my aunt Bertram has just told me so. It is quite settled. I am to leave Mansfield Park, and go to the

"Well, Fanny, and if the plan were not unpleasant to you, I should call it an excellent one."

"It has everything else in its favour. My aunt is acting like a sensible woman in wishing for you. She is

choosing a friend and companion exactly where she ought, and I am glad her love of money does not

interfere. You will be what you ought to be to her. I hope it does not distress you very much, Fanny?"

"Indeed it does: I cannot like it. I love this house and everything in it: I shall love nothing there. You know

"I can say nothing for her manner to you as a child; but it was the same with us all, or nearly so. She never

knew how to be pleasant to children. But you are now of an age to be treated better; I think she is behaving

better already; and when you are her only companion, you _must_ be important to her."

"As to your foolishness and awkwardness, my dear Fanny, believe me, you never have a shadow of either,

but in using the words so improperly. There is no reason in the world why you should not be important where

you are known. You have good sense, and a sweet temper, and I am sure you have a grateful heart, that could

never receive kindness without wishing to return it. I do not know any better qualifications for a friend and

"You are too kind," said Fanny, colouring at such praise; "how shall I ever thank you as I ought, for thinking

so well of me. Oh! cousin, if I am to go away, I shall remember your goodness to the last moment of my life."

"Why, indeed, Fanny, I should hope to be remembered at such a distance as the White House. You speak as if

you were going two hundred miles off instead of only across the park; but you will belong to us almost as

much as ever. The two families will be meeting every day in the year. The only difference will be that, living

with your aunt, you will necessarily be brought forward as you ought to be. _Here_ there are too many whom

"I must say it, and say it with pleasure. Mrs. Norris is much better fitted than my mother for having the

charge of you now. She is of a temper to do a great deal for anybody she really interests herself about, and

Fanny sighed, and said, "I cannot see things as you do; but I ought to believe you to be right rather than

myself, and I am very much obliged to you for trying to reconcile me to what must be. If I could suppose my

aunt really to care for me, it would be delightful to feel myself of consequence to anybody. _ Here_, I know, I

"The place, Fanny, is what you will not quit, though you quit the house. You will have as free a command of

the park and gardens as ever. Even _your_ constant little heart need not take fright at such a nominal change.

You will have the same walks to frequent, the same library to choose from, the same people to look at, the

"Very true. Yes, dear old grey pony! Ah! cousin, when I remember how much I used to dread riding, what

terrors it gave me to hear it talked of as likely to do me good (oh! how I have trembled at my uncle's opening

his lips if horses were talked of), and then think of the kind pains you took to reason and persuade me out of

my fears, and convince me that I should like it after a little while, and feel how right you proved to be, I am

"And I am quite convinced that your being with Mrs. Norris will be as good for your mind as riding has been

So ended their discourse, which, for any very appropriate service it could render Fanny, might as well have

been spared, for Mrs. Norris had not the smallest intention of taking her. It had never occurred to her, on the

present occasion, but as a thing to be carefully avoided. To prevent its being expected, she had fixed on the

smallest habitation which could rank as genteel among the buildings of Mansfield parish, the White House

being only just large enough to receive herself and her servants, and allow a spare room for a friend, of which

she made a very particular point. The spare rooms at the Parsonage had never been wanted, but the absolute

necessity of a spare room for a friend was now never forgotten. Not all her precautions, however, could save

her from being suspected of something better; or, perhaps, her very display of the importance of a spare room

might have misled Sir Thomas to suppose it really intended for Fanny. Lady Bertram soon brought the matter

"I think, sister, we need not keep Miss Lee any longer, when Fanny goes to live with you."

Mrs. Norris almost started. "Live with me, dear Lady Bertram! what do you mean?"

"Me! never. I never spoke a syllable about it to Sir Thomas, nor he to me. Fanny live with me! the last thing

in the world for me to think of, or for anybody to wish that really knows us both. Good heaven! what could I

do with Fanny? Me! a poor, helpless, forlorn widow, unfit for anything, my spirits quite broke down; what

could I do with a girl at her time of life? A girl of fifteen! the very age of all others to need most attention and

care, and put the cheerfullest spirits to the test! Sure Sir Thomas could not seriously expect such a thing! Sir

Thomas is too much my friend. Nobody that wishes me well, I am sure, would propose it. How came Sir

"But what did he say? He could not say he _wished_ me to take Fanny. I am sure in his heart he could not

"No; he only said he thought it very likely; and I thought so too. We both thought it would be a comfort to

you. But if you do not like it, there is no more to be said. She is no encumbrance here."

"Dear sister, if you consider my unhappy state, how can she be any comfort to me? Here am I, a poor desolate

widow, deprived of the best of husbands, my health gone in attending and nursing him, my spirits still worse,

all my peace in this world destroyed, with hardly enough to support me in the rank of a gentlewoman, and

enable me to live so as not to disgrace the memory of the dear departed what possible comfort could I have

in taking such a charge upon me as Fanny? If I could wish it for my own sake, I would not do so unjust a

thing by the poor girl. She is in good hands, and sure of doing well. I must struggle through my sorrows and

"Lady Bertram, I do not complain. I know I cannot live as I have done, but I must retrench where I can, and

learn to be a better manager. I _have_ _been_ a liberal housekeeper enough, but I shall not be ashamed to

practise economy now. My situation is as much altered as my income. A great many things were due from

poor Mr. Norris, as clergyman of the parish, that cannot be expected from me. It is unknown how much was

consumed in our kitchen by odd comers and goers. At the White House, matters must be better looked after. I

_must_ live within my income, or I shall be miserable; and I own it would give me great satisfaction to be

"My object, Lady Bertram, is to be of use to those that come after me. It is for your children's good that I

wish to be richer. I have nobody else to care for, but I should be very glad to think I could leave a little trifle

"You are very good, but do not trouble yourself about them. They are sure of being well provided for. Sir

"Why, you know, Sir Thomas's means will be rather straitened if the Antigua estate is to make such poor

"Oh! _that_ will soon be settled. Sir Thomas has been writing about it, I know."

"Well, Lady Bertram," said Mrs. Norris, moving to go, "I can only say that my sole desire is to be of use to

your family: and so, if Sir Thomas should ever speak again about my taking Fanny, you will be able to say

that my health and spirits put it quite out of the question; besides that, I really should not have a bed to give

Lady Bertram repeated enough of this conversation to her husband to convince him how much he had

mistaken his sisterinlaw's views; and she was from that moment perfectly safe from all expectation, or the

slightest allusion to it from him. He could not but wonder at her refusing to do anything for a niece whom she

had been so forward to adopt; but, as she took early care to make him, as well as Lady Bertram, understand

that whatever she possessed was designed for their family, he soon grew reconciled to a distinction which, at

the same time that it was advantageous and complimentary to them, would enable him better to provide for

Fanny soon learnt how unnecessary had been her fears of a removal; and her spontaneous, untaught felicity

on the discovery, conveyed some consolation to Edmund for his disappointment in what he had expected to

be so essentially serviceable to her. Mrs. Norris took possession of the White House, the Grants arrived at the

Parsonage, and these events over, everything at Mansfield went on for some time as usual.

The Grants showing a disposition to be friendly and sociable, gave great satisfaction in the main among their

new acquaintance. They had their faults, and Mrs. Norris soon found them out. The Doctor was very fond of

eating, and would have a good dinner every day; and Mrs. Grant, instead of contriving to gratify him at little

expense, gave her cook as high wages as they did at Mansfield Park, and was scarcely ever seen in her

offices. Mrs. Norris could not speak with any temper of such grievances, nor of the quantity of butter and

eggs that were regularly consumed in the house. "Nobody loved plenty and hospitality more than herself;

nobody more hated pitiful doings; the Parsonage, she believed, had never been wanting in comforts of any

sort, had never borne a bad character in _her_ _time_, but this was a way of going on that she could not

understand. A fine lady in a country parsonage was quite out of place. _Her_ storeroom, she thought, might

have been good enough for Mrs. Grant to go into. Inquire where she would, she could not find out that Mrs.

Lady Bertram listened without much interest to this sort of invective. She could not enter into the wrongs of

an economist, but she felt all the injuries of beauty in Mrs. Grant's being so well settled in life without being

handsome, and expressed her astonishment on that point almost as often, though not so diffusely, as Mrs.

These opinions had been hardly canvassed a year before another event arose of such importance in the

family, as might fairly claim some place in the thoughts and conversation of the ladies. Sir Thomas found it

expedient to go to Antigua himself, for the better arrangement of his affairs, and he took his eldest son with

him, in the hope of detaching him from some bad connexions at home. They left England with the probability

The necessity of the measure in a pecuniary light, and the hope of its utility to his son, reconciled Sir Thomas

to the effort of quitting the rest of his family, and of leaving his daughters to the direction of others at their

present most interesting time of life. He could not think Lady Bertram quite equal to supply his place with

them, or rather, to perform what should have been her own; but, in Mrs. Norris's watchful attention, and in

Edmund's judgment, he had sufficient confidence to make him go without fears for their conduct.

Lady Bertram did not at all like to have her husband leave her; but she was not disturbed by any alarm for his

safety, or solicitude for his comfort, being one of those persons who think nothing can be dangerous, or

The Miss Bertrams were much to be pitied on the occasion: not for their sorrow, but for their want of it. Their

father was no object of love to them; he had never seemed the friend of their pleasures, and his absence was

unhappily most welcome. They were relieved by it from all restraint; and without aiming at one gratification

that would probably have been forbidden by Sir Thomas, they felt themselves immediately at their own

disposal, and to have every indulgence within their reach. Fanny's relief, and her consciousness of it, were

quite equal to her cousins'; but a more tender nature suggested that her feelings were ungrateful, and she

really grieved because she could not grieve. "Sir Thomas, who had done so much for her and her brothers,

and who was gone perhaps never to return! that she should see him go without a tear! it was a shameful

insensibility." He had said to her, moreover, on the very last morning, that he hoped she might see William

again in the course of the ensuing winter, and had charged her to write and invite him to Mansfield as soon as

the squadron to which he belonged should be known to be in England. "This was so thoughtful and kind!"

and would he only have smiled upon her, and called her "my dear Fanny," while he said it, every former

frown or cold address might have been forgotten. But he had ended his speech in a way to sink her in sad

mortification, by adding, "If William does come to Mansfield, I hope you may be able to convince him that

the many years which have passed since you parted have not been spent on your side entirely without

improvement; though, I fear, he must find his sister at sixteen in some respects too much like his sister at

ten." She cried bitterly over this reflection when her uncle was gone; and her cousins, on seeing her with red

Tom Bertram had of late spent so little of his time at home that he could be only nominally missed; and Lady

Bertram was soon astonished to find how very well they did even without his father, how well Edmund could

supply his place in carving, talking to the steward, writing to the attorney, settling with the servants, and

equally saving her from all possible fatigue or exertion in every particular but that of directing her letters.

The earliest intelligence of the travellers' safe arrival at Antigua, after a favourable voyage, was received;

though not before Mrs. Norris had been indulging in very dreadful fears, and trying to make Edmund

participate them whenever she could get him alone; and as she depended on being the first person made

acquainted with any fatal catastrophe, she had already arranged the manner of breaking it to all the others,

when Sir Thomas's assurances of their both being alive and well made it necessary to lay by her agitation and

The winter came and passed without their being called for; the accounts continued perfectly good; and Mrs.

Norris, in promoting gaieties for her nieces, assisting their toilets, displaying their accomplishments, and

looking about for their future husbands, had so much to do as, in addition to all her own household cares,

some interference in those of her sister, and Mrs. Grant's wasteful doings to overlook, left her very little

The Miss Bertrams were now fully established among the belles of the neighbourhood; and as they joined to

beauty and brilliant acquirements a manner naturally easy, and carefully formed to general civility and

obligingness, they possessed its favour as well as its admiration. Their vanity was in such good order that

they seemed to be quite free from it, and gave themselves no airs; while the praises attending such behaviour,

secured and brought round by their aunt, served to strengthen them in believing they had no faults.

Lady Bertram did not go into public with her daughters. She was too indolent even to accept a mother's

gratification in witnessing their success and enjoyment at the expense of any personal trouble, and the charge

was made over to her sister, who desired nothing better than a post of such honourable representation, and

very thoroughly relished the means it afforded her of mixing in society without having horses to hire.

Fanny had no share in the festivities of the season; but she enjoyed being avowedly useful as her aunt's

companion when they called away the rest of the family; and, as Miss Lee had left Mansfield, she naturally

became everything to Lady Bertram during the night of a ball or a party. She talked to her, listened to her,

read to her; and the tranquillity of such evenings, her perfect security in such a _teteatete_ from any sound

of unkindness, was unspeakably welcome to a mind which had seldom known a pause in its alarms or

embarrassments. As to her cousins' gaieties, she loved to hear an account of them, especially of the balls, and

whom Edmund had danced with; but thought too lowly of her own situation to imagine she should ever be

admitted to the same, and listened, therefore, without an idea of any nearer concern in them. Upon the whole,

it was a comfortable winter to her; for though it brought no William to England, the neverfailing hope of his

The ensuing spring deprived her of her valued friend, the old grey pony; and for some time she was in danger

of feeling the loss in her health as well as in her affections; for in spite of the acknowledged importance of

her riding on horseback, no measures were taken for mounting her again, "because," as it was observed by

her aunts, "she might ride one of her cousin's horses at any time when they did not want them," and as the

Miss Bertrams regularly wanted their horses every fine day, and had no idea of carrying their obliging

manners to the sacrifice of any real pleasure, that time, of course, never came. They took their cheerful rides

in the fine mornings of April and May; and Fanny either sat at home the whole day with one aunt, or walked

beyond her strength at the instigation of the other: Lady Bertram holding exercise to be as unnecessary for

everybody as it was unpleasant to herself; and Mrs. Norris, who was walking all day, thinking everybody

ought to walk as much. Edmund was absent at this time, or the evil would have been earlier remedied. When

he returned, to understand how Fanny was situated, and perceived its ill effects, there seemed with him but

one thing to be done; and that "Fanny must have a horse" was the resolute declaration with which he opposed

whatever could be urged by the supineness of his mother, or the economy of his aunt, to make it appear

unimportant. Mrs. Norris could not help thinking that some steady old thing might be found among the

numbers belonging to the Park that would do vastly well; or that one might be borrowed of the steward; or

that perhaps Dr. Grant might now and then lend them the pony he sent to the post. She could not but consider

it as absolutely unnecessary, and even improper, that Fanny should have a regular lady's horse of her own, in

the style of her cousins. She was sure Sir Thomas had never intended it: and she must say that, to be making

such a purchase in his absence, and adding to the great expenses of his stable, at a time when a large part of

his income was unsettled, seemed to her very unjustifiable. "Fanny must have a horse," was Edmund's only

reply. Mrs. Norris could not see it in the same light. Lady Bertram did: she entirely agreed with her son as to

the necessity of it, and as to its being considered necessary by his father; she only pleaded against there being

any hurry; she only wanted him to wait till Sir Thomas's return, and then Sir Thomas might settle it all

himself. He would be at home in September, and where would be the harm of only waiting till September?

Though Edmund was much more displeased with his aunt than with his mother, as evincing least regard for

her niece, he could not help paying more attention to what she said; and at length determined on a method of

proceeding which would obviate the risk of his father's thinking he had done too much, and at the same time

procure for Fanny the immediate means of exercise, which he could not bear she should be without. He had

three horses of his own, but not one that would carry a woman. Two of them were hunters; the third, a useful

roadhorse: this third he resolved to exchange for one that his cousin might ride; he knew where such a one

was to be met with; and having once made up his mind, the whole business was soon completed. The new

mare proved a treasure; with a very little trouble she became exactly calculated for the purpose, and Fanny

was then put in almost full possession of her. She had not supposed before that anything could ever suit her

like the old grey pony; but her delight in Edmund's mare was far beyond any former pleasure of the sort; and

the addition it was ever receiving in the consideration of that kindness from which her pleasure sprung, was

beyond all her words to express. She regarded her cousin as an example of everything good and great, as

possessing worth which no one but herself could ever appreciate, and as entitled to such gratitude from her as

no feelings could be strong enough to pay. Her sentiments towards him were compounded of all that was

As the horse continued in name, as well as fact, the property of Edmund, Mrs. Norris could tolerate its being

for Fanny's use; and had Lady Bertram ever thought about her own objection again, he might have been

excused in her eyes for not waiting till Sir Thomas's return in September, for when September came Sir

Thomas was still abroad, and without any near prospect of finishing his business. Unfavourable

circumstances had suddenly arisen at a moment when he was beginning to turn all his thoughts towards

England; and the very great uncertainty in which everything was then involved determined him on sending

home his son, and waiting the final arrangement by himself Tom arrived safely, bringing an excellent account

of his father's health; but to very little purpose, as far as Mrs. Norris was concerned. Sir Thomas's sending

away his son seemed to her so like a parent's care, under the influence of a foreboding of evil to himself, that

she could not help feeling dreadful presentiments; and as the long evenings of autumn came on, was so

terribly haunted by these ideas, in the sad solitariness of her cottage, as to be obliged to take daily refuge in

the diningroom of the Park. The return of winter engagements, however, was not without its effect; and in

the course of their progress, her mind became so pleasantly occupied in superintending the fortunes of her

eldest niece, as tolerably to quiet her nerves. "If poor Sir Thomas were fated never to return, it would be

peculiarly consoling to see their dear Maria well married," she very often thought; always when they were in

the company of men of fortune, and particularly on the introduction of a young man who had recently

Mr. Rushworth was from the first struck with the beauty of Miss Bertram, and, being inclined to marry, soon

fancied himself in love. He was a heavy young man, with not more than common sense; but as there was

nothing disagreeable in his figure or address, the young lady was well pleased with her conquest. Being now

in her twentyfirst year, Maria Bertram was beginning to think matrimony a duty; and as a marriage with Mr.

Rushworth would give her the enjoyment of a larger income than her father's, as well as ensure her the house

in town, which was now a prime object, it became, by the same rule of moral obligation, her evident duty to

marry Mr. Rushworth if she could. Mrs. Norris was most zealous in promoting the match, by every

suggestion and contrivance likely to enhance its desirableness to either party; and, among other means, by

seeking an intimacy with the gentleman's mother, who at present lived with him, and to whom she even

forced Lady Bertram to go through ten miles of indifferent road to pay a morning visit. It was not long before

a good understanding took place between this lady and herself. Mrs. Rushworth acknowledged herself very

desirous that her son should marry, and declared that of all the young ladies she had ever seen, Miss Bertram

seemed, by her amiable qualities and accomplishments, the best adapted to make him happy. Mrs. Norris

accepted the compliment, and admired the nice discernment of character which could so well distinguish

merit. Maria was indeed the pride and delight of them allperfectly faultless an angel; and, of course, so

surrounded by admirers, must be difficult in her choice: but yet, as far as Mrs. Norris could allow herself to

decide on so short an acquaintance, Mr. Rushworth appeared precisely the young man to deserve and attach

After dancing with each other at a proper number of balls, the young people justified these opinions, and an

engagement, with a due reference to the absent Sir Thomas, was entered into, much to the satisfaction of their

respective families, and of the general lookerson of the neighbourhood, who had, for many weeks past, felt

It was some months before Sir Thomas's consent could be received; but, in the meanwhile, as no one felt a

doubt of his most cordial pleasure in the connexion, the intercourse of the two families was carried on

without restraint, and no other attempt made at secrecy than Mrs. Norris's talking of it everywhere as a matter

Edmund was the only one of the family who could see a fault in the business; but no representation of his

aunt's could induce him to find Mr. Rushworth a desirable companion. He could allow his sister to be the best

judge of her own happiness, but he was not pleased that her happiness should centre in a large income; nor

could he refrain from often saying to himself, in Mr. Rushworth's company "If this man had not twelve

Sir Thomas, however, was truly happy in the prospect of an alliance so unquestionably advantageous, and of

which he heard nothing but the perfectly good and agreeable. It was a connexion exactly of the right sort in

the same county, and the same interestand his most hearty concurrence was conveyed as soon as possible.

He only conditioned that the marriage should not take place before his return, which he was again looking

eagerly forward to. He wrote in April, and had strong hopes of settling everything to his entire satisfaction,

Such was the state of affairs in the month of July; and Fanny had just reached her eighteenth year, when the

society of the village received an addition in the brother and sister of Mrs. Grant, a Mr. and Miss Crawford,

the children of her mother by a second marriage. They were young people of fortune. The son had a good

estate in Norfolk, the daughter twenty thousand pounds. As children, their sister had been always very fond

of them; but, as her own marriage had been soon followed by the death of their common parent, which left

them to the care of a brother of their father, of whom Mrs. Grant knew nothing, she had scarcely seen them

since. In their uncle's house they had found a kind home. Admiral and Mrs. Crawford, though agreeing in

nothing else, were united in affection for these children, or, at least, were no farther adverse in their feelings

than that each had their favourite, to whom they showed the greatest fondness of the two. The Admiral

delighted in the boy, Mrs. Crawford doted on the girl; and it was the lady's death which now obliged her

_protegee_, after some months' further trial at her uncle's house, to find another home. Admiral Crawford was

a man of vicious conduct, who chose, instead of retaining his niece, to bring his mistress under his own roof;

and to this Mrs. Grant was indebted for her sister's proposal of coming to her, a measure quite as welcome on

one side as it could be expedient on the other; for Mrs. Grant, having by this time run through the usual

resources of ladies residing in the country without a family of childrenhaving more than filled her

favourite sittingroom with pretty furniture, and made a choice collection of plants and poultrywas very

much in want of some variety at home. The arrival, therefore, of a sister whom she had always loved, and

now hoped to retain with her as long as she remained single, was highly agreeable; and her chief anxiety was

lest Mansfield should not satisfy the habits of a young woman who had been mostly used to London.

Miss Crawford was not entirely free from similar apprehensions, though they arose principally from doubts

of her sister's style of living and tone of society; and it was not till after she had tried in vain to persuade her

brother to settle with her at his own country house, that she could resolve to hazard herself among her other

relations. To anything like a permanence of abode, or limitation of society, Henry Crawford had, unluckily, a

great dislike: he could not accommodate his sister in an article of such importance; but he escorted her, with

the utmost kindness, into Northamptonshire, and as readily engaged to fetch her away again, at half an hour's

The meeting was very satisfactory on each side. Miss Crawford found a sister without preciseness or

rusticity, a sister's husband who looked the gentleman, and a house commodious and well fitted up; and Mrs.

Grant received in those whom she hoped to love better than ever a young man and woman of very

prepossessing appearance. Mary Crawford was remarkably pretty; Henry, though not handsome, had air and

countenance; the manners of both were lively and pleasant, and Mrs. Grant immediately gave them credit for

everything else. She was delighted with each, but Mary was her dearest object; and having never been able to

glory in beauty of her own, she thoroughly enjoyed the power of being proud of her sister's. She had not

waited her arrival to look out for a suitable match for her: she had fixed on Tom Bertram; the eldest son of a

baronet was not too good for a girl of twenty thousand pounds, with all the elegance and accomplishments

which Mrs. Grant foresaw in her; and being a warmhearted, unreserved woman, Mary had not been three

Miss Crawford was glad to find a family of such consequence so very near them, and not at all displeased

either at her sister's early care, or the choice it had fallen on. Matrimony was her object, provided she could

marry well: and having seen Mr. Bertram in town, she knew that objection could no more be made to his

person than to his situation in life. While she treated it as a joke, therefore, she did not forget to think of it

"And now," added Mrs. Grant, "I have thought of something to make it complete. I should dearly love to

settle you both in this country; and therefore, Henry, you shall marry the youngest Miss Bertram, a nice,

"My dear sister," said Mary, "if you can persuade him into anything of the sort, it will be a fresh matter of

delight to me to find myself allied to anybody so clever, and I shall only regret that you have not half a dozen

daughters to dispose of. If you can persuade Henry to marry, you must have the address of a Frenchwoman.

All that English abilities can do has been tried already. I have three very particular friends who have been all

dying for him in their turn; and the pains which they, their mothers (very clever women), as well as my dear

aunt and myself, have taken to reason, coax, or trick him into marrying, is inconceivable! He is the most

horrible flirt that can be imagined. If your Miss Bertrams do not like to have their hearts broke, let them avoid

"No, I am sure you are too good. You will be kinder than Mary. You will allow for the doubts of youth and

inexperience. I am of a cautious temper, and unwilling to risk my happiness in a hurry. Nobody can think

more highly of the matrimonial state than myself I consider the blessing of a wife as most justly described in

"There, Mrs. Grant, you see how he dwells on one word, and only look at his smile. I assure you he is very

"I pay very little regard," said Mrs. Grant, "to what any young person says on the subject of marriage. If they

profess a disinclination for it, I only set it down that they have not yet seen the right person."

Dr. Grant laughingly congratulated Miss Crawford on feeling no disinclination to the state herself.

"Oh yes! I am not at all ashamed of it. I would have everybody marry if they can do it properly: I do not like

to have people throw themselves away; but everybody should marry as soon as they can do it to advantage."

The young people were pleased with each other from the first. On each side there was much to attract, and

their acquaintance soon promised as early an intimacy as good manners would warrant. Miss Crawford's

beauty did her no disservice with the Miss Bertrams. They were too handsome themselves to dislike any

woman for being so too, and were almost as much charmed as their brothers with her lively dark eye, clear

brown complexion, and general prettiness. Had she been tall, full formed, and fair, it might have been more

of a trial: but as it was, there could be no comparison; and she was most allowably a sweet, pretty girl, while

Her brother was not handsome: no, when they first saw him he was absolutely plain, black and plain; but still

he was the gentleman, with a pleasing address. The second meeting proved him not so very plain: he was

plain, to be sure, but then he had so much countenance, and his teeth were so good, and he was so well made,

that one soon forgot he was plain; and after a third interview, after dining in company with him at the

Parsonage, he was no longer allowed to be called so by anybody. He was, in fact, the most agreeable young

man the sisters had ever known, and they were equally delighted with him. Miss Bertram's engagement made

him in equity the property of Julia, of which Julia was fully aware; and before he had been at Mansfield a

Maria's notions on the subject were more confused and indistinct. She did not want to see or understand.

"There could be no harm in her liking an agreeable man everybody knew her situationMr. Crawford

must take care of himself." Mr. Crawford did not mean to be in any danger! the Miss Bertrams were worth

pleasing, and were ready to be pleased; and he began with no object but of making them like him. He did not

want them to die of love; but with sense and temper which ought to have made him judge and feel better, he

"I like your Miss Bertrams exceedingly, sister," said he, as he returned from attending them to their carriage

"So they are indeed, and I am delighted to hear you say it. But you like Julia best."

"So I should suppose. She has the advantage in every feature, and I prefer her countenance; but I like Julia

best; Miss Bertram is certainly the handsomest, and I have found her the most agreeable, but I shall always

"And besides, Miss Bertram is engaged. Remember that, my dear brother. Her choice is made."

"Yes, and I like her the better for it. An engaged woman is always more agreeable than a disengaged. She is

satisfied with herself. Her cares are over, and she feels that she may exert all her powers of pleasing without

"Why, as to that, Mr. Rushworth is a very good sort of young man, and it is a great match for her."

"But Miss Bertram does not care three straws for him; _that_ is your opinion of your intimate friend. _I_ do

not subscribe to it. I am sure Miss Bertram is very much attached to Mr. Rushworth. I could see it in her eyes,

when he was mentioned. I think too well of Miss Bertram to suppose she would ever give her hand without

"We must leave him to himself, I believe. Talking does no good. He will be taken in at last."

"But I would not have him _taken_ _in_; I would not have him duped; I would have it all fair and

"Oh dear! let him stand his chance and be taken in. It will do just as well. Everybody is taken in at some

"In marriage especially. With all due respect to such of the present company as chance to be married, my dear

Mrs. Grant, there is not one in a hundred of either sex who is not taken in when they marry. Look where I

will, I see that it _is_ so; and I feel that it _must_ be so, when I consider that it is, of all transactions, the one

"My poor aunt had certainly little cause to love the state; but, however, speaking from my own observation, it

is a manoeuvring business. I know so many who have married in the full expectation and confidence of some

one particular advantage in the connexion, or accomplishment, or good quality in the person, who have found

themselves entirely deceived, and been obliged to put up with exactly the reverse. What is this but a take in?"

"My dear child, there must be a little imagination here. I beg your pardon, but I cannot quite believe you.

Depend upon it, you see but half. You see the evil, but you do not see the consolation. There will be little

rubs and disappointments everywhere, and we are all apt to expect too much; but then, if one scheme of

happiness fails, human nature turns to another; if the first calculation is wrong, we make a second better: we

find comfort somewhereand those evilminded observers, dearest Mary, who make much of a little, are

"Well done, sister! I honour your _esprit_ _du_ _corps_. When I am a wife, I mean to be just as staunch

myself; and I wish my friends in general would be so too. It would save me many a heartache."

"You are as bad as your brother, Mary; but we will cure you both. Mansfield shall cure you both, and without

The Crawfords, without wanting to be cured, were very willing to stay. Mary was satisfied with the

Parsonage as a present home, and Henry equally ready to lengthen his visit. He had come, intending to spend

only a few days with them; but Mansfield promised well, and there was nothing to call him elsewhere. It

delighted Mrs. Grant to keep them both with her, and Dr. Grant was exceedingly well contented to have it so:

a talking pretty young woman like Miss Crawford is always pleasant society to an indolent, stayathome

man; and Mr. Crawford's being his guest was an excuse for drinking claret every day.

The Miss Bertrams' admiration of Mr. Crawford was more rapturous than anything which Miss Crawford's

habits made her likely to feel. She acknowledged, however, that the Mr. Bertrams were very fine young men,

that two such young men were not often seen together even in London, and that their manners, particularly

those of the eldest, were very good. _He_ had been much in London, and had more liveliness and gallantry

than Edmund, and must, therefore, be preferred; and, indeed, his being the eldest was another strong claim.

She had felt an early presentiment that she _should_ like the eldest best. She knew it was her way.

Tom Bertram must have been thought pleasant, indeed, at any rate; he was the sort of young man to be

generally liked, his agreeableness was of the kind to be oftener found agreeable than some endowments of a

higher stamp, for he had easy manners, excellent spirits, a large acquaintance, and a great deal to say; and the

reversion of Mansfield Park, and a baronetcy, did no harm to all this. Miss Crawford soon felt that he and his

situation might do. She looked about her with due consideration, and found almost everything in his favour: a

park, a real park, five miles round, a spacious modernbuilt house, so well placed and well screened as to

deserve to be in any collection of engravings of gentlemen's seats in the kingdom, and wanting only to be

completely new furnishedpleasant sisters, a quiet mother, and an agreeable man himselfwith the

advantage of being tied up from much gaming at present by a promise to his father, and of being Sir Thomas

hereafter. It might do very well; she believed she should accept him; and she began accordingly to interest

These races were to call him away not long after their acquaintance began; and as it appeared that the family

did not, from his usual goings on, expect him back again for many weeks, it would bring his passion to an

early proof. Much was said on his side to induce her to attend the races, and schemes were made for a large

party to them, with all the eagerness of inclination, but it would only do to be talked of.

And Fanny, what was _she_ doing and thinking all this while? and what was _her_ opinion of the

newcomers? Few young ladies of eighteen could be less called on to speak their opinion than Fanny. In a

quiet way, very little attended to, she paid her tribute of admiration to Miss Crawford's beauty; but as she still

continued to think Mr. Crawford very plain, in spite of her two cousins having repeatedly proved the

contrary, she never mentioned _him_. The notice, which she excited herself, was to this effect. "I begin now

to understand you all, except Miss Price," said Miss Crawford, as she was walking with the Mr. Bertrams.

"Pray, is she out, or is she not? I am puzzled. She dined at the Parsonage, with the rest of you, which seemed

like being _out_; and yet she says so little, that I can hardly suppose she _is_."

Edmund, to whom this was chiefly addressed, replied, "I believe I know what you mean, but I will not

undertake to answer the question. My cousin is grown up. She has the age and sense of a woman, but the outs

"And yet, in general, nothing can be more easily ascertained. The distinction is so broad. Manners as well as

appearance are, generally speaking, so totally different. Till now, I could not have supposed it possible to be

mistaken as to a girl's being out or not. A girl not out has always the same sort of dress: a close bonnet, for

instance; looks very demure, and never says a word. You may smile, but it is so, I assure you; and except that

it is sometimes carried a little too far, it is all very proper. Girls should be quiet and modest. The most

objectionable part is, that the alteration of manners on being introduced into company is frequently too

sudden. They sometimes pass in such very little time from reserve to quite the oppositeto confidence!

_That_ is the faulty part of the present system. One does not like to see a girl of eighteen or nineteen so

immediately up to every thingand perhaps when one has seen her hardly able to speak the year before. Mr.

"I believe I have, but this is hardly fair; I see what you are at. You are quizzing me and Miss Anderson."

"No, indeed. Miss Anderson! I do not know who or what you mean. I am quite in the dark. But I _will_ quiz

"Ah! you carry it off very well, but I cannot be quite so far imposed on. You must have had Miss Anderson in

your eye, in describing an altered young lady. You paint too accurately for mistake. It was exactly so. The

Andersons of Baker Street. We were speaking of them the other day, you know. Edmund, you have heard me

mention Charles Anderson. The circumstance was precisely as this lady has represented it. When Anderson

first introduced me to his family, about two years ago, his sister was not _out_, and I could not get her to

speak to me. I sat there an hour one morning waiting for Anderson, with only her and a little girl or two in the

room, the governess being sick or run away, and the mother in and out every moment with letters of business,

and I could hardly get a word or a look from the young lady nothing like a civil answershe screwed up

her mouth, and turned from me with such an air! I did not see her again for a twelvemonth. She was then

_out_. I met her at Mrs. Holford's, and did not recollect her. She came up to me, claimed me as an

acquaintance, stared me out of countenance; and talked and laughed till I did not know which way to look. I

felt that I must be the jest of the room at the time, and Miss Crawford, it is plain, has heard the story."

"And a very pretty story it is, and with more truth in it, I dare say, than does credit to Miss Anderson. It is too

common a fault. Mothers certainly have not yet got quite the right way of managing their daughters. I do not

know where the error lies. I do not pretend to set people right, but I do see that they are often wrong."

"Those who are showing the world what female manners _should_ be," said Mr. Bertram gallantly, "are

"The error is plain enough," said the less courteous Edmund; "such girls are ill brought up. They are given

wrong notions from the beginning. They are always acting upon motives of vanity, and there is no more real

"I do not know," replied Miss Crawford hesitatingly. "Yes, I cannot agree with you there. It is certainly the

modestest part of the business. It is much worse to have girls not out give themselves the same airs and take

the same liberties as if they were, which I have seen done. That is worse than anythingquite disgusting!"

"Yes, _that_ is very inconvenient indeed," said Mr. Bertram. "It leads one astray; one does not know what to

do. The close bonnet and demure air you describe so well (and nothing was ever juster), tell one what is

expected; but I got into a dreadful scrape last year from the want of them. I went down to Ramsgate for a

week with a friend last September, just after my return from the West Indies. My friend Sneydyou have

heard me speak of Sneyd, Edmund his father, and mother, and sisters, were there, all new to me. When we

reached Albion Place they were out; we went after them, and found them on the pier: Mrs. and the two Miss

Sneyds, with others of their acquaintance. I made my bow in form; and as Mrs. Sneyd was surrounded by

men, attached myself to one of her daughters, walked by her side all the way home, and made myself as

agreeable as I could; the young lady perfectly easy in her manners, and as ready to talk as to listen. I had not a

suspicion that I could be doing anything wrong. They looked just the same: both welldressed, with veils and

parasols like other girls; but I afterwards found that I had been giving all my attention to the youngest, who

was not _out_, and had most excessively offended the eldest. Miss Augusta ought not to have been noticed

"That was bad indeed. Poor Miss Sneyd. "Though I have no younger sister, I feel for her. To be neglected

before one's time must be very vexatious; but it was entirely the mother's fault. Miss Augusta should have

been with her governess. Such halfandhalf doings never prosper. But now I must be satisfied about Miss

Price. Does she go to balls? Does she dine out every where, as well as at my sister's?"

"No," replied Edmund; "I do not think she has ever been to a ball. My mother seldom goes into company

herself, and dines nowhere but with Mrs. Grant, and Fanny stays at home with _her_."

Mr. Bertram set off for, and Miss Crawford was prepared to find a great chasm in their society,

and to miss him decidedly in the meetings which were now becoming almost daily between the families; and

on their all dining together at the Park soon after his going, she retook her chosen place near the bottom of the

table, fully expecting to feel a most melancholy difference in the change of masters. It would be a very flat

business, she was sure. In comparison with his brother, Edmund would have nothing to say. The soup would

be sent round in a most spiritless manner, wine drank without any smiles or agreeable trifling, and the

venison cut up without supplying one pleasant anecdote of any former haunch, or a single entertaining story,

about "my friend such a one." She must try to find amusement in what was passing at the upper end of the

table, and in observing Mr. Rushworth, who was now making his appearance at Mansfield for the first time

since the Crawfords' arrival. He had been visiting a friend in the neighbouring county, and that friend having

recently had his grounds laid out by an improver, Mr. Rushworth was returned with his head full of the

subject, and very eager to be improving his own place in the same way; and though not saying much to the

purpose, could talk of nothing else. The subject had been already handled in the drawingroom; it was

revived in the diningparlour. Miss Bertram's attention and opinion was evidently his chief aim; and though

her deportment showed rather conscious superiority than any solicitude to oblige him, the mention of

Sotherton Court, and the ideas attached to it, gave her a feeling of complacency, which prevented her from

"I wish you could see Compton," said he; "it is the most complete thing! I never saw a place so altered in my

life. I told Smith I did not know where I was. The approach _now_, is one of the finest things in the country:

you see the house in the most surprising manner. I declare, when I got back to Sotherton yesterday, it looked

"Oh, for shame!" cried Mrs. Norris. "A prison indeed? Sotherton Court is the noblest old place in the world."

"It wants improvement, ma'am, beyond anything. I never saw a place that wanted so much improvement in

"No wonder that Mr. Rushworth should think so at present," said Mrs. Grant to Mrs. Norris, with a smile;

"but depend upon it, Sotherton will have _every_ improvement in time which his heart can desire."

"I must try to do something with it," said Mr. Rushworth, "but I do not know what. I hope I shall have some

"Your best friend upon such an occasion," said Miss Bertram calmly, "would be Mr. Repton, I imagine."

"That is what I was thinking of. As he has done so well by Smith, I think I had better have him at once. His

"Well, and if they were _ten_," cried Mrs. Norris, "I am sure _you_ need not regard it. The expense need not

be any impediment. If I were you, I should not think of the expense. I would have everything done in the best

style, and made as nice as possible. Such a place as Sotherton Court deserves everything that taste and money

can do. You have space to work upon there, and grounds that will well reward you. For my own part, if I had

anything within the fiftieth part of the size of Sotherton, I should be always planting and improving, for

naturally I am excessively fond of it. It would be too ridiculous for me to attempt anything where I am now,

with my little half acre. It would be quite a burlesque. But if I had more room, I should take a prodigious

delight in improving and planting. We did a vast deal in that way at the Parsonage: we made it quite a

different place from what it was when we first had it. You young ones do not remember much about it,

perhaps; but if dear Sir Thomas were here, he could tell you what improvements we made: and a great deal

more would have been done, but for poor Mr. Norris's sad state of health. He could hardly ever get out, poor

man, to enjoy anything, and _that_ disheartened me from doing several things that Sir Thomas and I used to

talk of. If it had not been for _that_, we should have carried on the garden wall, and made the plantation to

shut out the churchyard, just as Dr. Grant has done. We were always doing something as it was. It was only

the spring twelvemonth before Mr. Norris's death that we put in the apricot against the stable wall, which is

now grown such a noble tree, and getting to such perfection, sir," addressing herself then to Dr. Grant.

"The tree thrives well, beyond a doubt, madam," replied Dr. Grant. "The soil is good; and I never pass it

without regretting that the fruit should be so little worth the trouble of gathering."

"Sir, it is a Moor Park, we bought it as a Moor Park, and it cost usthat is, it was a present from Sir Thomas,

but I saw the billand I know it cost seven shillings, and was charged as a Moor Park."

"You were imposed on, ma'am," replied Dr. Grant: "these potatoes have as much the flavour of a Moor Park

apricot as the fruit from that tree. It is an insipid fruit at the best; but a good apricot is eatable, which none

"The truth is, ma'am," said Mrs. Grant, pretending to whisper across the table to Mrs. Norris, "that Dr. Grant

hardly knows what the natural taste of our apricot is: he is scarcely ever indulged with one, for it is so

valuable a fruit; with a little assistance, and ours is such a remarkably large, fair sort, that what with early

Mrs. Norris, who had begun to redden, was appeased; and, for a little while, other subjects took place of the

improvements of Sotherton. Dr. Grant and Mrs. Norris were seldom good friends; their acquaintance had

After a short interruption Mr. Rushworth began again. "Smith's place is the admiration of all the country; and

it was a mere nothing before Repton took it in hand. I think I shall have Repton."

"Mr. Rushworth," said Lady Bertram, "if I were you, I would have a very pretty shrubbery. One likes to get

Mr. Rushworth was eager to assure her ladyship of his acquiescence, and tried to make out something

complimentary; but, between his submission to _her_ taste, and his having always intended the same himself,

with the superadded objects of professing attention to the comfort of ladies in general, and of insinuating that

there was one only whom he was anxious to please, he grew puzzled, and Edmund was glad to put an end to

his speech by a proposal of wine. Mr. Rushworth, however, though not usually a great talker, had still more

to say on the subject next his heart. "Smith has not much above a hundred acres altogether in his grounds,

which is little enough, and makes it more surprising that the place can have been so improved. Now, at

Sotherton we have a good seven hundred, without reckoning the water meadows; so that I think, if so much

could be done at Compton, we need not despair. There have been two or three fine old trees cut down, that

grew too near the house, and it opens the prospect amazingly, which makes me think that Repton, or anybody

of that sort, would certainly have the avenue at Sotherton down: the avenue that leads from the west front to

the top of the hill, you know," turning to Miss Bertram particularly as he spoke. But Miss Bertram thought it

"The avenue! Oh! I do not recollect it. I really know very little of Sotherton."

Fanny, who was sitting on the other side of Edmund, exactly opposite Miss Crawford, and who had been

"Cut down an avenue! What a pity! Does it not make you think of Cowper? 'Ye fallen avenues, once more I

"I should like to see Sotherton before it is cut down, to see the place as it is now, in its old state; but I do not

"Have you never been there? No, you never can; and, unluckily, it is out of distance for a ride. I wish we

"Oh! it does not signify. Whenever I do see it, you will tell me how it has been altered."

"I collect," said Miss Crawford, "that Sotherton is an old place, and a place of some grandeur. In any

"The house was built in Elizabeth's time, and is a large, regular, brick building; heavy, but respectable

looking, and has many good rooms. It is ill placed. It stands in one of the lowest spots of the park; in that

respect, unfavourable for improvement. But the woods are fine, and there is a stream, which, I dare say,

might be made a good deal of. Mr. Rushworth is quite right, I think, in meaning to give it a modern dress, and

Miss Crawford listened with submission, and said to herself, "He is a wellbred man; he makes the best of

"I do not wish to influence Mr. Rushworth," he continued; "but, had I a place to new fashion, I should not put

myself into the hands of an improver. I would rather have an inferior degree of beauty, of my own choice,

and acquired progressively. I would rather abide by my own blunders than by his."

"_You_ would know what you were about, of course; but that would not suit _me_. I have no eye or

ingenuity for such matters, but as they are before me; and had I a place of my own in the country, I should be

most thankful to any Mr. Repton who would undertake it, and give me as much beauty as he could for my

"Ay, you have been brought up to it. It was no part of my education; and the only dose I ever had, being

administered by not the first favourite in the world, has made me consider improvements _in_ _hand_ as the

greatest of nuisances. Three years ago the Admiral, my honoured uncle, bought a cottage at Twickenham for

us all to spend our summers in; and my aunt and I went down to it quite in raptures; but it being excessively

pretty, it was soon found necessary to be improved, and for three months we were all dirt and confusion,

without a gravel walk to step on, or a bench fit for use. I would have everything as complete as possible in the

country, shrubberies and flowergardens, and rustic seats innumerable: but it must all be done without my

Edmund was sorry to hear Miss Crawford, whom he was much disposed to admire, speak so freely of her

uncle. It did not suit his sense of propriety, and he was silenced, till induced by further smiles and liveliness

"Mr. Bertram," said she, "I have tidings of my harp at last. I am assured that it is safe at Northampton; and

there it has probably been these ten days, in spite of the solemn assurances we have so often received to the

contrary." Edmund expressed his pleasure and surprise. "The truth is, that our inquiries were too direct; we

sent a servant, we went ourselves: this will not do seventy miles from London; but this morning we heard of

it in the right way. It was seen by some farmer, and he told the miller, and the miller told the butcher, and the

"I am very glad that you have heard of it, by whatever means, and hope there will be no further delay."

"I am to have it tomorrow; but how do you think it is to be conveyed? Not by a wagon or cart: oh no!

nothing of that kind could be hired in the village. I might as well have asked for porters and a handbarrow."

"You would find it difficult, I dare say, just now, in the middle of a very late hay harvest, to hire a horse and

"I was astonished to find what a piece of work was made of it! To want a horse and cart in the country

seemed impossible, so I told my maid to speak for one directly; and as I cannot look out of my

dressingcloset without seeing one farmyard, nor walk in the shrubbery without passing another, I thought it

would be only ask and have, and was rather grieved that I could not give the advantage to all. Guess my

surprise, when I found that I had been asking the most unreasonable, most impossible thing in the world; had

offended all the farmers, all the labourers, all the hay in the parish! As for Dr. Grant's bailiff, I believe I had

better keep out of _his_ way; and my brotherinlaw himself, who is all kindness in general, looked rather

"You could not be expected to have thought on the subject before; but when you _do_ think of it, you must

see the importance of getting in the grass. The hire of a cart at any time might not be so easy as you suppose:

our farmers are not in the habit of letting them out; but, in harvest, it must be quite out of their power to spare

"I shall understand all your ways in time; but, coming down with the true London maxim, that everything is

to be got with money, I was a little embarrassed at first by the sturdy independence of your country customs.

However, I am to have my harp fetched tomorrow. Henry, who is goodnature itself, has offered to fetch it

Edmund spoke of the harp as his favourite instrument, and hoped to be soon allowed to hear her. Fanny had

"I shall be most happy to play to you both," said Miss Crawford; "at least as long as you can like to listen:

probably much longer, for I dearly love music myself, and where the natural taste is equal the player must

always be best off, for she is gratified in more ways than one. Now, Mr. Bertram, if you write to your brother,

I entreat you to tell him that my harp is come: he heard so much of my misery about it. And you may say, if

you please, that I shall prepare my most plaintive airs against his return, in compassion to his feelings, as I

"If I write, I will say whatever you wish me; but I do not, at present, foresee any occasion for writing."

"No, I dare say, nor if he were to be gone a twelvemonth, would you ever write to him, nor he to you, if it

could be helped. The occasion would never be foreseen. What strange creatures brothers are! You would not

write to each other but upon the most urgent necessity in the world; and when obliged to take up the pen to

say that such a horse is ill, or such a relation dead, it is done in the fewest possible words. You have but one

style among you. I know it perfectly. Henry, who is in every other respect exactly what a brother should be,

who loves me, consults me, confides in me, and will talk to me by the hour together, has never yet turned the

page in a letter; and very often it is nothing more than'Dear Mary, I am just arrived. Bath seems full, and

everything as usual. Yours sincerely.' That is the true manly style; that is a complete brother's letter."

"When they are at a distance from all their family," said Fanny, colouring for William's sake, "they can write

"Miss Price has a brother at sea," said Edmund, "whose excellence as a correspondent makes her think you

Fanny would rather have had Edmund tell the story, but his determined silence obliged her to relate her

brother's situation: her voice was animated in speaking of his profession, and the foreign stations he had been

on; but she could not mention the number of years that he had been absent without tears in her eyes. Miss

"Do you know anything of my cousin's captain?" said Edmund; "Captain Marshall? You have a large

"Among admirals, large enough; but," with an air of grandeur, "we know very little of the inferior ranks.

Postcaptains may be very good sort of men, but they do not belong to _us_. Of various admirals I could tell

you a great deal: of them and their flags, and the gradation of their pay, and their bickerings and jealousies.

But, in general, I can assure you that they are all passed over, and all very ill used. Certainly, my home at my

uncle's brought me acquainted with a circle of admirals. Of _Rears_ and _Vices_ I saw enough. Now do not

"Yes, the profession is well enough under two circumstances: if it make the fortune, and there be discretion in

spending it; but, in short, it is not a favourite profession of mine. It has never worn an amiable form to _me_."

Edmund reverted to the harp, and was again very happy in the prospect of hearing her play.

The subject of improving grounds, meanwhile, was still under consideration among the others; and Mrs.

Grant could not help addressing her brother, though it was calling his attention from Miss Julia Bertram.

"My dear Henry, have _you_ nothing to say? You have been an improver yourself, and from what I hear of

Everingham, it may vie with any place in England. Its natural beauties, I am sure, are great. Everingham, as it

_used_ to be, was perfect in my estimation: such a happy fall of ground, and such timber! What would I not

"Nothing could be so gratifying to me as to hear your opinion of it," was his answer; "but I fear there would

be some disappointment: you would not find it equal to your present ideas. In extent, it is a mere nothing; you

would be surprised at its insignificance; and, as for improvement, there was very little for me to do too

"Excessively; but what with the natural advantages of the ground, which pointed out, even to a very young

eye, what little remained to be done, and my own consequent resolutions, I had not been of age three months

before Everingham was all that it is now. My plan was laid at Westminster, a little altered, perhaps, at

Cambridge, and at oneandtwenty executed. I am inclined to envy Mr. Rushworth for having so much

"Those who see quickly, will resolve quickly, and act quickly," said Julia. "_You_ can never want

employment. Instead of envying Mr. Rushworth, you should assist him with your opinion."

Mrs. Grant, hearing the latter part of this speech, enforced it warmly, persuaded that no judgment could be

equal to her brother's; and as Miss Bertram caught at the idea likewise, and gave it her full support, declaring

that, in her opinion, it was infinitely better to consult with friends and disinterested advisers, than

immediately to throw the business into the hands of a professional man, Mr. Rushworth was very ready to

request the favour of Mr. Crawford's assistance; and Mr. Crawford, after properly depreciating his own

abilities, was quite at his service in any way that could be useful. Mr. Rushworth then began to propose Mr.

Crawford's doing him the honour of coming over to Sotherton, and taking a bed there; when Mrs. Norris, as if

reading in her two nieces' minds their little approbation of a plan which was to take Mr. Crawford away,

"There can be no doubt of Mr. Crawford's willingness; but why should not more of us go? Why should not

we make a little party? Here are many that would be interested in your improvements, my dear Mr.

Rushworth, and that would like to hear Mr. Crawford's opinion on the spot, and that might be of some small

use to you with _their_ opinions; and, for my own part, I have been long wishing to wait upon your good

mother again; nothing but having no horses of my own could have made me so remiss; but now I could go

and sit a few hours with Mrs. Rushworth, while the rest of you walked about and settled things, and then we

could all return to a late dinner here, or dine at Sotherton, just as might be most agreeable to your mother, and

have a pleasant drive home by moonlight. I dare say Mr. Crawford would take my two nieces and me in his

barouche, and Edmund can go on horseback, you know, sister, and Fanny will stay at home with you."

Lady Bertram made no objection; and every one concerned in the going was forward in expressing their

"Well, Fanny, and how do you like Miss Crawford _now_?" said Edmund the next day, after thinking some

"Very wellvery much. I like to hear her talk. She entertains me; and she is so extremely pretty, that I have

"It is her countenance that is so attractive. She has a wonderful play of feature! But was there nothing in her

"Oh yes! she ought not to have spoken of her uncle as she did. I was quite astonished. An uncle with whom

she has been living so many years, and who, whatever his faults may be, is so very fond of her brother,

"Ungrateful is a strong word. I do not know that her uncle has any claim to her _gratitude_; his wife certainly

had; and it is the warmth of her respect for her aunt's memory which misleads her here. She is awkwardly

circumstanced. With such warm feelings and lively spirits it must be difficult to do justice to her affection for

Mrs. Crawford, without throwing a shade on the Admiral. I do not pretend to know which was most to blame

in their disagreements, though the Admiral's present conduct might incline one to the side of his wife; but it is

natural and amiable that Miss Crawford should acquit her aunt entirely. I do not censure her _opinions_; but

"Do not you think," said Fanny, after a little consideration, "that this impropriety is a reflection itself upon

Mrs. Crawford, as her niece has been entirely brought up by her? She cannot have given her right notions of

"That is a fair remark. Yes, we must suppose the faults of the niece to have been those of the aunt; and it

makes one more sensible of the disadvantages she has been under. But I think her present home must do her

good. Mrs. Grant's manners are just what they ought to be. She speaks of her brother with a very pleasing

"Yes, except as to his writing her such short letters. She made me almost laugh; but I cannot rate so very

highly the love or goodnature of a brother who will not give himself the trouble of writing anything worth

reading to his sisters, when they are separated. I am sure William would never have used _me_ so, under any

circumstances. And what right had she to suppose that _you_ would not write long letters when you were

"The right of a lively mind, Fanny, seizing whatever may contribute to its own amusement or that of others;

perfectly allowable, when untinctured by illhumour or roughness; and there is not a shadow of either in the

countenance or manner of Miss Crawford: nothing sharp, or loud, or coarse. She is perfectly feminine, except

m the instances we have been speaking of. There she cannot be justified. I am glad you saw it all as I did."

Having formed her mind and gained her affections, he had a good chance of her thinking like him; though at

this period, and on this subject, there began now to be some danger of dissimilarity, for he was in a line of

admiration of Miss Crawford, which might lead him where Fanny could not follow. Miss Crawford's

attractions did not lessen. The harp arrived, and rather added to her beauty, wit, and goodhumour; for she

played with the greatest obligingness, with an expression and taste which were peculiarly becoming, and

there was something clever to be said at the close of every air. Edmund was at the Parsonage every day, to be

indulged with his favourite instrument: one morning secured an invitation for the next; for the lady could not

A young woman, pretty, lively, with a harp as elegant as herself, and both placed near a window, cut down to

the ground, and opening on a little lawn, surrounded by shrubs in the rich foliage of summer, was enough to

catch any man's heart. The season, the scene, the air, were all favourable to tenderness and sentiment. Mrs.

Grant and her tambour frame were not without their use: it was all in harmony; and as everything will turn to

account when love is once set going, even the sandwich tray, and Dr. Grant doing the honours of it, were

worth looking at. Without studying the business, however, or knowing what he was about, Edmund was

beginning, at the end of a week of such intercourse, to be a good deal in love; and to the credit of the lady it

may be added that, without his being a man of the world or an elder brother, without any of the arts of flattery

or the gaieties of small talk, he began to be agreeable to her. She felt it to be so, though she had not foreseen,

and could hardly understand it; for he was not pleasant by any common rule: he talked no nonsense; he paid

no compliments; his opinions were unbending, his attentions tranquil and simple. There was a charm,

perhaps, in his sincerity, his steadiness, his integrity, which Miss Crawford might be equal to feel, though not

equal to discuss with herself. She did not think very much about it, however: he pleased her for the present;

Fanny could not wonder that Edmund was at the Parsonage every morning; she would gladly have been there

too, might she have gone in uninvited and unnoticed, to hear the harp; neither could she wonder that, when

the evening stroll was over, and the two families parted again, he should think it right to attend Mrs. Grant

and her sister to their home, while Mr. Crawford was devoted to the ladies of the Park; but she thought it a

very bad exchange; and if Edmund were not there to mix the wine and water for her, would rather go without

it than not. She was a little surprised that he could spend so many hours with Miss Crawford, and not see

more of the sort of fault which he had already observed, and of which _she_ was almost always reminded by

a something of the same nature whenever she was in her company; but so it was. Edmund was fond of

speaking to her of Miss Crawford, but he seemed to think it enough that the Admiral had since been spared;

and she scrupled to point out her own remarks to him, lest it should appear like illnature. The first actual

pain which Miss Crawford occasioned her was the consequence of an inclination to learn to ride, which the

former caught, soon after her being settled at Mansfield, from the example of the young ladies at the Park,

and which, when Edmund's acquaintance with her increased, led to his encouraging the wish, and the offer of

his own quiet mare for the purpose of her first attempts, as the best fitted for a beginner that either stable

could furnish. No pain, no injury, however, was designed by him to his cousin in this offer: _she_ was not to

lose a day's exercise by it. The mare was only to be taken down to the Parsonage half an hour before her ride

were to begin; and Fanny, on its being first proposed, so far from feeling slighted, was almost overpowered

Miss Crawford made her first essay with great credit to herself, and no inconvenience to Fanny. Edmund,

who had taken down the mare and presided at the whole, returned with it in excellent time, before either

Fanny or the steady old coachman, who always attended her when she rode without her cousins, were ready

to set forward. The second day's trial was not so guiltless. Miss Crawford's enjoyment of riding was such that

she did not know how to leave off. Active and fearless, and though rather small, strongly made, she seemed

formed for a horsewoman; and to the pure genuine pleasure of the exercise, something was probably added in

Edmund's attendance and instructions, and something more in the conviction of very much surpassing her sex

in general by her early progress, to make her unwilling to dismount. Fanny was ready and waiting, and Mrs.

Norris was beginning to scold her for not being gone, and still no horse was announced, no Edmund

The houses, though scarcely half a mile apart, were not within sight of each other; but, by walking fifty yards

from the hall door, she could look down the park, and command a view of the Parsonage and all its demesnes,

gently rising beyond the village road; and in Dr. Grant's meadow she immediately saw the groupEdmund

and Miss Crawford both on horseback, riding side by side, Dr. and Mrs. Grant, and Mr. Crawford, with two

or three grooms, standing about and looking on. A happy party it appeared to her, all interested in one object:

cheerful beyond a doubt, for the sound of merriment ascended even to her. It was a sound which did not make

_her_ cheerful; she wondered that Edmund should forget her, and felt a pang. She could not turn her eyes

from the meadow; she could not help watching all that passed. At first Miss Crawford and her companion

made the circuit of the field, which was not small, at a foot's pace; then, at _her_ apparent suggestion, they

rose into a canter; and to Fanny's timid nature it was most astonishing to see how well she sat. After a few

minutes they stopped entirely. Edmund was close to her; he was speaking to her; he was evidently directing

her management of the bridle; he had hold of her hand; she saw it, or the imagination supplied what the eye

must not wonder at all this; what could be more natural than that Edmund should be making himself useful,

and proving his goodnature by any one? She could not but think, indeed, that Mr. Crawford might as well

have saved him the trouble; that it would have been particularly proper and becoming in a brother to have

done it himself; but Mr. Crawford, with all his boasted goodnature, and all his coachmanship, probably

knew nothing of the matter, and had no active kindness in comparison of Edmund. She began to think it

rather hard upon the mare to have such double duty; if she were forgotten, the poor mare should be

Her feelings for one and the other were soon a little tranquillised by seeing the party in the meadow disperse,

and Miss Crawford still on horseback, but attended by Edmund on foot, pass through a gate into the lane, and

so into the park, and make towards the spot where she stood. She began then to be afraid of appearing rude

and impatient; and walked to meet them with a great anxiety to avoid the suspicion.

"My dear Miss Price," said Miss Crawford, as soon as she was at all within hearing, "I am come to make my

own apologies for keeping you waiting; but I have nothing in the world to say for myselfI knew it was

very late, and that I was behaving extremely ill; and therefore, if you please, you must forgive me.

Selfishness must always be forgiven, you know, because there is no hope of a cure."

Fanny's answer was extremely civil, and Edmund added his conviction that she could be in no hurry. "For

there is more than time enough for my cousin to ride twice as far as she ever goes," said he, "and you have

been promoting her comfort by preventing her from setting off half an hour sooner: clouds are now coming

up, and she will not suffer from the heat as she would have done then. I wish _you_ may not be fatigued by

"No part of it fatigues me but getting off this horse, I assure you," said she, as she sprang down with his help;

"I am very strong. Nothing ever fatigues me but doing what I do not like. Miss Price, I give way to you with a

very bad grace; but I sincerely hope you will have a pleasant ride, and that I may have nothing but good to

The old coachman, who had been waiting about with his own horse, now joining them, Fanny was lifted on

hers, and they set off across another part of the park; her feelings of discomfort not lightened by seeing, as

she looked back, that the others were walking down the hill together to the village; nor did her attendant do

her much good by his comments on Miss Crawford's great cleverness as a horsewoman, which he had been

"It is a pleasure to see a lady with such a good heart for riding!" said he. "I never see one sit a horse better.

She did not seem to have a thought of fear. Very different from you, miss, when you first began, six years ago

come next Easter. Lord bless you! how you did tremble when Sir Thomas first had you put on!"

In the drawingroom Miss Crawford was also celebrated. Her merit in being gifted by Nature with strength

and courage was fully appreciated by the Miss Bertrams; her delight in riding was like their own; her early

excellence in it was like their own, and they had great pleasure in praising it.

"I was sure she would ride well," said Julia; "she has the make for it. Her figure is as neat as her brother's."

"Yes," added Maria, "and her spirits are as good, and she has the same energy of character. I cannot but think

When they parted at night Edmund asked Fanny whether she meant to ride the next day.

"I do not want her at all for myself," said he; "'but whenever you are next inclined to stay at home, I think

Miss Crawford would be glad to have her a longer time for a whole morning, in short. She has a great

desire to get as far as Mansfield Common: Mrs. Grant has been telling her of its fine views, and I have no

doubt of her being perfectly equal to it. But any morning will do for this. She would be extremely sorry to

interfere with you. It would be very wrong if she did. _She_ rides only for pleasure; _you_ for health."

"I shall not ride tomorrow, certainly," said Fanny; "I have been out very often lately, and would rather stay

Edmund looked pleased, which must be Fanny's comfort, and the ride to Mansfield Common took place the

next morning: the party included all the young people but herself, and was much enjoyed at the time, and

doubly enjoyed again in the evening discussion. A successful scheme of this sort generally brings on another;

and the having been to Mansfield Common disposed them all for going somewhere else the day after. There

were many other views to be shewn; and though the weather was hot, there were shady lanes wherever they

wanted to go. A young party is always provided with a shady lane. Four fine mornings successively were

spent in this manner, in shewing the Crawfords the country, and doing the honours of its finest spots.

Everything answered; it was all gaiety and goodhumour, the heat only supplying inconvenience enough to

be talked of with pleasure till the fourth day, when the happiness of one of the party was exceedingly

clouded. Miss Bertram was the one. Edmund and Julia were invited to dine at the Parsonage, and _she_ was

excluded. It was meant and done by Mrs. Grant, with perfect goodhumour, on Mr. Rushworth's account,

who was partly expected at the Park that day; but it was felt as a very grievous injury, and her good manners

were severely taxed to conceal her vexation and anger till she reached home. As Mr. Rushworth did _not_

come, the injury was increased, and she had not even the relief of shewing her power over him; she could

only be sullen to her mother, aunt, and cousin, and throw as great a gloom as possible over their dinner and

Between ten and eleven Edmund and Julia walked into the drawingroom, fresh with the evening air,

glowing and cheerful, the very reverse of what they found in the three ladies sitting there, for Maria would

scarcely raise her eyes from her book, and Lady Bertram was halfasleep; and even Mrs. Norris,

discomposed by her niece's illhumour, and having asked one or two questions about the dinner, which were

not immediately attended to, seemed almost determined to say no more. For a few minutes the brother and

sister were too eager in their praise of the night and their remarks on the stars, to think beyond themselves;

but when the first pause came, Edmund, looking around, said, "But where is Fanny? Is she gone to bed?"

Her own gentle voice speaking from the other end of the room, which was a very long one, told them that she

"That is a very foolish trick, Fanny, to be idling away all the evening upon a sofa. Why cannot you come and

sit here, and employ yourself as _we_ do? If you have no work of your own, I can supply you from the poor

basket. There is all the new calico, that was bought last week, not touched yet. I am sure I almost broke my

back by cutting it out. You should learn to think of other people; and, take my word for it, it is a shocking

Before half this was said, Fanny was returned to her seat at the table, and had taken up her work again; and

Julia, who was in high goodhumour, from the pleasures of the day, did her the justice of exclaiming, "I must

"Fanny," said Edmund, after looking at her attentively, "I am sure you have the headache."

"I can hardly believe you," he replied; "I know your looks too well. How long have you had it?"

"Go out! to be sure she did," said Mrs. Norris: "would you have her stay within such a fine day as this? Were

"Yes, indeed, Edmund," added her ladyship, who had been thoroughly awakened by Mrs. Norris's sharp

reprimand to Fanny; "I was out above an hour. I sat threequarters of an hour in the flowergarden, while

Fanny cut the roses; and very pleasant it was, I assure you, but very hot. It was shady enough in the alcove,

"Yes, and I am afraid they will be the last this year. Poor thing! _She_ found it hot enough; but they were so

"There was no help for it, certainly," rejoined Mrs. Norris, in a rather softened voice; "but I question whether

her headache might not be caught _then_, sister. There is nothing so likely to give it as standing and stooping

in a hot sun; but I dare say it will be well tomorrow. Suppose you let her have your aromatic vinegar; I

"She has got it," said Lady Bertram; "she has had it ever since she came back from your house the second

"What!" cried Edmund; "has she been walking as well as cutting roses; walking across the hot park to your

"I was afraid it would be too much for her," said Lady Bertram; "but when the roses were gathered, your aunt

"No; but they were to be put into the spare room to dry; and, unluckily, Fanny forgot to lock the door of the

Edmund got up and walked about the room, saying, "And could nobody be employed on such an errand but

"I am sure I do not know how it was to have been done better," cried Mrs. Norris, unable to be longer deaf;

"unless I had gone myself, indeed; but I cannot be in two places at once; and I was talking to Mr. Green at

that very time about your mother's dairymaid, by _her_ desire, and had promised John Groom to write to

Mrs. Jefferies about his son, and the poor fellow was waiting for me half an hour. I think nobody can justly

accuse me of sparing myself upon any occasion, but really I cannot do everything at once. And as for Fanny's

just stepping down to my house for me it is not much above a quarter of a mileI cannot think I was

unreasonable to ask it. How often do I pace it three times a day, early and late, ay, and in all weathers too,

"If Fanny would be more regular in her exercise, she would not be knocked up so soon. She has not been out

on horseback now this long while, and I am persuaded that, when she does not ride, she ought to walk. If she

had been riding before, I should not have asked it of her. But I thought it would rather do her good after being

stooping among the roses; for there is nothing so refreshing as a walk after a fatigue of that kind; and though

the sun was strong, it was not so very hot. Between ourselves, Edmund," nodding significantly at his mother,

"it was cutting the roses, and dawdling about in the flowergarden, that did the mischief."

"I am afraid it was, indeed," said the more candid Lady Bertram, who had overheard her; "I am very much

afraid she caught the headache there, for the heat was enough to kill anybody. It was as much as I could bear

myself. Sitting and calling to Pug, and trying to keep him from the flowerbeds, was almost too much for

Edmund said no more to either lady; but going quietly to another table, on which the suppertray yet

remained, brought a glass of Madeira to Fanny, and obliged her to drink the greater part. She wished to be

able to decline it; but the tears, which a variety of feelings created, made it easier to swallow than to speak.

Vexed as Edmund was with his mother and aunt, he was still more angry with himself. His own forgetfulness

of her was worse than anything which they had done. Nothing of this would have happened had she been

properly considered; but she had been left four days together without any choice of companions or exercise,

and without any excuse for avoiding whatever her unreasonable aunts might require. He was ashamed to

think that for four days together she had not had the power of riding, and very seriously resolved, however

unwilling he must be to check a pleasure of Miss Crawford's, that it should never happen again.

Fanny went to bed with her heart as full as on the first evening of her arrival at the Park. The state of her

spirits had probably had its share in her indisposition; for she had been feeling neglected, and been struggling

against discontent and envy for some days past. As she leant on the sofa, to which she had retreated that she

might not be seen, the pain of her mind had been much beyond that in her head; and the sudden change which

Edmund's kindness had then occasioned, made her hardly know how to support herself.

Fanny's rides recommenced the very next day; and as it was a pleasant freshfeeling morning, less hot than

the weather had lately been, Edmund trusted that her losses, both of health and pleasure, would be soon made

good. While she was gone Mr. Rushworth arrived, escorting his mother, who came to be civil and to shew her

civility especially, in urging the execution of the plan for visiting Sotherton, which had been started a

fortnight before, and which, in consequence of her subsequent absence from home, had since lain dormant.

Mrs. Norris and her nieces were all well pleased with its revival, and an early day was named and agreed to,

provided Mr. Crawford should be disengaged: the young ladies did not forget that stipulation, and though

Mrs. Norris would willingly have answered for his being so, they would neither authorise the liberty nor run

the risk; and at last, on a hint from Miss Bertram, Mr. Rushworth discovered that the properest thing to be

done was for him to walk down to the Parsonage directly, and call on Mr. Crawford, and inquire whether

Before his return Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford came in. Having been out some time, and taken a different

route to the house, they had not met him. Comfortable hopes, however, were given that he would find Mr.

Crawford at home. The Sotherton scheme was mentioned of course. It was hardly possible, indeed, that

anything else should be talked of, for Mrs. Norris was in high spirits about it; and Mrs. Rushworth, a

wellmeaning, civil, prosing, pompous woman, who thought nothing of consequence, but as it related to her

own and her son's concerns, had not yet given over pressing Lady Bertram to be of the party. Lady Bertram

constantly declined it; but her placid manner of refusal made Mrs. Rushworth still think she wished to come,

till Mrs. Norris's more numerous words and louder tone convinced her of the truth.

"The fatigue would be too much for my sister, a great deal too much, I assure you, my dear Mrs. Rushworth.

Ten miles there, and ten back, you know. You must excuse my sister on this occasion, and accept of our two

dear girls and myself without her. Sotherton is the only place that could give her a _wish_ to go so far, but it

cannot be, indeed. She will have a companion in Fanny Price, you know, so it will all do very well; and as for

Edmund, as he is not here to speak for himself, I will answer for his being most happy to join the party. He

Mrs. Rushworth being obliged to yield to Lady Bertram's staying at home, could only be sorry. "The loss of

her ladyship's company would be a great drawback, and she should have been extremely happy to have seen

the young lady too, Miss Price, who had never been at Sotherton yet, and it was a pity she should not see the

"You are very kind, you are all kindness, my dear madam," cried Mrs. Norris; "but as to Fanny, she will have

opportunities in plenty of seeing Sotherton. She has time enough before her; and her going now is quite out of

Mrs. Rushworth proceeded next, under the conviction that everybody must be wanting to see Sotherton, to

include Miss Crawford in the invitation; and though Mrs. Grant, who had not been at the trouble of visiting

Mrs. Rushworth, on her coming into the neighbourhood, civilly declined it on her own account, she was glad

to secure any pleasure for her sister; and Mary, properly pressed and persuaded, was not long in accepting her

share of the civility. Mr. Rushworth came back from the Parsonage successful; and Edmund made his

appearance just in time to learn what had been settled for Wednesday, to attend Mrs. Rushworth to her

On his return to the breakfastroom, he found Mrs. Norris trying to make up her mind as to whether Miss

Crawford's being of the party were desirable or not, or whether her brother's barouche would not be full

without her. The Miss Bertrams laughed at the idea, assuring her that the barouche would hold four perfectly

"But why is it necessary," said Edmund, "that Crawford's carriage, or his _only_, should be employed? Why

is no use to be made of my mother's chaise? I could not, when the scheme was first mentioned the other day,

understand why a visit from the family were not to be made in the carriage of the family."

"What!" cried Julia: "go boxed up three in a postchaise in this weather, when we may have seats in a

"Besides," said Maria, "I know that Mr. Crawford depends upon taking us. After what passed at first, he

"And, my dear Edmund," added Mrs. Norris, "taking out _two_ carriages when _one_ will do, would be

trouble for nothing; and, between ourselves, coachman is not very fond of the roads between this and

Sotherton: he always complains bitterly of the narrow lanes scratching his carriage, and you know one should

not like to have dear Sir Thomas, when he comes home, find all the varnish scratched off."

"That would not be a very handsome reason for using Mr. Crawford's," said Maria; "but the truth is, that

Wilcox is a stupid old fellow, and does not know how to drive. I will answer for it that we shall find no

"There is no hardship, I suppose, nothing unpleasant," said Edmund, "in going on the barouche box."

"Unpleasant!" cried Maria: "oh dear! I believe it would be generally thought the favourite seat. There can be

no comparison as to one's view of the country. Probably Miss Crawford will choose the barouchebox

"There can be no objection, then, to Fanny's going with you; there can be no doubt of your having room for

"Fanny!" repeated Mrs. Norris; "my dear Edmund, there is no idea of her going with us. She stays with her

"You can have no reason, I imagine, madam," said he, addressing his mother, "for wishing Fanny _not_ to be

of the party, but as it relates to yourself, to your own comfort. If you could do without her, you would not

There was a general cry out at this. "Yes," he continued, "there is no necessity for my going, and I mean to

stay at home. Fanny has a great desire to see Sotherton. I know she wishes it very much. She has not often a

gratification of the kind, and I am sure, ma'am, you would be glad to give her the pleasure now?"

Mrs. Norris was very ready with the only objection which could remaintheir having positively assured

Mrs. Rushworth that Fanny could not go, and the very strange appearance there would consequently be in

taking her, which seemed to her a difficulty quite impossible to be got over. It must have the strangest

appearance! It would be something so very unceremonious, so bordering on disrespect for Mrs. Rushworth,

whose own manners were such a pattern of goodbreeding and attention, that she really did not feel equal to

it. Mrs. Norris had no affection for Fanny, and no wish of procuring her pleasure at any time; but her

opposition to Edmund _now_, arose more from partiality for her own scheme, because it _was_ her own, than

from anything else. She felt that she had arranged everything extremely well, and that any alteration must be

for the worse. When Edmund, therefore, told her in reply, as he did when she would give him the hearing,

that she need not distress herself on Mrs. Rushworth's account, because he had taken the opportunity, as he

walked with her through the hall, of mentioning Miss Price as one who would probably be of the party, and

had directly received a very sufficient invitation for his cousin, Mrs. Norris was too much vexed to submit

with a very good grace, and would only say, "Very well, very well, just as you chuse, settle it your own way,

"It seems very odd," said Maria, "that you should be staying at home instead of Fanny."

"I am sure she ought to be very much obliged to you," added Julia, hastily leaving the room as she spoke,

"Fanny will feel quite as grateful as the occasion requires," was Edmund's only reply, and the subject dropt.

Fanny's gratitude, when she heard the plan, was, in fact, much greater than her pleasure. She felt Edmund's

kindness with all, and more than all, the sensibility which he, unsuspicious of her fond attachment, could be

aware of; but that he should forego any enjoyment on her account gave her pain, and her own satisfaction in

The next meeting of the two Mansfield families produced another alteration in the plan, and one that was

admitted with general approbation. Mrs. Grant offered herself as companion for the day to Lady Bertram in

lieu of her son, and Dr. Grant was to join them at dinner. Lady Bertram was very well pleased to have it so,

and the young ladies were in spirits again. Even Edmund was very thankful for an arrangement which

restored him to his share of the party; and Mrs. Norris thought it an excellent plan, and had it at her tongue's

Wednesday was fine, and soon after breakfast the barouche arrived, Mr. Crawford driving his sisters; and as

everybody was ready, there was nothing to be done but for Mrs. Grant to alight and the others to take their

places. The place of all places, the envied seat, the post of honour, was unappropriated. To whose happy lot

was it to fall? While each of the Miss Bertrams were meditating how best, and with the most appearance of

obliging the others, to secure it, the matter was settled by Mrs. Grant's saying, as she stepped from the

carriage, "As there are five of you, it will be better that one should sit with Henry; and as you were saying

lately that you wished you could drive, Julia, I think this will be a good opportunity for you to take a lesson."

Happy Julia! Unhappy Maria! The former was on the barouchebox in a moment, the latter took her seat

within, in gloom and mortification; and the carriage drove off amid the good wishes of the two remaining

Their road was through a pleasant country; and Fanny, whose rides had never been extensive, was soon

beyond her knowledge, and was very happy in observing all that was new, and admiring all that was pretty.

She was not often invited to join in the conversation of the others, nor did she desire it. Her own thoughts and

reflections were habitually her best companions; and, in observing the appearance of the country, the bearings

of the roads, the difference of soil, the state of the harvest, the cottages, the cattle, the children, she found

entertainment that could only have been heightened by having Edmund to speak to of what she felt. That was

the only point of resemblance between her and the lady who sat by her: in everything but a value for Edmund,

Miss Crawford was very unlike her. She had none of Fanny's delicacy of taste, of mind, of feeling; she saw

Nature, inanimate Nature, with little observation; her attention was all for men and women, her talents for the

light and lively. In looking back after Edmund, however, when there was any stretch of road behind them, or

when he gained on them in ascending a considerable hill, they were united, and a "there he is" broke at the

For the first seven miles Miss Bertram had very little real comfort: her prospect always ended in Mr.

Crawford and her sister sitting side by side, full of conversation and merriment; and to see only his expressive

profile as he turned with a smile to Julia, or to catch the laugh of the other, was a perpetual source of

irritation, which her own sense of propriety could but just smooth over. When Julia looked back, it was with a

countenance of delight, and whenever she spoke to them, it was in the highest spirits: "her view of the

country was charming, she wished they could all see it," etc.; but her only offer of exchange was addressed to

Miss Crawford, as they gained the summit of a long hill, and was not more inviting than this: "Here is a fine

burst of country. I wish you had my seat, but I dare say you will not take it, let me press you ever so much;"

and Miss Crawford could hardly answer before they were moving again at a good pace.

When they came within the influence of Sotherton associations, it was better for Miss Bertram, who might be

said to have two strings to her bow. She had Rushworth feelings, and Crawford feelings, and in the vicinity of

Sotherton the former had considerable effect. Mr. Rushworth's consequence was hers. She could not tell Miss

Crawford that "those woods belonged to Sotherton," she could not carelessly observe that "she believed that

it was now all Mr. Rushworth's property on each side of the road," without elation of heart; and it was a

pleasure to increase with their approach to the capital freehold mansion, and ancient manorial residence of the

"Now we shall have no more rough road, Miss Crawford; our difficulties are over. The rest of the way is such

as it ought to be. Mr. Rushworth has made it since he succeeded to the estate. Here begins the village. Those

cottages are really a disgrace. The church spire is reckoned remarkably handsome. I am glad the church is not

so close to the great house as often happens in old places. The annoyance of the bells must be terrible. There

is the parsonage: a tidylooking house, and I understand the clergyman and his wife are very decent people.

Those are almshouses, built by some of the family. To the right is the steward's house; he is a very

respectable man. Now we are coming to the lodgegates; but we have nearly a mile through the park still. It

is not ugly, you see, at this end; there is some fine timber, but the situation of the house is dreadful. We go

down hill to it for half a mile, and it is a pity, for it would not be an illlooking place if it had a better

Miss Crawford was not slow to admire; she pretty well guessed Miss Bertram's feelings, and made it a point

of honour to promote her enjoyment to the utmost. Mrs. Norris was all delight and volubility; and even Fanny

had something to say in admiration, and might be heard with complacency. Her eye was eagerly taking in

everything within her reach; and after being at some pains to get a view of the house, and observing that "it

was a sort of building which she could not look at but with respect," she added, "Now, where is the avenue?

The house fronts the east, I perceive. The avenue, therefore, must be at the back of it. Mr. Rushworth talked

"Yes, it is exactly behind the house; begins at a little distance, and ascends for half a mile to the extremity of

the grounds. You may see something of it here something of the more distant trees. It is oak entirely."

Miss Bertram could now speak with decided information of what she had known nothing about when Mr.

Rushworth had asked her opinion; and her spirits were in as happy a flutter as vanity and pride could furnish,

Mr. Rushworth was at the door to receive his fair lady; and the whole party were welcomed by him with due

attention. In the drawingroom they were met with equal cordiality by the mother, and Miss Bertram had all

the distinction with each that she could wish. After the business of arriving was over, it was first necessary to

eat, and the doors were thrown open to admit them through one or two intermediate rooms into the appointed

diningparlour, where a collation was prepared with abundance and elegance. Much was said, and much was

ate, and all went well. The particular object of the day was then considered. How would Mr. Crawford like, in

what manner would he chuse, to take a survey of the grounds? Mr. Rushworth mentioned his curricle. Mr.

Crawford suggested the greater desirableness of some carriage which might convey more than two. "To be

depriving themselves of the advantage of other eyes and other judgments, might be an evil even beyond the

Mrs. Rushworth proposed that the chaise should be taken also; but this was scarcely received as an

amendment: the young ladies neither smiled nor spoke. Her next proposition, of shewing the house to such of

them as had not been there before, was more acceptable, for Miss Bertram was pleased to have its size

The whole party rose accordingly, and under Mrs. Rushworth's guidance were shewn through a number of

rooms, all lofty, and many large, and amply furnished in the taste of fifty years back, with shining floors,

solid mahogany, rich damask, marble, gilding, and carving, each handsome in its way. Of pictures there were

abundance, and some few good, but the larger part were family portraits, no longer anything to anybody but

Mrs. Rushworth, who had been at great pains to learn all that the housekeeper could teach, and was now

almost equally well qualified to shew the house. On the present occasion she addressed herself chiefly to

Miss Crawford and Fanny, but there was no comparison in the willingness of their attention; for Miss

Crawford, who had seen scores of great houses, and cared for none of them, had only the appearance of

civilly listening, while Fanny, to whom everything was almost as interesting as it was new, attended with

unaffected earnestness to all that Mrs. Rushworth could relate of the family in former times, its rise and

grandeur, regal visits and loyal efforts, delighted to connect anything with history already known, or warm

The situation of the house excluded the possibility of much prospect from any of the rooms; and while Fanny

and some of the others were attending Mrs. Rushworth, Henry Crawford was looking grave and shaking his

head at the windows. Every room on the west front looked across a lawn to the beginning of the avenue

Having visited many more rooms than could be supposed to be of any other use than to contribute to the

windowtax, and find employment for housemaids, "Now," said Mrs. Rushworth, "we are coming to the

chapel, which properly we ought to enter from above, and look down upon; but as we are quite among

They entered. Fanny's imagination had prepared her for something grander than a mere spacious, oblong

room, fitted up for the purpose of devotion: with nothing more striking or more solemn than the profusion of

mahogany, and the crimson velvet cushions appearing over the ledge of the family gallery above. "I am

disappointed," said she, in a low voice, to Edmund. "This is not my idea of a chapel. There is nothing awful

here, nothing melancholy, nothing grand. Here are no aisles, no arches, no inscriptions, no banners. No

banners, cousin, to be 'blown by the night wind of heaven.' No signs that a 'Scottish monarch sleeps below.'"

"You forget, Fanny, how lately all this has been built, and for how confined a purpose, compared with the old

chapels of castles and monasteries. It was only for the private use of the family. They have been buried, I

suppose, in the parish church. _There_ you must look for the banners and the achievements."

Mrs. Rushworth began her relation. "This chapel was fitted up as you see it, in James the Second's time.

Before that period, as I understand, the pews were only wainscot; and there is some reason to think that the

linings and cushions of the pulpit and family seat were only purple cloth; but this is not quite certain. It is a

handsome chapel, and was formerly in constant use both morning and evening. Prayers were always read in it

by the domestic chaplain, within the memory of many; but the late Mr. Rushworth left it off."

"Every generation has its improvements," said Miss Crawford, with a smile, to Edmund.

Mrs. Rushworth was gone to repeat her lesson to Mr. Crawford; and Edmund, Fanny, and Miss Crawford

"It is a pity," cried Fanny, "that the custom should have been discontinued. It was a valuable part of former

times. There is something in a chapel and chaplain so much in character with a great house, with one's ideas

of what such a household should be! A whole family assembling regularly for the purpose of prayer is fine!"

"Very fine indeed," said Miss Crawford, laughing. "It must do the heads of the family a great deal of good to

force all the poor housemaids and footmen to leave business and pleasure, and say their prayers here twice a

"_That_ is hardly Fanny's idea of a family assembling," said Edmund. "If the master and mistress do _not_

"At any rate, it is safer to leave people to their own devices on such subjects. Everybody likes to go their own

wayto chuse their own time and manner of devotion. The obligation of attendance, the formality, the

restraint, the length of timealtogether it is a formidable thing, and what nobody likes; and if the good

people who used to kneel and gape in that gallery could have foreseen that the time would ever come when

men and women might lie another ten minutes in bed, when they woke with a headache, without danger of

reprobation, because chapel was missed, they would have jumped with joy and envy. Cannot you imagine

with what unwilling feelings the former belles of the house of Rushworth did many a time repair to this

chapel? The young Mrs. Eleanors and Mrs. Bridgets starched up into seeming piety, but with heads full of

something very differentespecially if the poor chaplain were not worth looking atand, in those days, I

For a few moments she was unanswered. Fanny coloured and looked at Edmund, but felt too angry for

speech; and he needed a little recollection before he could say, "Your lively mind can hardly be serious even

on serious subjects. You have given us an amusing sketch, and human nature cannot say it was not so. We

must all feel _at_ _times_ the difficulty of fixing our thoughts as we could wish; but if you are supposing it a

frequent thing, that is to say, a weakness grown into a habit from neglect, what could be expected from the

_private_ devotions of such persons? Do you think the minds which are suffered, which are indulged in

"Yes, very likely. They would have two chances at least in their favour. There would be less to distract the

"The mind which does not struggle against itself under _one_ circumstance, would find objects to distract it

in the _other_, I believe; and the influence of the place and of example may often rouse better feelings than

are begun with. The greater length of the service, however, I admit to be sometimes too hard a stretch upon

the mind. One wishes it were not so; but I have not yet left Oxford long enough to forget what chapel prayers

While this was passing, the rest of the party being scattered about the chapel, Julia called Mr. Crawford's

attention to her sister, by saying, "Do look at Mr. Rushworth and Maria, standing side by side, exactly as if

the ceremony were going to be performed. Have not they completely the air of it?"

Mr. Crawford smiled his acquiescence, and stepping forward to Maria, said, in a voice which she only could

Starting, the lady instinctively moved a step or two, but recovering herself in a moment, affected to laugh,

"I am afraid I should do it very awkwardly," was his reply, with a look of meaning.

"Upon my word, it is really a pity that it should not take place directly, if we had but a proper licence, for

here we are altogether, and nothing in the world could be more snug and pleasant." And she talked and

laughed about it with so little caution as to catch the comprehension of Mr. Rushworth and his mother, and

expose her sister to the whispered gallantries of her lover, while Mrs. Rushworth spoke with proper smiles

"If Edmund were but in orders!" cried Julia, and running to where he stood with Miss Crawford and Fanny:

"My dear Edmund, if you were but in orders now, you might perform the ceremony directly. How unlucky

Miss Crawford's countenance, as Julia spoke, might have amused a disinterested observer. She looked almost

aghast under the new idea she was receiving. Fanny pitied her. "How distressed she will be at what she said

Miss Crawford, rallying her spirits, and recovering her complexion, replied only, "If I had known this before,

The chapel was soon afterwards left to the silence and stillness which reigned in it, with few interruptions,

throughout the year. Miss Bertram, displeased with her sister, led the way, and all seemed to feel that they

The lower part of the house had been now entirely shewn, and Mrs. Rushworth, never weary in the cause,

would have proceeded towards the principal staircase, and taken them through all the rooms above, if her son

had not interposed with a doubt of there being time enough. "For if," said he, with the sort of selfevident

proposition which many a clearer head does not always avoid, "we are _too_ long going over the house, we

shall not have time for what is to be done out of doors. It is past two, and we are to dine at five."

Mrs. Rushworth submitted; and the question of surveying the grounds, with the who and the how, was likely

to be more fully agitated, and Mrs. Norris was beginning to arrange by what junction of carriages and horses

most could be done, when the young people, meeting with an outward door, temptingly open on a flight of

steps which led immediately to turf and shrubs, and all the sweets of pleasuregrounds, as by one impulse,

"Suppose we turn down here for the present," said Mrs. Rushworth, civilly taking the hint and following

them. "Here are the greatest number of our plants, and here are the curious pheasants."

"Query," said Mr. Crawford, looking round him, "whether we may not find something to employ us here

before we go farther? I see walls of great promise. Mr. Rushworth, shall we summon a council on this lawn?"

"James," said Mrs. Rushworth to her son, "I believe the wilderness will be new to all the party. The Miss

No objection was made, but for some time there seemed no inclination to move in any plan, or to any

distance. All were attracted at first by the plants or the pheasants, and all dispersed about in happy

independence. Mr. Crawford was the first to move forward to examine the capabilities of that end of the

house. The lawn, bounded on each side by a high wall, contained beyond the first planted area a

bowlinggreen, and beyond the bowlinggreen a long terrace walk, backed by iron palisades, and

commanding a view over them into the tops of the trees of the wilderness immediately adjoining. It was a

good spot for faultfinding. Mr. Crawford was soon followed by Miss Bertram and Mr. Rushworth; and

when, after a little time, the others began to form into parties, these three were found in busy consultation on

the terrace by Edmund, Miss Crawford, and Fanny, who seemed as naturally to unite, and who, after a short

participation of their regrets and difficulties, left them and walked on. The remaining three, Mrs. Rushworth,

Mrs. Norris, and Julia, were still far behind; for Julia, whose happy star no longer prevailed, was obliged to

keep by the side of Mrs. Rushworth, and restrain her impatient feet to that lady's slow pace, while her aunt,

having fallen in with the housekeeper, who was come out to feed the pheasants, was lingering behind in

gossip with her. Poor Julia, the only one out of the nine not tolerably satisfied with their lot, was now in a

state of complete penance, and as different from the Julia of the barouchebox as could well be imagined.

The politeness which she had been brought up to practise as a duty made it impossible for her to escape;

while the want of that higher species of selfcommand, that just consideration of others, that knowledge of

her own heart, that principle of right, which had not formed any essential part of her education, made her

"This is insufferably hot," said Miss Crawford, when they had taken one turn on the terrace, and were

drawing a second time to the door in the middle which opened to the wilderness. "Shall any of us object to

being comfortable? Here is a nice little wood, if one can but get into it. What happiness if the door should not

be locked! but of course it is; for in these great places the gardeners are the only people who can go where

The door, however, proved not to be locked, and they were all agreed in turning joyfully through it, and

leaving the unmitigated glare of day behind. A considerable flight of steps landed them in the wilderness,

which was a planted wood of about two acres, and though chiefly of larch and laurel, and beech cut down,

and though laid out with too much regularity, was darkness and shade, and natural beauty, compared with the

bowlinggreen and the terrace. They all felt the refreshment of it, and for some time could only walk and

admire. At length, after a short pause, Miss Crawford began with, "So you are to be a clergyman, Mr.

"Why should it surprise you? You must suppose me designed for some profession, and might perceive that I

"Very true; but, in short, it had not occurred to me. And you know there is generally an uncle or a grandfather

"A very praiseworthy practice," said Edmund, "but not quite universal. I am one of the exceptions, and

"'But why are you to be a clergyman? I thought _that_ was always the lot of the youngest, where there were

"_Never_ is a black word. But yes, in the _never_ of conversation, which means _not_ _very_ _often_, I do

think it. For what is to be done in the church? Men love to distinguish themselves, and in either of the other

lines distinction may be gained, but not in the church. A clergyman is nothing."

"The _nothing_ of conversation has its gradations, I hope, as well as the _never_. A clergyman cannot be

high in state or fashion. He must not head mobs, or set the ton in dress. But I cannot call that situation

nothing which has the charge of all that is of the first importance to mankind, individually or collectively

considered, temporally and eternally, which has the guardianship of religion and morals, and consequently of

the manners which result from their influence. No one here can call the _office_ nothing. If the man who

holds it is so, it is by the neglect of his duty, by foregoing its just importance, and stepping out of his place to

"_You_ assign greater consequence to the clergyman than one has been used to hear given, or than I can quite

comprehend. One does not see much of this influence and importance in society, and how can it be acquired

where they are so seldom seen themselves? How can two sermons a week, even supposing them worth

hearing, supposing the preacher to have the sense to prefer Blair's to his own, do all that you speak of? govern

the conduct and fashion the manners of a large congregation for the rest of the week? One scarcely sees a

"Not, I should hope, of the proportion of virtue to vice throughout the kingdom. We do not look in great cities

for our best morality. It is not there that respectable people of any denomination can do most good; and it

certainly is not there that the influence of the clergy can be most felt. A fine preacher is followed and

admired; but it is not in fine preaching only that a good clergyman will be useful in his parish and his

neighbourhood, where the parish and neighbourhood are of a size capable of knowing his private character,

and observing his general conduct, which in London can rarely be the case. The clergy are lost there in the

crowds of their parishioners. They are known to the largest part only as preachers. And with regard to their

influencing public manners, Miss Crawford must not misunderstand me, or suppose I mean to call them the

arbiters of goodbreeding, the regulators of refinement and courtesy, the masters of the ceremonies of life.

The _manners_ I speak of might rather be called _conduct_, perhaps, the result of good principles; the effect,

in short, of those doctrines which it is their duty to teach and recommend; and it will, I believe, be

everywhere found, that as the clergy are, or are not what they ought to be, so are the rest of the nation."

"I do not think you ever will," said she, with an arch smile; "I am just as much surprised now as I was at first

that you should intend to take orders. You really are fit for something better. Come, do change your mind. It

"Now you are going to say something about law being the worst wilderness of the two, but I forestall you;

"You need not hurry when the object is only to prevent my saying a _bon_ _mot_, for there is not the least

wit in my nature. I am a very matteroffact, plainspoken being, and may blunder on the borders of a

A general silence succeeded. Each was thoughtful. Fanny made the first interruption by saying, "I wonder

that I should be tired with only walking in this sweet wood; but the next time we come to a seat, if it is not

"My dear Fanny," cried Edmund, immediately drawing her arm within his, "how thoughtless I have been! I

hope you are not very tired. Perhaps," turning to Miss Crawford, "my other companion may do me the honour

"Thank you, but I am not at all tired." She took it, however, as she spoke, and the gratification of having her

do so, of feeling such a connexion for the first time, made him a little forgetful of Fanny. "You scarcely touch

me," said he. "You do not make me of any use. What a difference in the weight of a woman's arm from that

of a man! At Oxford I have been a good deal used to have a man lean on me for the length of a street, and you

"I am really not tired, which I almost wonder at; for we must have walked at least a mile in this wood. Do not

"Not half a mile," was his sturdy answer; for he was not yet so much in love as to measure distance, or reckon

"Oh! you do not consider how much we have wound about. We have taken such a very serpentine course, and

the wood itself must be half a mile long in a straight line, for we have never seen the end of it yet since we

"But if you remember, before we left that first great path, we saw directly to the end of it. We looked down

the whole vista, and saw it closed by iron gates, and it could not have been more than a furlong in length."

"Oh! I know nothing of your furlongs, but I am sure it is a very long wood, and that we have been winding in

and out ever since we came into it; and therefore, when I say that we have walked a mile in it, I must speak

"We have been exactly a quarter of an hour here," said Edmund, taking out his watch. "Do you think we are

"Oh! do not attack me with your watch. A watch is always too fast or too slow. I cannot be dictated to by a

A few steps farther brought them out at the bottom of the very walk they had been talking of; and standing

back, well shaded and sheltered, and looking over a haha into the park, was a comfortablesized bench, on

"I am afraid you are very tired, Fanny," said Edmund, observing her; "why would not you speak sooner? This

will be a bad day's amusement for you if you are to be knocked up. Every sort of exercise fatigues her so

"How abominable in you, then, to let me engross her horse as I did all last week! I am ashamed of you and of

"_Your_ attentiveness and consideration makes me more sensible of my own neglect. Fanny's interest seems

"That she should be tired now, however, gives me no surprise; for there is nothing in the course of one's

duties so fatiguing as what we have been doing this morning: seeing a great house, dawdling from one room

to another, straining one's eyes and one's attention, hearing what one does not understand, admiring what one

does not care for. It is generally allowed to be the greatest bore in the world, and Miss Price has found it so,

"I shall soon be rested," said Fanny; "to sit in the shade on a fine day, and look upon verdure, is the most

After sitting a little while Miss Crawford was up again. "I must move," said she; "resting fatigues me. I have

looked across the haha till I am weary. I must go and look through that iron gate at the same view, without

Edmund left the seat likewise. "Now, Miss Crawford, if you will look up the walk, you will convince yourself

He still reasoned with her, but in vain. She would not calculate, she would not compare. She would only

smile and assert. The greatest degree of rational consistency could not have been more engaging, and they

talked with mutual satisfaction. At last it was agreed that they should endeavour to determine the dimensions

of the wood by walking a little more about it. They would go to one end of it, in the line they were then in

for there was a straight green walk along the bottom by the side of the hahaand perhaps turn a little way

in some other direction, if it seemed likely to assist them, and be back in a few minutes. Fanny said she was

rested, and would have moved too, but this was not suffered. Edmund urged her remaining where she was

with an earnestness which she could not resist, and she was left on the bench to think with pleasure of her

cousin's care, but with great regret that she was not stronger. She watched them till they had turned the

A quarter of an hour, twenty minutes, passed away, and Fanny was still thinking of Edmund, Miss Crawford,

and herself, without interruption from any one. She began to be surprised at being left so long, and to listen

with an anxious desire of hearing their steps and their voices again. She listened, and at length she heard; she

heard voices and feet approaching; but she had just satisfied herself that it was not those she wanted, when

Miss Bertram, Mr. Rushworth, and Mr. Crawford issued from the same path which she had trod herself, and

"Miss Price all alone" and "My dear Fanny, how comes this?" were the first salutations. She told her story.

"Poor dear Fanny," cried her cousin, "how ill you have been used by them! You had better have staid with

Then seating herself with a gentleman on each side, she resumed the conversation which had engaged them

before, and discussed the possibility of improvements with much animation. Nothing was fixed on; but Henry

Crawford was full of ideas and projects, and, generally speaking, whatever he proposed was immediately

approved, first by her, and then by Mr. Rushworth, whose principal business seemed to be to hear the others,

and who scarcely risked an original thought of his own beyond a wish that they had seen his friend Smith's

After some minutes spent in this way, Miss Bertram, observing the iron gate, expressed a wish of passing

through it into the park, that their views and their plans might be more comprehensive. It was the very thing

of all others to be wished, it was the best, it was the only way of proceeding with any advantage, in Henry

Crawford's opinion; and he directly saw a knoll not half a mile off, which would give them exactly the

requisite command of the house. Go therefore they must to that knoll, and through that gate; but the gate was

locked. Mr. Rushworth wished he had brought the key; he had been very near thinking whether he should not

bring the key; he was determined he would never come without the key again; but still this did not remove

the present evil. They could not get through; and as Miss Bertram's inclination for so doing did by no means

lessen, it ended in Mr. Rushworth's declaring outright that he would go and fetch the key. He set off

"It is undoubtedly the best thing we can do now, as we are so far from the house already," said Mr. Crawford,

"Yes, there is nothing else to be done. But now, sincerely, do not you find the place altogether worse than you

"No, indeed, far otherwise. I find it better, grander, more complete in its style, though that style may not be

the best. And to tell you the truth," speaking rather lower, "I do not think that _I_ shall ever see Sotherton

again with so much pleasure as I do now. Another summer will hardly improve it to me."

After a moment's embarrassment the lady replied, "You are too much a man of the world not to see with the

eyes of the world. If other people think Sotherton improved, I have no doubt that you will."

"I am afraid I am not quite so much the man of the world as might be good for me in some points. My

feelings are not quite so evanescent, nor my memory of the past under such easy dominion as one finds to be

This was followed by a short silence. Miss Bertram began again. "You seemed to enjoy your drive here very

much this morning. I was glad to see you so well entertained. You and Julia were laughing the whole way."

"Were we? Yes, I believe we were; but I have not the least recollection at what. Oh! I believe I was relating

to her some ridiculous stories of an old Irish groom of my uncle's. Your sister loves to laugh."

"More easily amused," he replied; "consequently, you know," smiling, "better company. I could not have

"Naturally, I believe, I am as lively as Julia, but I have more to think of now."

"You have, undoubtedly; and there are situations in which very high spirits would denote insensibility. Your

prospects, however, are too fair to justify want of spirits. You have a very smiling scene before you."

"Do you mean literally or figuratively? Literally, I conclude. Yes, certainly, the sun shines, and the park looks

very cheerful. But unluckily that iron gate, that haha, give me a feeling of restraint and hardship. "I cannot

get out, as the starling said." As she spoke, and it was with expression, she walked to the gate: he followed

"And for the world you would not get out without the key and without Mr. Rushworth's authority and

protection, or I think you might with little difficulty pass round the edge of the gate, here, with my assistance;

I think it might be done, if you really wished to be more at large, and could allow yourself to think it not

"Prohibited! nonsense! I certainly can get out that way, and I will. Mr. Rushworth will be here in a moment,

"Or if we are, Miss Price will be so good as to tell him that he will find us near that knoll: the grove of oak on

Fanny, feeling all this to be wrong, could not help making an effort to prevent it. "You will hurt yourself,

Miss Bertram," she cried; "you will certainly hurt yourself against those spikes; you will tear your gown; you

Her cousin was safe on the other side while these words were spoken, and, smiling with all the goodhumour

of success, she said, "Thank you, my dear Fanny, but I and my gown are alive and well, and so goodbye."

Fanny was again left to her solitude, and with no increase of pleasant feelings, for she was sorry for almost all

that she had seen and heard, astonished at Miss Bertram, and angry with Mr. Crawford. By taking a circuitous

route, and, as it appeared to her, very unreasonable direction to the knoll, they were soon beyond her eye; and

for some minutes longer she remained without sight or sound of any companion. She seemed to have the little

wood all to herself. She could almost have thought that Edmund and Miss Crawford had left it, but that it was

somebody was coming at a quick pace down the principal walk. She expected Mr. Rushworth, but it was

Julia, who, hot and out of breath, and with a look of disappointment, cried out on seeing her, "Heyday! Where

"A pretty trick, upon my word! I cannot see them anywhere," looking eagerly into the park. "But they cannot

be very far off, and I think I am equal to as much as Maria, even without help."

"But, Julia, Mr. Rushworth will be here in a moment with the key. Do wait for Mr. Rushworth."

"Not I, indeed. I have had enough of the family for one morning. Why, child, I have but this moment escaped

from his horrible mother. Such a penance as I have been enduring, while you were sitting here so composed

and so happy! It might have been as well, perhaps, if you had been in my place, but you always contrive to

This was a most unjust reflection, but Fanny could allow for it, and let it pass: Julia was vexed, and her

temper was hasty; but she felt that it would not last, and therefore, taking no notice, only asked her if she had

"Yes, yes, we saw him. He was posting away as if upon life and death, and could but just spare time to tell us

"_That_ is Miss Maria's concern. I am not obliged to punish myself for _her_ sins. The mother I could not

avoid, as long as my tiresome aunt was dancing about with the housekeeper, but the son I _can_ get away

And she immediately scrambled across the fence, and walked away, not attending to Fanny's last question of

whether she had seen anything of Miss Crawford and Edmund. The sort of dread in which Fanny now sat of

seeing Mr. Rushworth prevented her thinking so much of their continued absence, however, as she might

have done. She felt that he had been very illused, and was quite unhappy in having to communicate what

had passed. He joined her within five minutes after Julia's exit; and though she made the best of the story, he

was evidently mortified and displeased in no common degree. At first he scarcely said anything; his looks

only expressed his extreme surprise and vexation, and he walked to the gate and stood there, without seeming

"They desired me to staymy cousin Maria charged me to say that you would find them at that knoll, or

"I do not believe I shall go any farther," said he sullenly; "I see nothing of them. By the time I get to the knoll

"I am very sorry," said she; "it is very unlucky." And she longed to be able to say something more to the

After an interval of silence, "I think they might as well have staid for me," said he.

This could not be denied, and Fanny was silenced. After another pause, he went on"Pray, Miss Price, are

you such a great admirer of this Mr. Crawford as some people are? For my part, I can see nothing in him."

"Handsome! Nobody can call such an undersized man handsome. He is not five foot nine. I should not

wonder if he is not more than five foot eight. I think he is an illlooking fellow. In my opinion, these

"If I had made any difficulty about fetching the key, there might have been some excuse, but I went the very

"Nothing could be more obliging than your manner, I am sure, and I dare say you walked as fast as you

could; but still it is some distance, you know, from this spot to the house, quite into the house; and when

people are waiting, they are bad judges of time, and every half minute seems like five."

He got up and walked to the gate again, and "wished he had had the key about him at the time." Fanny

thought she discerned in his standing there an indication of relenting, which encouraged her to another

attempt, and she said, therefore, "It is a pity you should not join them. They expected to have a better view of

the house from that part of the park, and will be thinking how it may be improved; and nothing of that sort,

She found herself more successful in sending away than in retaining a companion. Mr. Rushworth was

worked on. "Well," said he, "if you really think I had better go: it would be foolish to bring the key for

Fanny's thoughts were now all engrossed by the two who had left her so long ago, and getting quite

impatient, she resolved to go in search of them. She followed their steps along the bottom walk, and had just

turned up into another, when the voice and the laugh of Miss Crawford once more caught her ear; the sound

approached, and a few more windings brought them before her. They were just returned into the wilderness

from the park, to which a sidegate, not fastened, had tempted them very soon after their leaving her, and they

had been across a portion of the park into the very avenue which Fanny had been hoping the whole morning

to reach at last, and had been sitting down under one of the trees. This was their history. It was evident that

they had been spending their time pleasantly, and were not aware of the length of their absence. Fanny's best

consolation was in being assured that Edmund had wished for her very much, and that he should certainly

have come back for her, had she not been tired already; but this was not quite sufficient to do away with the

pain of having been left a whole hour, when he had talked of only a few minutes, nor to banish the sort of

curiosity she felt to know what they had been conversing about all that time; and the result of the whole was

to her disappointment and depression, as they prepared by general agreement to return to the house.

On reaching the bottom of the steps to the terrace, Mrs. Rushworth and Mrs. Norris presented themselves at

the top, just ready for the wilderness, at the end of an hour and a half from their leaving the house. Mrs.

Norris had been too well employed to move faster. Whatever crossaccidents had occurred to intercept the

pleasures of her nieces, she had found a morning of complete enjoyment; for the housekeeper, after a great

many courtesies on the subject of pheasants, had taken her to the dairy, told her all about their cows, and

given her the receipt for a famous cream cheese; and since Julia's leaving them they had been met by the

gardener, with whom she had made a most satisfactory acquaintance, for she had set him right as to his

grandson's illness, convinced him that it was an ague, and promised him a charm for it; and he, in return, had

shewn her all his choicest nursery of plants, and actually presented her with a very curious specimen of heath.

On this _ rencontre_ they all returned to the house together, there to lounge away the time as they could with

sofas, and chitchat, and Quarterly Reviews, till the return of the others, and the arrival of dinner. It was late

before the Miss Bertrams and the two gentlemen came in, and their ramble did not appear to have been more

than partially agreeable, or at all productive of anything useful with regard to the object of the day. By their

own accounts they had been all walking after each other, and the junction which had taken place at last

seemed, to Fanny's observation, to have been as much too late for reestablishing harmony, as it confessedly

had been for determining on any alteration. She felt, as she looked at Julia and Mr. Rushworth, that hers was

not the only dissatisfied bosom amongst them: there was gloom on the face of each. Mr. Crawford and Miss

Bertram were much more gay, and she thought that he was taking particular pains, during dinner, to do away

Dinner was soon followed by tea and coffee, a ten miles' drive home allowed no waste of hours; and from the

time of their sitting down to table, it was a quick succession of busy nothings till the carriage came to the

door, and Mrs. Norris, having fidgeted about, and obtained a few pheasants' eggs and a cream cheese from

the housekeeper, and made abundance of civil speeches to Mrs. Rushworth, was ready to lead the way. At the

same moment Mr. Crawford, approaching Julia, said, "I hope I am not to lose my companion, unless she is

afraid of the evening air in so exposed a seat." The request had not been foreseen, but was very graciously

received, and Julia's day was likely to end almost as well as it began. Miss Bertram had made up her mind to

something different, and was a little disappointed; but her conviction of being really the one preferred

comforted her under it, and enabled her to receive Mr. Rushworth's parting attentions as she ought. He was

certainly better pleased to hand her into the barouche than to assist her in ascending the box, and his

"Well, Fanny, this has been a fine day for you, upon my word," said Mrs. Norris, as they drove through the

park. "Nothing but pleasure from beginning to end! I am sure you ought to be very much obliged to your aunt

Bertram and me for contriving to let you go. A pretty good day's amusement you have had!"

Maria was just discontented enough to say directly, "I think _you_ have done pretty well yourself, ma'am.

Your lap seems full of good things, and here is a basket of something between us which has been knocking

"My dear, it is only a beautiful little heath, which that nice old gardener would make me take; but if it is in

your way, I will have it in my lap directly. There, Fanny, you shall carry that parcel for me; take great care of

it: do not let it fall; it is a cream cheese, just like the excellent one we had at dinner. Nothing would satisfy

that good old Mrs. Whitaker, but my taking one of the cheeses. I stood out as long as I could, till the tears

almost came into her eyes, and I knew it was just the sort that my sister would be delighted with. That Mrs.

Whitaker is a treasure! She was quite shocked when I asked her whether wine was allowed at the second

table, and she has turned away two housemaids for wearing white gowns. Take care of the cheese, Fanny.

"What else have you been spunging?" said Maria, halfpleased that Sotherton should be so complimented.

"Spunging, my dear! It is nothing but four of those beautiful pheasants' eggs, which Mrs. Whitaker would

quite force upon me: she would not take a denial. She said it must be such an amusement to me, as she

understood I lived quite alone, to have a few living creatures of that sort; and so to be sure it will. I shall get

the dairymaid to set them under the first spare hen, and if they come to good I can have them moved to my

own house and borrow a coop; and it will be a great delight to me in my lonely hours to attend to them. And

It was a beautiful evening, mild and still, and the drive was as pleasant as the serenity of Nature could make

it; but when Mrs. Norris ceased speaking, it was altogether a silent drive to those within. Their spirits were in

general exhausted; and to determine whether the day had afforded most pleasure or pain, might occupy the

The day at Sotherton, with all its imperfections, afforded the Miss Bertrams much more agreeable feelings

than were derived from the letters from Antigua, which soon afterwards reached Mansfield. It was much

pleasanter to think of Henry Crawford than of their father; and to think of their father in England again within

a certain period, which these letters obliged them to do, was a most unwelcome exercise.

November was the black month fixed for his return. Sir Thomas wrote of it with as much decision as

experience and anxiety could authorise. His business was so nearly concluded as to justify him in proposing

to take his passage in the September packet, and he consequently looked forward with the hope of being with

Maria was more to be pitied than Julia; for to her the father brought a husband, and the return of the friend

most solicitous for her happiness would unite her to the lover, on whom she had chosen that happiness should

depend. It was a gloomy prospect, and all she could do was to throw a mist over it, and hope when the mist

cleared away she should see something else. It would hardly be _early_ in November, there were generally

delays, a bad passage or _something_; that favouring _something_ which everybody who shuts their eyes

while they look, or their understandings while they reason, feels the comfort of. It would probably be the

middle of November at least; the middle of November was three months off. Three months comprised

Sir Thomas would have been deeply mortified by a suspicion of half that his daughters felt on the subject of

his return, and would hardly have found consolation in a knowledge of the interest it excited in the breast of

another young lady. Miss Crawford, on walking up with her brother to spend the evening at Mansfield Park,

heard the good news; and though seeming to have no concern in the affair beyond politeness, and to have

vented all her feelings in a quiet congratulation, heard it with an attention not so easily satisfied. Mrs. Norris

gave the particulars of the letters, and the subject was dropt; but after tea, as Miss Crawford was standing at

an open window with Edmund and Fanny looking out on a twilight scene, while the Miss Bertrams, Mr.

Rushworth, and Henry Crawford were all busy with candles at the pianoforte, she suddenly revived it by

turning round towards the group, and saying, "How happy Mr. Rushworth looks! He is thinking of

"It will, indeed, after such an absence; an absence not only long, but including so many dangers."

"It will be the forerunner also of other interesting events: your sister's marriage, and your taking orders."

"Don't be affronted," said she, laughing, "but it does put me in mind of some of the old heathen heroes, who,

after performing great exploits in a foreign land, offered sacrifices to the gods on their safe return."

"There is no sacrifice in the case," replied Edmund, with a serious smile, and glancing at the pianoforte again;

"Oh yes I know it is. I was merely joking. She has done no more than what every young woman would do;

and I have no doubt of her being extremely happy. My other sacrifice, of course, you do not understand."

"It is fortunate that your inclination and your father's convenience should accord so well. There is a very good

"Thank you for your good word, Fanny, but it is more than I would affirm myself. On the contrary, the

knowing that there was such a provision for me probably did bias me. Nor can I think it wrong that it should.

There was no natural disinclination to be overcome, and I see no reason why a man should make a worse

clergyman for knowing that he will have a competence early in life. I was in safe hands. I hope I should not

have been influenced myself in a wrong way, and I am sure my father was too conscientious to have allowed

"It is the same sort of thing," said Fanny, after a short pause, "as for the son of an admiral to go into the navy,

or the son of a general to be in the army, and nobody sees anything wrong in that. Nobody wonders that they

should prefer the line where their friends can serve them best, or suspects them to be less in earnest in it than

"No, my dear Miss Price, and for reasons good. The profession, either navy or army, is its own justification.

It has everything in its favour: heroism, danger, bustle, fashion. Soldiers and sailors are always acceptable in

"But the motives of a man who takes orders with the certainty of preferment may be fairly suspected, you

think?" said Edmund. "To be justified in your eyes, he must do it in the most complete uncertainty of any

"What! take orders without a living! No; that is madness indeed; absolute madness."

"Shall I ask you how the church is to be filled, if a man is neither to take orders with a living nor without?

No; for you certainly would not know what to say. But I must beg some advantage to the clergyman from

your own argument. As he cannot be influenced by those feelings which you rank highly as temptation and

reward to the soldier and sailor in their choice of a profession, as heroism, and noise, and fashion, are all

against him, he ought to be less liable to the suspicion of wanting sincerity or good intentions in the choice of

"Oh! no doubt he is very sincere in preferring an income ready made, to the trouble of working for one; and

has the best intentions of doing nothing all the rest of his days but eat, drink, and grow fat. It is indolence,

Mr. Bertram, indeed. Indolence and love of ease; a want of all laudable ambition, of taste for good company,

or of inclination to take the trouble of being agreeable, which make men clergymen. A clergyman has nothing

to do but be slovenly and selfishread the newspaper, watch the weather, and quarrel with his wife. His

"There are such clergymen, no doubt, but I think they are not so common as to justify Miss Crawford in

esteeming it their general character. I suspect that in this comprehensive and (may I say) commonplace

censure, you are not judging from yourself, but from prejudiced persons, whose opinions you have been in

the habit of hearing. It is impossible that your own observation can have given you much knowledge of the

clergy. You can have been personally acquainted with very few of a set of men you condemn so conclusively.

"I speak what appears to me the general opinion; and where an opinion is general, it is usually correct.

Though _I_ have not seen much of the domestic lives of clergymen, it is seen by too many to leave any

"Where any one body of educated men, of whatever denomination, are condemned indiscriminately, there

must be a deficiency of information, or (smiling) of something else. Your uncle, and his brother admirals,

perhaps knew little of clergymen beyond the chaplains whom, good or bad, they were always wishing away."

"Poor William! He has met with great kindness from the chaplain of the Antwerp," was a tender apostrophe

of Fanny's, very much to the purpose of her own feelings if not of the conversation.

"I have been so little addicted to take my opinions from my uncle," said Miss Crawford, "that I can hardly

suppose and since you push me so hard, I must observe, that I am not entirely without the means of seeing

what clergymen are, being at this present time the guest of my own brother, Dr. Grant. And though Dr. Grant

is most kind and obliging to me, and though he is really a gentleman, and, I dare say, a good scholar and

clever, and often preaches good sermons, and is very respectable, _I_ see him to be an indolent, selfish _bon_

_vivant_, who must have his palate consulted in everything; who will not stir a finger for the convenience of

any one; and who, moreover, if the cook makes a blunder, is out of humour with his excellent wife. To own

the truth, Henry and I were partly driven out this very evening by a disappointment about a green goose,

which he could not get the better of. My poor sister was forced to stay and bear it."

"I do not wonder at your disapprobation, upon my word. It is a great defect of temper, made worse by a very

faulty habit of selfindulgence; and to see your sister suffering from it must be exceedingly painful to such

feelings as yours. Fanny, it goes against us. We cannot attempt to defend Dr. Grant."

"No," replied Fanny, "but we need not give up his profession for all that; because, whatever profession Dr.

Grant had chosen, he would have taken anot a good temper into it; and as he must, either in the navy or

army, have had a great many more people under his command than he has now, I think more would have

been made unhappy by him as a sailor or soldier than as a clergyman. Besides, I cannot but suppose that

whatever there may be to wish otherwise in Dr. Grant would have been in a greater danger of becoming

worse in a more active and worldly profession, where he would have had less time and obligation where

he might have escaped that knowledge of himself, the _frequency_, at least, of that knowledge which it is

impossible he should escape as he is now. A man a sensible man like Dr. Grant, cannot be in the habit of

teaching others their duty every week, cannot go to church twice every Sunday, and preach such very good

sermons in so good a manner as he does, without being the better for it himself. It must make him think; and I

have no doubt that he oftener endeavours to restrain himself than he would if he had been anything but a

"We cannot prove to the contrary, to be sure; but I wish you a better fate, Miss Price, than to be the wife of a

man whose amiableness depends upon his own sermons; for though he may preach himself into a

goodhumour every Sunday, it will be bad enough to have him quarrelling about green geese from Monday

"I think the man who could often quarrel with Fanny," said Edmund affectionately, "must be beyond the

Fanny turned farther into the window; and Miss Crawford had only time to say, in a pleasant manner, "I

fancy Miss Price has been more used to deserve praise than to hear it"; when, being earnestly invited by the

Miss Bertrams to join in a glee, she tripped off to the instrument, leaving Edmund looking after her in an

ecstasy of admiration of all her many virtues, from her obliging manners down to her light and graceful tread.

"There goes goodhumour, I am sure," said he presently. "There goes a temper which would never give pain!

How well she walks! and how readily she falls in with the inclination of others! joining them the moment she

is asked. What a pity," he added, after an instant's reflection, "that she should have been in such hands!"

Fanny agreed to it, and had the pleasure of seeing him continue at the window with her, in spite of the

expected glee; and of having his eyes soon turned, like hers, towards the scene without, where all that was

solemn, and soothing, and lovely, appeared in the brilliancy of an unclouded night, and the contrast of the

deep shade of the woods. Fanny spoke her feelings. "Here's harmony!" said she; "here's repose! Here's what

may leave all painting and all music behind, and what poetry only can attempt to describe! Here's what may

tranquillise every care, and lift the heart to rapture! When I look out on such a night as this, I feel as if there

could be neither wickedness nor sorrow in the world; and there certainly would be less of both if the

sublimity of Nature were more attended to, and people were carried more out of themselves by contemplating

"I like to hear your enthusiasm, Fanny. It is a lovely night, and they are much to be pitied who have not been

taught to feel, in some degree, as you do; who have not, at least, been given a taste for Nature in early life.

"Yes; I do not know how it has happened." The glee began. "We will stay till this is finished, Fanny," said he,

turning his back on the window; and as it advanced, she had the mortification of seeing him advance too,

moving forward by gentle degrees towards the instrument, and when it ceased, he was close by the singers,

Fanny sighed alone at the window till scolded away by Mrs. Norris's threats of catching cold.

Sir Thomas was to return in November, and his eldest son had duties to call him earlier home. The approach

of September brought tidings of Mr. Bertram, first in a letter to the gamekeeper and then in a letter to

Edmund; and by the end of August he arrived himself, to be gay, agreeable, and gallant again as occasion

served, or Miss Crawford demanded; to tell of races and Weymouth, and parties and friends, to which she

might have listened six weeks before with some interest, and altogether to give her the fullest conviction, by

It was very vexatious, and she was heartily sorry for it; but so it was; and so far from now meaning to marry

the elder, she did not even want to attract him beyond what the simplest claims of conscious beauty required:

his lengthened absence from Mansfield, without anything but pleasure in view, and his own will to consult,

made it perfectly clear that he did not care about her; and his indifference was so much more than equalled by

her own, that were he now to step forth the owner of Mansfield Park, the Sir Thomas complete, which he was

The season and duties which brought Mr. Bertram back to Mansfield took Mr. Crawford into Norfolk.

Everingham could not do without him in the beginning of September. He went for a fortnighta fortnight of

such dullness to the Miss Bertrams as ought to have put them both on their guard, and made even Julia admit,

in her jealousy of her sister, the absolute necessity of distrusting his attentions, and wishing him not to return;

and a fortnight of sufficient leisure, in the intervals of shooting and sleeping, to have convinced the

gentleman that he ought to keep longer away, had he been more in the habit of examining his own motives,

and of reflecting to what the indulgence of his idle vanity was tending; but, thoughtless and selfish from

prosperity and bad example, he would not look beyond the present moment. The sisters, handsome, clever,

and encouraging, were an amusement to his sated mind; and finding nothing in Norfolk to equal the social

pleasures of Mansfield, he gladly returned to it at the time appointed, and was welcomed thither quite as

Maria, with only Mr. Rushworth to attend to her, and doomed to the repeated details of his day's sport, good

or bad, his boast of his dogs, his jealousy of his neighbours, his doubts of their qualifications, and his zeal

after poachers, subjects which will not find their way to female feelings without some talent on one side or

some attachment on the other, had missed Mr. Crawford grievously; and Julia, unengaged and unemployed,

felt all the right of missing him much more. Each sister believed herself the favourite. Julia might be justified

in so doing by the hints of Mrs. Grant, inclined to credit what she wished, and Maria by the hints of Mr.

Crawford himself. Everything returned into the same channel as before his absence; his manners being to

each so animated and agreeable as to lose no ground with either, and just stopping short of the consistence,

the steadiness, the solicitude, and the warmth which might excite general notice.

Fanny was the only one of the party who found anything to dislike; but since the day at Sotherton, she could

never see Mr. Crawford with either sister without observation, and seldom without wonder or censure; and

had her confidence in her own judgment been equal to her exercise of it in every other respect, had she been

sure that she was seeing clearly, and judging candidly, she would probably have made some important

communications to her usual confidant. As it was, however, she only hazarded a hint, and the hint was lost. "I

am rather surprised," said she, "that Mr. Crawford should come back again so soon, after being here so long

before, full seven weeks; for I had understood he was so very fond of change and moving about, that I

thought something would certainly occur, when he was once gone, to take him elsewhere. He is used to much

"It is to his credit," was Edmund's answer; "and I dare say it gives his sister pleasure. She does not like his

"Yes, his manners to women are such as must please. Mrs. Grant, I believe, suspects him of a preference for

Julia; I have never seen much symptom of it, but I wish it may be so. He has no faults but what a serious

"If Miss Bertram were not engaged," said Fanny cautiously, "I could sometimes almost think that he admired

"Which is, perhaps, more in favour of his liking Julia best, than you, Fanny, may be aware; for I believe it

often happens that a man, before he has quite made up his own mind, will distinguish the sister or intimate

friend of the woman he is really thinking of more than the woman herself Crawford has too much sense to

stay here if he found himself in any danger from Maria; and I am not at all afraid for her, after such a proof as

Fanny supposed she must have been mistaken, and meant to think differently in future; but with all that

submission to Edmund could do, and all the help of the coinciding looks and hints which she occasionally

noticed in some of the others, and which seemed to say that Julia was Mr. Crawford's choice, she knew not

always what to think. She was privy, one evening, to the hopes of her aunt Norris on the subject, as well as to

her feelings, and the feelings of Mrs. Rushworth, on a point of some similarity, and could not help wondering

as she listened; and glad would she have been not to be obliged to listen, for it was while all the other young

people were dancing, and she sitting, most unwillingly, among the chaperons at the fire, longing for the

reentrance of her elder cousin, on whom all her own hopes of a partner then depended. It was Fanny's first

ball, though without the preparation or splendour of many a young lady's first ball, being the thought only of

the afternoon, built on the late acquisition of a violin player in the servants' hall, and the possibility of raising

five couple with the help of Mrs. Grant and a new intimate friend of Mr. Bertram's just arrived on a visit. It

had, however, been a very happy one to Fanny through four dances, and she was quite grieved to be losing

even a quarter of an hour. While waiting and wishing, looking now at the dancers and now at the door, this

"I think, ma'am," said Mrs. Norris, her eyes directed towards Mr. Rushworth and Maria, who were partners

"Yes, ma'am, indeed," replied the other, with a stately simper, "there will be some satisfaction in looking on

_now_, and I think it was rather a pity they should have been obliged to part. Young folks in their situation

should be excused complying with the common forms. I wonder my son did not propose it."

"I dare say he did, ma'am. Mr. Rushworth is never remiss. But dear Maria has such a strict sense of propriety,

so much of that true delicacy which one seldom meets with nowadays, Mrs. Rushworththat wish of

avoiding particularity! Dear ma'am, only look at her face at this moment; how different from what it was the

Miss Bertram did indeed look happy, her eyes were sparkling with pleasure, and she was speaking with great

animation, for Julia and her partner, Mr. Crawford, were close to her; they were all in a cluster together. How

she had looked before, Fanny could not recollect, for she had been dancing with Edmund herself, and had not

Mrs. Norris continued, "It is quite delightful, ma'am, to see young people so properly happy, so well suited,

and so much the thing! I cannot but think of dear Sir Thomas's delight. And what do you say, ma'am, to the

chance of another match? Mr. Rushworth has set a good example, and such things are very catching."

"Oh dear! Miss Julia and Mr. Crawford. Yes, indeed, a very pretty match. What is his property?"

"Very well. Those who have not more must be satisfied with what they have. Four thousand a year is a pretty

estate, and he seems a very genteel, steady young man, so I hope Miss Julia will be very happy."

"It is not a settled thing, ma'am, yet. We only speak of it among friends. But I have very little doubt it _will_

Fanny could listen no farther. Listening and wondering were all suspended for a time, for Mr. Bertram was in

the room again; and though feeling it would be a great honour to be asked by him, she thought it must

happen. He came towards their little circle; but instead of asking her to dance, drew a chair near her, and gave

her an account of the present state of a sick horse, and the opinion of the groom, from whom he had just

parted. Fanny found that it was not to be, and in the modesty of her nature immediately felt that she had been

unreasonable in expecting it. When he had told of his horse, he took a newspaper from the table, and looking

over it, said in a languid way, "If you want to dance, Fanny, I will stand up with you." With more than equal

civility the offer was declined; she did not wish to dance. "I am glad of it," said he, in a much brisker tone,

and throwing down the newspaper again, "for I am tired to death. I only wonder how the good people can

keep it up so long. They had need be _all_ in love, to find any amusement in such folly; and so they are, I

fancy. If you look at them you may see they are so many couple of loversall but Yates and Mrs.

Grantand, between ourselves, she, poor woman, must want a lover as much as any one of them. A

desperate dull life hers must be with the doctor," making a sly face as he spoke towards the chair of the latter,

who proving, however, to be close at his elbow, made so instantaneous a change of expression and subject

necessary, as Fanny, in spite of everything, could hardly help laughing at. "A strange business this in

America, Dr. Grant! What is your opinion? I always come to you to know what I am to think of public

"My dear Tom," cried his aunt soon afterwards, "as you are not dancing, I dare say you will have no objection

to join us in a rubber; shall you?" Then leaving her seat, and coming to him to enforce the proposal, added in

a whisper, "We want to make a table for Mrs. Rushworth, you know. Your mother is quite anxious about it,

but cannot very well spare time to sit down herself, because of her fringe. Now, you and I and Dr. Grant will

just do; and though _we_ play but halfcrowns, you know, you may bet halfguineas with _him_."

"I should be most happy," replied he aloud, and jumping up with alacrity, "it would give me the greatest

pleasure; but that I am this moment going to dance." Come, Fanny, taking her hand, "do not be dawdling any

Fanny was led off very willingly, though it was impossible for her to feel much gratitude towards her cousin,

or distinguish, as he certainly did, between the selfishness of another person and his own.

"A pretty modest request upon my word," he indignantly exclaimed as they walked away. "To want to nail

me to a cardtable for the next two hours with herself and Dr. Grant, who are always quarrelling, and that

poking old woman, who knows no more of whist than of algebra. I wish my good aunt would be a little less

busy! And to ask me in such a way too! without ceremony, before them all, so as to leave me no possibility of

refusing. _That_ is what I dislike most particularly. It raises my spleen more than anything, to have the

pretence of being asked, of being given a choice, and at the same time addressed in such a way as to oblige

one to do the very thing, whatever it be! If I had not luckily thought of standing up with you I could not have

got out of it. It is a great deal too bad. But when my aunt has got a fancy in her head, nothing can stop her."

The Honourable John Yates, this new friend, had not much to recommend him beyond habits of fashion and

expense, and being the younger son of a lord with a tolerable independence; and Sir Thomas would probably

have thought his introduction at Mansfield by no means desirable. Mr. Bertram's acquaintance with him had

begun at Weymouth, where they had spent ten days together in the same society, and the friendship, if

friendship it might be called, had been proved and perfected by Mr. Yates's being invited to take Mansfield in

his way, whenever he could, and by his promising to come; and he did come rather earlier than had been

expected, in consequence of the sudden breakingup of a large party assembled for gaiety at the house of

another friend, which he had left Weymouth to join. He came on the wings of disappointment, and with his

head full of acting, for it had been a theatrical party; and the play in which he had borne a part was within two

days of representation, when the sudden death of one of the nearest connexions of the family had destroyed

the scheme and dispersed the performers. To be so near happiness, so near fame, so near the long paragraph

in praise of the private theatricals at Ecclesford, the seat of the Right Hon. Lord Ravenshaw, in Cornwall,

which would of course have immortalised the whole party for at least a twelvemonth! and being so near, to

lose it all, was an injury to be keenly felt, and Mr. Yates could talk of nothing else. Ecclesford and its theatre,

with its arrangements and dresses, rehearsals and jokes, was his neverfailing subject, and to boast of the past

Happily for him, a love of the theatre is so general, an itch for acting so strong among young people, that he

could hardly outtalk the interest of his hearers. From the first casting of the parts to the epilogue it was all

bewitching, and there were few who did not wish to have been a party concerned, or would have hesitated to

try their skill. The play had been Lovers' Vows, and Mr. Yates was to have been Count Cassel. "A trifling

part," said he, "and not at all to my taste, and such a one as I certainly would not accept again; but I was

determined to make no difficulties. Lord Ravenshaw and the duke had appropriated the only two characters

worth playing before I reached Ecclesford; and though Lord Ravenshaw offered to resign his to me, it was

impossible to take it, you know. I was sorry for _him_ that he should have so mistaken his powers, for he was

no more equal to the Barona little man with a weak voice, always hoarse after the first ten minutes. It must

have injured the piece materially; but _I_ was resolved to make no difficulties. Sir Henry thought the duke

not equal to Frederick, but that was because Sir Henry wanted the part himself; whereas it was certainly in

the best hands of the two. I was surprised to see Sir Henry such a stick. Luckily the strength of the piece did

not depend upon him. Our Agatha was inimitable, and the duke was thought very great by many. And upon

"It was a hard case, upon my word"; and, "I do think you were very much to be pitied," were the kind

"It is not worth complaining about; but to be sure the poor old dowager could not have died at a worse time;

and it is impossible to help wishing that the news could have been suppressed for just the three days we

wanted. It was but three days; and being only a grandmother, and all happening two hundred miles off, I

think there would have been no great harm, and it was suggested, I know; but Lord Ravenshaw, who I

"An afterpiece instead of a comedy," said Mr. Bertram. "Lovers' Vows were at an end, and Lord and Lady

Ravenshaw left to act My Grandmother by themselves. Well, the jointure may comfort _him_; and perhaps,

between friends, he began to tremble for his credit and his lungs in the Baron, and was not sorry to withdraw;

and to make _you_ amends, Yates, I think we must raise a little theatre at Mansfield, and ask you to be our

This, though the thought of the moment, did not end with the moment; for the inclination to act was

awakened, and in no one more strongly than in him who was now master of the house; and who, having so

much leisure as to make almost any novelty a certain good, had likewise such a degree of lively talents and

comic taste, as were exactly adapted to the novelty of acting. The thought returned again and again. "Oh for

the Ecclesford theatre and scenery to try something with." Each sister could echo the wish; and Henry

Crawford, to whom, in all the riot of his gratifications it was yet an untasted pleasure, was quite alive at the

idea. "I really believe," said he, "I could be fool enough at this moment to undertake any character that ever

was written, from Shylock or Richard III down to the singing hero of a farce in his scarlet coat and cocked

hat. I feel as if I could be anything or everything; as if I could rant and storm, or sigh or cut capers, in any

tragedy or comedy in the English language. Let us be doing something. Be it only half a play, an act, a scene;

what should prevent us? Not these countenances, I am sure," looking towards the Miss Bertrams; "and for a

theatre, what signifies a theatre? We shall be only amusing ourselves. Any room in this house might suffice."

"We must have a curtain," said Tom Bertram; "a few yards of green baize for a curtain, and perhaps that may

"Oh, quite enough," cried Mr. Yates, "with only just a side wing or two run up, doors in flat, and three or four

scenes to be let down; nothing more would be necessary on such a plan as this. For mere amusement among

"I believe we must be satisfied with _less_," said Maria. "There would not be time, and other difficulties

would arise. We must rather adopt Mr. Crawford's views, and make the _performance_, not the_theatre_, our

"Nay," said Edmund, who began to listen with alarm. "Let us do nothing by halves. If we are to act, let it be

in a theatre completely fitted up with pit, boxes, and gallery, and let us have a play entire from beginning to

end; so as it be a German play, no matter what, with a good tricking, shifting afterpiece, and a figuredance,

and a hornpipe, and a song between the acts. If we do not outdo Ecclesford, we do nothing."

"Now, Edmund, do not be disagreeable," said Julia. "Nobody loves a play better than you do, or can have

"True, to see real acting, good hardened real acting; but I would hardly walk from this room to the next to

look at the raw efforts of those who have not been bred to the trade: a set of gentlemen and ladies, who have

After a short pause, however, the subject still continued, and was discussed with unabated eagerness, every

one's inclination increasing by the discussion, and a knowledge of the inclination of the rest; and though

nothing was settled but that Tom Bertram would prefer a comedy, and his sisters and Henry Crawford a

tragedy, and that nothing in the world could be easier than to find a piece which would please them all, the

resolution to act something or other seemed so decided as to make Edmund quite uncomfortable. He was

determined to prevent it, if possible, though his mother, who equally heard the conversation which passed at

The same evening afforded him an opportunity of trying his strength. Maria, Julia, Henry Crawford, and Mr.

Yates were in the billiardroom. Tom, returning from them into the drawingroom, where Edmund was

standing thoughtfully by the fire, while Lady Bertram was on the sofa at a little distance, and Fanny close

beside her arranging her work, thus began as he entered"Such a horribly vile billiardtable as ours is not to

be met with, I believe, above ground. I can stand it no longer, and I think, I may say, that nothing shall ever

tempt me to it again; but one good thing I have just ascertained: it is the very room for a theatre, precisely the

shape and length for it; and the doors at the farther end, communicating with each other, as they may be made

to do in five minutes, by merely moving the bookcase in my father's room, is the very thing we could have

desired, if we had sat down to wish for it; and my father's room will be an excellent greenroom. It seems to

"You are not serious, Tom, in meaning to act?" said Edmund, in a low voice, as his brother approached the

"Not serious! never more so, I assure you. What is there to surprise you in it?"

"I think it would be very wrong. In a _general_ light, private theatricals are open to some objections, but as

_we_ are circumstanced, I must think it would be highly injudicious, and more than injudicious to attempt

anything of the kind. It would shew great want of feeling on my father's account, absent as he is, and in some

degree of constant danger; and it would be imprudent, I think, with regard to Maria, whose situation is a very

"You take up a thing so seriously! as if we were going to act three times a week till my father's return, and

invite all the country. But it is not to be a display of that sort. We mean nothing but a little amusement among

ourselves, just to vary the scene, and exercise our powers in something new. We want no audience, no

publicity. We may be trusted, I think, in chusing some play most perfectly unexceptionable; and I can

conceive no greater harm or danger to any of us in conversing in the elegant written language of some

respectable author than in chattering in words of our own. I have no fears and no scruples. And as to my

father's being absent, it is so far from an objection, that I consider it rather as a motive; for the expectation of

his return must be a very anxious period to my mother; and if we can be the means of amusing that anxiety,

and keeping up her spirits for the next few weeks, I shall think our time very well spent, and so, I am sure,

As he said this, each looked towards their mother. Lady Bertram, sunk back in one corner of the sofa, the

picture of health, wealth, ease, and tranquillity, was just falling into a gentle doze, while Fanny was getting

"By Jove! this won't do," cried Tom, throwing himself into a chair with a hearty laugh. "To be sure, my dear

"What is the matter?" asked her ladyship, in the heavy tone of one halfroused; "I was not asleep."

"Oh dear, no, ma'am, nobody suspected you! Well, Edmund," he continued, returning to the former subject,

posture, and voice, as soon as Lady Bertram began to nod again, "but _this_ I _will_ maintain, that we shall

"I cannot agree with you; I am convinced that my father would totally disapprove it."

"And I am convinced to the contrary. Nobody is fonder of the exercise of talent in young people, or promotes

it more, than my father, and for anything of the acting, spouting, reciting kind, I think he has always a

decided taste. I am sure he encouraged it in us as boys. How many a time have we mourned over the dead

body of Julius Caesar, and to _be'd_ and not _to_ _be'd_, in this very room, for his amusement? And I am

sure, _my_ _name_ _was_ _Norval_, every evening of my life through one Christmas holidays."

"It was a very different thing. You must see the difference yourself. My father wished us, as schoolboys, to

speak well, but he would never wish his grownup daughters to be acting plays. His sense of decorum is

"I know all that," said Tom, displeased. "I know my father as well as you do; and I'll take care that his

daughters do nothing to distress him. Manage your own concerns, Edmund, and I'll take care of the rest of the

"If you are resolved on acting," replied the persevering Edmund, "I must hope it will be in a very small and

quiet way; and I think a theatre ought not to be attempted. It would be taking liberties with my father's house

"For everything of that nature I will be answerable," said Tom, in a decided tone. "His house shall not be

hurt. I have quite as great an interest in being careful of his house as you can have; and as to such alterations

as I was suggesting just now, such as moving a bookcase, or unlocking a door, or even as using the

billiardroom for the space of a week without playing at billiards in it, you might just as well suppose he

would object to our sitting more in this room, and less in the breakfastroom, than we did before he went

away, or to my sister's pianoforte being moved from one side of the room to the other. Absolute nonsense!"

"Yes, the expense of such an undertaking would be prodigious! Perhaps it might cost a whole twenty pounds.

Something of a theatre we must have undoubtedly, but it will be on the simplest plan: a green curtain and a

little carpenter's work, and that's all; and as the carpenter's work may be all done at home by Christopher

Jackson himself, it will be too absurd to talk of expense; and as long as Jackson is employed, everything will

be right with Sir Thomas. Don't imagine that nobody in this house can see or judge but yourself. Don't act

Tom walked out of the room as he said it, and Edmund was left to sit down and stir the fire in thoughtful

Fanny, who had heard it all, and borne Edmund company in every feeling throughout the whole, now

ventured to say, in her anxiety to suggest some comfort, "Perhaps they may not be able to find any play to

"I have no hope there, Fanny. If they persist in the scheme, they will find something. I shall speak to my

"I dare say she would, but she has no influence with either Tom or my sisters that could be of any use; and if

I cannot convince them myself, I shall let things take their course, without attempting it through her. Family

squabbling is the greatest evil of all, and we had better do anything than be altogether by the ears."

His sisters, to whom he had an opportunity of speaking the next morning, were quite as impatient of his

advice, quite as unyielding to his representation, quite as determined in the cause of pleasure, as Tom. Their

mother had no objection to the plan, and they were not in the least afraid of their father's disapprobation.

There could be no harm in what had been done in so many respectable families, and by so many women of

the first consideration; and it must be scrupulousness run mad that could see anything to censure in a plan

like theirs, comprehending only brothers and sisters and intimate friends, and which would never be heard of

beyond themselves. Julia _did_ seem inclined to admit that Maria's situation might require particular caution

and delicacybut that could not extend to _her_ she was at liberty; and Maria evidently considered her

engagement as only raising her so much more above restraint, and leaving her less occasion than Julia to

consult either father or mother. Edmund had little to hope, but he was still urging the subject when Henry

Crawford entered the room, fresh from the Parsonage, calling out, "No want of hands in our theatre, Miss

Bertram. No want of understrappers: my sister desires her love, and hopes to be admitted into the company,

and will be happy to take the part of any old duenna or tame confidante, that you may not like to do

Maria gave Edmund a glance, which meant, "What say you now? Can we be wrong if Mary Crawford feels

the same?" And Edmund, silenced, was obliged to acknowledge that the charm of acting might well carry

fascination to the mind of genius; and with the ingenuity of love, to dwell more on the obliging,

The scheme advanced. Opposition was vain; and as to Mrs. Norris, he was mistaken in supposing she would

wish to make any. She started no difficulties that were not talked down in five minutes by her eldest nephew

and niece, who were allpowerful with her; and as the whole arrangement was to bring very little expense to

anybody, and none at all to herself, as she foresaw in it all the comforts of hurry, bustle, and importance, and

derived the immediate advantage of fancying herself obliged to leave her own house, where she had been

living a month at her own cost, and take up her abode in theirs, that every hour might be spent in their

Fanny seemed nearer being right than Edmund had supposed. The business of finding a play that would suit

everybody proved to be no trifle; and the carpenter had received his orders and taken his measurements, had

suggested and removed at least two sets of difficulties, and having made the necessity of an enlargement of

plan and expense fully evident, was already at work, while a play was still to seek. Other preparations were

also in hand. An enormous roll of green baize had arrived from Northampton, and been cut out by Mrs.

Norris (with a saving by her good management of full threequarters of a yard), and was actually forming

into a curtain by the housemaids, and still the play was wanting; and as two or three days passed away in this

There were, in fact, so many things to be attended to, so many people to be pleased, so many best characters

required, and, above all, such a need that the play should be at once both tragedy and comedy, that there did

seem as little chance of a decision as anything pursued by youth and zeal could hold out.

On the tragic side were the Miss Bertrams, Henry Crawford, and Mr. Yates; on the comic, Tom Bertram, not

_quite_ alone, because it was evident that Mary Crawford's wishes, though politely kept back, inclined the

same way: but his determinateness and his power seemed to make allies unnecessary; and, independent of

this great irreconcilable difference, they wanted a piece containing very few characters in the whole, but

every character firstrate, and three principal women. All the best plays were run over in vain. Neither

Hamlet, nor Macbeth, nor Othello, nor Douglas, nor The Gamester, presented anything that could satisfy

even the tragedians; and The Rivals, The School for Scandal, Wheel of Fortune, Heir at Law, and a long et

cetera, were successively dismissed with yet warmer objections. No piece could be proposed that did not

supply somebody with a difficulty, and on one side or the other it was a continual repetition of, "Oh no,

_that_ will never do! Let us have no ranting tragedies. Too many characters. Not a tolerable woman's part in

the play. Anything but _that_, my dear Tom. It would be impossible to fill it up. One could not expect

anybody to take such a part. Nothing but buffoonery from beginning to end. _That_ might do, perhaps, but

for the low parts. If I _must_ give my opinion, I have always thought it the most insipid play in the English

language. _I_ do not wish to make objections; I shall be happy to be of any use, but I think we could not

Fanny looked on and listened, not unamused to observe the selfishness which, more or less disguised, seemed

to govern them all, and wondering how it would end. For her own gratification she could have wished that

something might be acted, for she had never seen even half a play, but everything of higher consequence was

"This will never do," said Tom Bertram at last. "We are wasting time most abominably. Something must be

fixed on. No matter what, so that something is chosen. We must not be so nice. A few characters too many

must not frighten us. We must _double_ them. We must descend a little. If a part is insignificant, the greater

our credit in making anything of it. From this moment I make no difficulties. I take any part you chuse to

For about the fifth time he then proposed the Heir at Law, doubting only whether to prefer Lord Duberley or

Dr. Pangloss for himself; and very earnestly, but very unsuccessfully, trying to persuade the others that there

The pause which followed this fruitless effort was ended by the same speaker, who, taking up one of the

many volumes of plays that lay on the table, and turning it over, suddenly exclaimed"Lovers' Vows! And

why should not Lovers' Vows do for _us_ as well as for the Ravenshaws? How came it never to be thought of

before? It strikes me as if it would do exactly. What say you all? Here are two capital tragic parts for Yates

and Crawford, and here is the rhyming Butler for me, if nobody else wants it; a trifling part, but the sort of

thing I should not dislike, and, as I said before, I am determined to take anything and do my best. And as for

the rest, they may be filled up by anybody. It is only Count Cassel and Anhalt."

The suggestion was generally welcome. Everybody was growing weary of indecision, and the first idea with

everybody was, that nothing had been proposed before so likely to suit them all. Mr. Yates was particularly

pleased: he had been sighing and longing to do the Baron at Ecclesford, had grudged every rant of Lord

Ravenshaw's, and been forced to rerant it all in his own room. The storm through Baron Wildenheim was

the height of his theatrical ambition; and with the advantage of knowing half the scenes by heart already, he

did now, with the greatest alacrity, offer his services for the part. To do him justice, however, he did not

resolve to appropriate it; for remembering that there was some very good rantingground in Frederick, he

professed an equal willingness for that. Henry Crawford was ready to take either. Whichever Mr. Yates did

not chuse would perfectly satisfy him, and a short parley of compliment ensued. Miss Bertram, feeling all the

interest of an Agatha in the question, took on her to decide it, by observing to Mr. Yates that this was a point

in which height and figure ought to be considered, and that _his_ being the tallest, seemed to fit him

peculiarly for the Baron. She was acknowledged to be quite right, and the two parts being accepted

accordingly, she was certain of the proper Frederick. Three of the characters were now cast, besides Mr.

Rushworth, who was always answered for by Maria as willing to do anything; when Julia, meaning, like her

"This is not behaving well by the absent," said she. "Here are not women enough. Amelia and Agatha may do

Mr. Crawford desired _that_ might not be thought of: he was very sure his sister had no wish of acting but as

she might be useful, and that she would not allow herself to be considered in the present case. But this was

immediately opposed by Tom Bertram, who asserted the part of Amelia to be in every respect the property of

Miss Crawford, if she would accept it. "It falls as naturally, as necessarily to her," said he, "as Agatha does to

one or other of my sisters. It can be no sacrifice on their side, for it is highly comic."

A short silence followed. Each sister looked anxious; for each felt the best claim to Agatha, and was hoping

to have it pressed on her by the rest. Henry Crawford, who meanwhile had taken up the play, and with

"I must entreat Miss _Julia_ Bertram," said he, "not to engage in the part of Agatha, or it will be the ruin of

all my solemnity. You must not, indeed you must not" (turning to her). "I could not stand your countenance

dressed up in woe and paleness. The many laughs we have had together would infallibly come across me, and

Pleasantly, courteously, it was spoken; but the manner was lost in the matter to Julia's feelings. She saw a

glance at Maria which confirmed the injury to herself: it was a scheme, a trick; she was slighted, Maria was

preferred; the smile of triumph which Maria was trying to suppress shewed how well it was understood; and

before Julia could command herself enough to speak, her brother gave his weight against her too, by saying,

"Oh yes! Maria must be Agatha. Maria will be the best Agatha. Though Julia fancies she prefers tragedy, I

would not trust her in it. There is nothing of tragedy about her. She has not the look of it. Her features are not

tragic features, and she walks too quick, and speaks too quick, and would not keep her countenance. She had

better do the old countrywoman: the Cottager's wife; you had, indeed, Julia. Cottager's wife is a very pretty

part, I assure you. The old lady relieves the highflown benevolence of her husband with a good deal of

"Cottager's wife!" cried Mr. Yates. "What are you talking of? The most trivial, paltry, insignificant part; the

merest commonplace; not a tolerable speech in the whole. Your sister do that! It is an insult to propose it. At

Ecclesford the governess was to have done it. We all agreed that it could not be offered to anybody else. A

little more justice, Mr. Manager, if you please. You do not deserve the office, if you cannot appreciate the

"Why, as to _that_, my good friend, till I and my company have really acted there must be some guesswork;

but I mean no disparagement to Julia. We cannot have two Agathas, and we must have one Cottager's wife;

and I am sure I set her the example of moderation myself in being satisfied with the old Butler. If the part is

trifling she will have more credit in making something of it; and if she is so desperately bent against

everything humorous, let her take Cottager's speeches instead of Cottager's wife's, and so change the parts all

through; _he_ is solemn and pathetic enough, I am sure. It could make no difference in the play, and as for

Cottager himself, when he has got his wife's speeches, _I_ would undertake him with all my heart."

"With all your partiality for Cottager's wife," said Henry Crawford, "it will be impossible to make anything of

it fit for your sister, and we must not suffer her goodnature to be imposed on. We must not _allow_ her to

accept the part. She must not be left to her own complaisance. Her talents will be wanted in Amelia. Amelia

is a character more difficult to be well represented than even Agatha. I consider Amelia is the most difficult

character in the whole piece. It requires great powers, great nicety, to give her playfulness and simplicity

without extravagance. I have seen good actresses fail in the part. Simplicity, indeed, is beyond the reach of

almost every actress by profession. It requires a delicacy of feeling which they have not. It requires a

gentlewomana Julia Bertram. You _will_ undertake it, I hope?" turning to her with a look of anxious

entreaty, which softened her a little; but while she hesitated what to say, her brother again interposed with

"No, no, Julia must not be Amelia. It is not at all the part for her. She would not like it. She would not do

well. She is too tall and robust. Amelia should be a small, light, girlish, skipping figure. It is fit for Miss

Crawford, and Miss Crawford only. She looks the part, and I am persuaded will do it admirably."

Without attending to this, Henry Crawford continued his supplication. "You must oblige us," said he, "indeed

you must. When you have studied the character, I am sure you will feel it suit you. Tragedy may be your

choice, but it will certainly appear that comedy chuses _you_. You will be to visit me in prison with a basket

of provisions; you will not refuse to visit me in prison? I think I see you coming in with your basket"

The influence of his voice was felt. Julia wavered; but was he only trying to soothe and pacify her, and make

her overlook the previous affront? She distrusted him. The slight had been most determined. He was, perhaps,

but at treacherous play with her. She looked suspiciously at her sister; Maria's countenance was to decide it:

if she were vexed and alarmedbut Maria looked all serenity and satisfaction, and Julia well knew that on

this ground Maria could not be happy but at her expense. With hasty indignation, therefore, and a tremulous

voice, she said to him, "You do not seem afraid of not keeping your countenance when I come in with a

basket of provisionsthough one might have supposedbut it is only as Agatha that I was to be so

overpowering!" She stoppedHenry Crawford looked rather foolish, and as if he did not know what to say.

"Do not be afraid of _my_ wanting the character," cried Julia, with angry quickness: "I am _not_ to be

Agatha, and I am sure I will do nothing else; and as to Amelia, it is of all parts in the world the most

disgusting to me. I quite detest her. An odious, little, pert, unnatural, impudent girl. I have always protested

against comedy, and this is comedy in its worst form." And so saying, she walked hastily out of the room,

leaving awkward feelings to more than one, but exciting small compassion in any except Fanny, who had

been a quiet auditor of the whole, and who could not think of her as under the agitations of _jealousy_

A short silence succeeded her leaving them; but her brother soon returned to business and Lovers' Vows, and

was eagerly looking over the play, with Mr. Yates's help, to ascertain what scenery would be

necessarywhile Maria and Henry Crawford conversed together in an undervoice, and the declaration with

which she began of, "I am sure I would give up the part to Julia most willingly, but that though I shall

probably do it very ill, I feel persuaded _she_ would do it worse," was doubtless receiving all the

When this had lasted some time, the division of the party was completed by Tom Bertram and Mr. Yates

walking off together to consult farther in the room now beginning to be called _the_ _Theatre_, and Miss

Bertram's resolving to go down to the Parsonage herself with the offer of Amelia to Miss Crawford; and

The first use she made of her solitude was to take up the volume which had been left on the table, and begin

to acquaint herself with the play of which she had heard so much. Her curiosity was all awake, and she ran

through it with an eagerness which was suspended only by intervals of astonishment, that it could be chosen

in the present instance, that it could be proposed and accepted in a private theatre! Agatha and Amelia

appeared to her in their different ways so totally improper for home representationthe situation of one, and

the language of the other, so unfit to be expressed by any woman of modesty, that she could hardly suppose

her cousins could be aware of what they were engaging in; and longed to have them roused as soon as

Miss Crawford accepted the part very readily; and soon after Miss Bertram's return from the Parsonage, Mr.

Rushworth arrived, and another character was consequently cast. He had the offer of Count Cassel and

Anhalt, and at first did not know which to chuse, and wanted Miss Bertram to direct him; but upon being

made to understand the different style of the characters, and which was which, and recollecting that he had

once seen the play in London, and had thought Anhalt a very stupid fellow, he soon decided for the Count.

Miss Bertram approved the decision, for the less he had to learn the better; and though she could not

sympathise in his wish that the Count and Agatha might be to act together, nor wait very patiently while he

was slowly turning over the leaves with the hope of still discovering such a scene, she very kindly took his

part in hand, and curtailed every speech that admitted being shortened; besides pointing out the necessity of

his being very much dressed, and chusing his colours. Mr. Rushworth liked the idea of his finery very well,

though affecting to despise it; and was too much engaged with what his own appearance would be to think of

the others, or draw any of those conclusions, or feel any of that displeasure which Maria had been half

Thus much was settled before Edmund, who had been out all the morning, knew anything of the matter; but

when he entered the drawingroom before dinner, the buzz of discussion was high between Tom, Maria, and

Mr. Yates; and Mr. Rushworth stepped forward with great alacrity to tell him the agreeable news.

"We have got a play," said he. "It is to be Lovers' Vows; and I am to be Count Cassel, and am to come in first

with a blue dress and a pink satin cloak, and afterwards am to have another fine fancy suit, by way of a

Fanny's eyes followed Edmund, and her heart beat for him as she heard this speech, and saw his look, and felt

"Lovers' Vows!" in a tone of the greatest amazement, was his only reply to Mr. Rushworth, and he turned

"Yes," cried Mr. Yates. "After all our debatings and difficulties, we find there is nothing that will suit us

altogether so well, nothing so unexceptionable, as Lovers' Vows. The wonder is that it should not have been

thought of before. My stupidity was abominable, for here we have all the advantage of what I saw at

Ecclesford; and it is so useful to have anything of a model! We have cast almost every part."

Maria blushed in spite of herself as she answered, "I take the part which Lady Ravenshaw was to have done,

"I should not have thought it the sort of play to be so easily filled up, with _us_," replied Edmund, turning

away to the fire, where sat his mother, aunt, and Fanny, and seating himself with a look of great vexation.

Mr. Rushworth followed him to say, "I come in three times, and have twoandforty speeches. That's

something, is not it? But I do not much like the idea of being so fine. I shall hardly know myself in a blue

Edmund could not answer him. In a few minutes Mr. Bertram was called out of the room to satisfy some

doubts of the carpenter; and being accompanied by Mr. Yates, and followed soon afterwards by Mr.

Rushworth, Edmund almost immediately took the opportunity of saying, "I cannot, before Mr. Yates, speak

what I feel as to this play, without reflecting on his friends at Ecclesford; but I must now, my dear Maria, tell

_you_, that I think it exceedingly unfit for private representation, and that I hope you will give it up. I cannot

but suppose you _will_ when you have read it carefully over. Read only the first act aloud to either your

mother or aunt, and see how you can approve it. It will not be necessary to send you to your _father's_

"We see things very differently," cried Maria. "I am perfectly acquainted with the play, I assure you; and with

a very few omissions, and so forth, which will be made, of course, I can see nothing objectionable in it; and

_I_ am not the _only_ young woman you find who thinks it very fit for private representation."

"I am sorry for it," was his answer; "but in this matter it is _you_ who are to lead. _You_ must set the

example. If others have blundered, it is your place to put them right, and shew them what true delicacy is. In

This picture of her consequence had some effect, for no one loved better to lead than Maria; and with far

more goodhumour she answered, "I am much obliged to you, Edmund; you mean very well, I am sure: but I

still think you see things too strongly; and I really cannot undertake to harangue all the rest upon a subject of

"Do you imagine that I could have such an idea in my head? No; let your conduct be the only harangue. Say

that, on examining the part, you feel yourself unequal to it; that you find it requiring more exertion and

confidence than you can be supposed to have. Say this with firmness, and it will be quite enough. All who

can distinguish will understand your motive. The play will be given up, and your delicacy honoured as it

"Do not act anything improper, my dear," said Lady Bertram. "Sir Thomas would not like it.Fanny, ring

"I am convinced, madam," said Edmund, preventing Fanny, "that Sir Thomas would not like it."

"If I were to decline the part," said Maria, with renewed zeal, "Julia would certainly take it."

"Oh! she might think the difference between us the difference in our situationsthat _she_ need not be so

scrupulous as _I_ might feel necessary. I am sure she would argue so. No; you must excuse me; I cannot

retract my consent; it is too far settled, everybody would be so disappointed, Tom would be quite angry; and

"I was just going to say the very same thing," said Mrs. Norris. "If every play is to be objected to, you will act

nothing, and the preparations will be all so much money thrown away, and I am sure _that_ would be a

discredit to us all. I do not know the play; but, as Maria says, if there is anything a little too warm (and it is so

with most of them) it can be easily left out. We must not be overprecise, Edmund. As Mr. Rushworth is to

act too, there can be no harm. I only wish Tom had known his own mind when the carpenters began, for there

was the loss of half a day's work about those sidedoors. The curtain will be a good job, however. The maids

do their work very well, and I think we shall be able to send back some dozens of the rings. There is no

occasion to put them so very close together. I _am_ of some use, I hope, in preventing waste and making the

most of things. There should always be one steady head to superintend so many young ones. I forgot to tell

Tom of something that happened to me this very day. I had been looking about me in the poultryyard, and

was just coming out, when who should I see but Dick Jackson making up to the servants' halldoor with two

bits of deal board in his hand, bringing them to father, you may be sure; mother had chanced to send him of a

message to father, and then father had bid him bring up them two bits of board, for he could not no how do

without them. I knew what all this meant, for the servants' dinnerbell was ringing at the very moment over

our heads; and as I hate such encroaching people (the Jacksons are very encroaching, I have always said so:

just the sort of people to get all they can), I said to the boy directly (a great lubberly fellow of ten years old,

you know, who ought to be ashamed of himself), "_I'll_ take the boards to your father, Dick, so get you home

again as fast as you can." The boy looked very silly, and turned away without offering a word, for I believe I

might speak pretty sharp; and I dare say it will cure him of coming marauding about the house for one while.

I hate such greediness so good as your father is to the family, employing the man all the year round!"

Nobody was at the trouble of an answer; the others soon returned; and Edmund found that to have

Dinner passed heavily. Mrs. Norris related again her triumph over Dick Jackson, but neither play nor

preparation were otherwise much talked of, for Edmund's disapprobation was felt even by his brother, though

he would not have owned it. Maria, wanting Henry Crawford's animating support, thought the subject better

avoided. Mr. Yates, who was trying to make himself agreeable to Julia, found her gloom less impenetrable on

any topic than that of his regret at her secession from their company; and Mr. Rushworth, having only his

own part and his own dress in his head, had soon talked away all that could be said of either.

But the concerns of the theatre were suspended only for an hour or two: there was still a great deal to be

settled; and the spirits of evening giving fresh courage, Tom, Maria, and Mr. Yates, soon after their being

reassembled in the drawingroom, seated themselves in committee at a separate table, with the play open

before them, and were just getting deep in the subject when a most welcome interruption was given by the

entrance of Mr. and Miss Crawford, who, late and dark and dirty as it was, could not help coming, and were

"Well, how do you go on?" and "What have you settled?" and "Oh! we can do nothing without you,"

followed the first salutations; and Henry Crawford was soon seated with the other three at the table, while his

sister made her way to Lady Bertram, and with pleasant attention was complimenting _her_. "I must really

congratulate your ladyship," said she, "on the play being chosen; for though you have borne it with

exemplary patience, I am sure you must be sick of all our noise and difficulties. The actors may be glad, but

the bystanders must be infinitely more thankful for a decision; and I do sincerely give you joy, madam, as

well as Mrs. Norris, and everybody else who is in the same predicament," glancing half fearfully, half slyly,

She was very civilly answered by Lady Bertram, but Edmund said nothing. His being only a bystander was

not disclaimed. After continuing in chat with the party round the fire a few minutes, Miss Crawford returned

to the party round the table; and standing by them, seemed to interest herself in their arrangements till, as if

struck by a sudden recollection, she exclaimed, "My good friends, you are most composedly at work upon

these cottages and alehouses, inside and out; but pray let me know my fate in the meanwhile. Who is to be

For a moment no one spoke; and then many spoke together to tell the same melancholy truth, that they had

not yet got any Anhalt. "Mr. Rushworth was to be Count Cassel, but no one had yet undertaken Anhalt."

"I had my choice of the parts," said Mr. Rushworth; "but I thought I should like the Count best, though I do

"You chose very wisely, I am sure," replied Miss Crawford, with a brightened look; "Anhalt is a heavy part."

"_The_ _Count_ has twoandforty speeches," returned Mr. Rushworth, "which is no trifle."

"I am not at all surprised," said Miss Crawford, after a short pause, "at this want of an Anhalt. Amelia

"I should be but too happy in taking the part, if it were possible," cried Tom; "but, unluckily, the Butler and

Anhalt are in together. I will not entirely give it up, however; I will try what can be doneI will look it over

"Your _brother_ should take the part," said Mr. Yates, in a low voice. "Do not you think he would?"

Miss Crawford talked of something else, and soon afterwards rejoined the party at the fire.

"They do not want me at all," said she, seating herself. "I only puzzle them, and oblige them to make civil

speeches. Mr. Edmund Bertram, as you do not act yourself, you will be a disinterested adviser; and, therefore,

I apply to _you_. What shall we do for an Anhalt? Is it practicable for any of the others to double it? What is

"_I_ should have no objection," she replied; "for though I should not particularly dislike the part of Amelia if

well supported, that is, if everything went well, I shall be sorry to be an inconvenience; but as they do not

chuse to hear your advice at _that_ _table_" (looking round), "it certainly will not be taken."

"If _any_ part could tempt _you_ to act, I suppose it would be Anhalt," observed the lady archly, after a short

"_That_ circumstance would by no means tempt me," he replied, "for I should be sorry to make the character

ridiculous by bad acting. It must be very difficult to keep Anhalt from appearing a formal, solemn lecturer;

and the man who chuses the profession itself is, perhaps, one of the last who would wish to represent it on the

Miss Crawford was silenced, and with some feelings of resentment and mortification, moved her chair

considerably nearer the teatable, and gave all her attention to Mrs. Norris, who was presiding there.

"Fanny," cried Tom Bertram, from the other table, where the conference was eagerly carrying on, and the

Fanny was up in a moment, expecting some errand; for the habit of employing her in that way was not yet

"Oh! we do not want to disturb you from your seat. We do not want your _present_ services. We shall only

"Me!" cried Fanny, sitting down again with a most frightened look. "Indeed you must excuse me. I could not

"Indeed, but you must, for we cannot excuse you. It need not frighten you: it is a nothing of a part, a mere

nothing, not above half a dozen speeches altogether, and it will not much signify if nobody hears a word you

"If you are afraid of half a dozen speeches," cried Mr. Rushworth, "what would you do with such a part as

"It is not that I am afraid of learning by heart," said Fanny, shocked to find herself at that moment the only

speaker in the room, and to feel that almost every eye was upon her; "but I really cannot act."

"Yes, yes, you can act well enough for _us_. Learn your part, and we will teach you all the rest. You have

only two scenes, and as I shall be Cottager, I'll put you in and push you about, and you will do it very well,

"No, indeed, Mr. Bertram, you must excuse me. You cannot have an idea. It would be absolutely impossible

"Phoo! Phoo! Do not be so shamefaced. You'll do it very well. Every allowance will be made for you. We do

not expect perfection. You must get a brown gown, and a white apron, and a mob cap, and we must make you

a few wrinkles, and a little of the crowsfoot at the corner of your eyes, and you will be a very proper, little old

"You must excuse me, indeed you must excuse me," cried Fanny, growing more and more red from excessive

agitation, and looking distressfully at Edmund, who was kindly observing her; but unwilling to exasperate his

brother by interference, gave her only an encouraging smile. Her entreaty had no effect on Tom: he only said

again what he had said before; and it was not merely Tom, for the requisition was now backed by Maria, and

Mr. Crawford, and Mr. Yates, with an urgency which differed from his but in being more gentle or more

ceremonious, and which altogether was quite overpowering to Fanny; and before she could breathe after it,

Mrs. Norris completed the whole by thus addressing her in a whisper at once angry and audible"What a

piece of work here is about nothing: I am quite ashamed of you, Fanny, to make such a difficulty of obliging

your cousins in a trifle of this sortso kind as they are to you! Take the part with a good grace, and let us

"Do not urge her, madam," said Edmund. "It is not fair to urge her in this manner. You see she does not like

to act. Let her chuse for herself, as well as the rest of us. Her judgment may be quite as safely trusted. Do not

"I am not going to urge her," replied Mrs. Norris sharply; "but I shall think her a very obstinate, ungrateful

girl, if she does not do what her aunt and cousins wish her very ungrateful, indeed, considering who and

Edmund was too angry to speak; but Miss Crawford, looking for a moment with astonished eyes at Mrs.

Norris, and then at Fanny, whose tears were beginning to shew themselves, immediately said, with some

keenness, "I do not like my situation: this _place_ is too hot for me," and moved away her chair to the

opposite side of the table, close to Fanny, saying to her, in a kind, low whisper, as she placed herself, "Never

mind, my dear Miss Price, this is a cross evening: everybody is cross and teasing, but do not let us mind

them"; and with pointed attention continued to talk to her and endeavour to raise her spirits, in spite of being

out of spirits herself. By a look at her brother she prevented any farther entreaty from the theatrical board, and

the really good feelings by which she was almost purely governed were rapidly restoring her to all the little

Fanny did not love Miss Crawford; but she felt very much obliged to her for her present kindness; and when,

from taking notice of her work, and wishing _she_ could work as well, and begging for the pattern, and

supposing Fanny was now preparing for her _appearance_, as of course she would come out when her cousin

was married, Miss Crawford proceeded to inquire if she had heard lately from her brother at sea, and said that

she had quite a curiosity to see him, and imagined him a very fine young man, and advised Fanny to get his

picture drawn before he went to sea againshe could not help admitting it to be very agreeable flattery, or

The consultation upon the play still went on, and Miss Crawford's attention was first called from Fanny by

Tom Bertram's telling her, with infinite regret, that he found it absolutely impossible for him to undertake the

part of Anhalt in addition to the Butler: he had been most anxiously trying to make it out to be feasible, but it

would not do; he must give it up. "But there will not be the smallest difficulty in filling it," he added. "We

have but to speak the word; we may pick and chuse. I could name, at this moment, at least six young men

within six miles of us, who are wild to be admitted into our company, and there are one or two that would not

disgrace us: I should not be afraid to trust either of the Olivers or Charles Maddox. Tom Oliver is a very

clever fellow, and Charles Maddox is as gentlemanlike a man as you will see anywhere, so I will take my

horse early tomorrow morning and ride over to Stoke, and settle with one of them."

While he spoke, Maria was looking apprehensively round at Edmund in full expectation that he must oppose

such an enlargement of the plan as this: so contrary to all their first protestations; but Edmund said nothing.

After a moment's thought, Miss Crawford calmly replied, "As far as I am concerned, I can have no objection

to anything that you all think eligible. Have I ever seen either of the gentlemen? Yes, Mr. Charles Maddox

dined at my sister's one day, did not he, Henry? A quietlooking young man. I remember him. Let _him_ be

applied to, if you please, for it will be less unpleasant to me than to have a perfect stranger."

Charles Maddox was to be the man. Tom repeated his resolution of going to him early on the morrow; and

though Julia, who had scarcely opened her lips before, observed, in a sarcastic manner, and with a glance first

at Maria and then at Edmund, that "the Mansfield theatricals would enliven the whole neighbourhood

exceedingly," Edmund still held his peace, and shewed his feelings only by a determined gravity.

"I am not very sanguine as to our play," said Miss Crawford, in an undervoice to Fanny, after some

consideration; "and I can tell Mr. Maddox that I shall shorten some of _his_ speeches, and a great many of

_my_ _own_, before we rehearse together. It will be very disagreeable, and by no means what I expected."

It was not in Miss Crawford's power to talk Fanny into any real forgetfulness of what had passed. When the

evening was over, she went to bed full of it, her nerves still agitated by the shock of such an attack from her

cousin Tom, so public and so persevered in, and her spirits sinking under her aunt's unkind reflection and

reproach. To be called into notice in such a manner, to hear that it was but the prelude to something so

infinitely worse, to be told that she must do what was so impossible as to act; and then to have the charge of

obstinacy and ingratitude follow it, enforced with such a hint at the dependence of her situation, had been too

distressing at the time to make the remembrance when she was alone much less so, especially with the

superadded dread of what the morrow might produce in continuation of the subject. Miss Crawford had

protected her only for the time; and if she were applied to again among themselves with all the authoritative

urgency that Tom and Maria were capable of, and Edmund perhaps away, what should she do? She fell

asleep before she could answer the question, and found it quite as puzzling when she awoke the next

morning. The little white attic, which had continued her sleepingroom ever since her first entering the

family, proving incompetent to suggest any reply, she had recourse, as soon as she was dressed, to another

apartment more spacious and more meet for walking about in and thinking, and of which she had now for

some time been almost equally mistress. It had been their schoolroom; so called till the Miss Bertrams

would not allow it to be called so any longer, and inhabited as such to a later period. There Miss Lee had

lived, and there they had read and written, and talked and laughed, till within the last three years, when she

had quitted them. The room had then become useless, and for some time was quite deserted, except by Fanny,

when she visited her plants, or wanted one of the books, which she was still glad to keep there, from the

deficiency of space and accommodation in her little chamber above: but gradually, as her value for the

comforts of it increased, she had added to her possessions, and spent more of her time there; and having

nothing to oppose her, had so naturally and so artlessly worked herself into it, that it was now generally

admitted to be hers. The East room, as it had been called ever since Maria Bertram was sixteen, was now

considered Fanny's, almost as decidedly as the white attic: the smallness of the one making the use of the

other so evidently reasonable that the Miss Bertrams, with every superiority in their own apartments which

their own sense of superiority could demand, were entirely approving it; and Mrs. Norris, having stipulated

for there never being a fire in it on Fanny's account, was tolerably resigned to her having the use of what

nobody else wanted, though the terms in which she sometimes spoke of the indulgence seemed to imply that

The aspect was so favourable that even without a fire it was habitable in many an early spring and late

autumn morning to such a willing mind as Fanny's; and while there was a gleam of sunshine she hoped not to

be driven from it entirely, even when winter came. The comfort of it in her hours of leisure was extreme. She

could go there after anything unpleasant below, and find immediate consolation in some pursuit, or some

train of thought at hand. Her plants, her books of which she had been a collector from the first hour of her

commanding a shillingher writingdesk, and her works of charity and ingenuity, were all within her reach;

or if indisposed for employment, if nothing but musing would do, she could scarcely see an object in that

room which had not an interesting remembrance connected with it. Everything was a friend, or bore her

thoughts to a friend; and though there had been sometimes much of suffering to her; though her motives had

often been misunderstood, her feelings disregarded, and her comprehension undervalued; though she had

known the pains of tyranny, of ridicule, and neglect, yet almost every recurrence of either had led to

something consolatory: her aunt Bertram had spoken for her, or Miss Lee had been encouraging, or, what was

yet more frequent or more dear, Edmund had been her champion and her friend: he had supported her cause

or explained her meaning, he had told her not to cry, or had given her some proof of affection which made

her tears delightful; and the whole was now so blended together, so harmonised by distance, that every

former affliction had its charm. The room was most dear to her, and she would not have changed its furniture

for the handsomest in the house, though what had been originally plain had suffered all the illusage of

children; and its greatest elegancies and ornaments were a faded footstool of Julia's work, too ill done for the

drawingroom, three transparencies, made in a rage for transparencies, for the three lower panes of one

window, where Tintern Abbey held its station between a cave in Italy and a moonlight lake in Cumberland, a

collection of family profiles, thought unworthy of being anywhere else, over the mantelpiece, and by their

side, and pinned against the wall, a small sketch of a ship sent four years ago from the Mediterranean by

To this nest of comforts Fanny now walked down to try its influence on an agitated, doubting spirit, to see if

by looking at Edmund's profile she could catch any of his counsel, or by giving air to her geraniums she

might inhale a breeze of mental strength herself. But she had more than fears of her own perseverance to

remove: she had begun to feel undecided as to what she _ought_ _to_ _do_; and as she walked round the

room her doubts were increasing. Was she _right_ in refusing what was so warmly asked, so strongly wished

forwhat might be so essential to a scheme on which some of those to whom she owed the greatest

complaisance had set their hearts? Was it not illnature, selfishness, and a fear of exposing herself? And

would Edmund's judgment, would his persuasion of Sir Thomas's disapprobation of the whole, be enough to

justify her in a determined denial in spite of all the rest? It would be so horrible to her to act that she was

inclined to suspect the truth and purity of her own scruples; and as she looked around her, the claims of her

cousins to being obliged were strengthened by the sight of present upon present that she had received from

them. The table between the windows was covered with workboxes and nettingboxes which had been

given her at different times, principally by Tom; and she grew bewildered as to the amount of the debt which

all these kind remembrances produced. A tap at the door roused her in the midst of this attempt to find her

way to her duty, and her gentle "Come in" was answered by the appearance of one, before whom all her

"My opinion!" she cried, shrinking from such a compliment, highly as it gratified her.

"Yes, your advice and opinion. I do not know what to do. This acting scheme gets worse and worse, you see.

They have chosen almost as bad a play as they could, and now, to complete the business, are going to ask the

help of a young man very slightly known to any of us. This is the end of all the privacy and propriety which

was talked about at first. I know no harm of Charles Maddox; but the excessive intimacy which must spring

from his being admitted among us in this manner is highly objectionable, the _more_ than intimacythe

familiarity. I cannot think of it with any patience; and it does appear to me an evil of such magnitude as must,

"There is but _one_ thing to be done, Fanny. I must take Anhalt myself. I am well aware that nothing else

"It is not at all what I like," he continued. "No man can like being driven into the _appearance_ of such

inconsistency. After being known to oppose the scheme from the beginning, there is absurdity in the face of

my joining them _now_, when they are exceeding their first plan in every respect; but I can think of no other

"But what? I see your judgment is not with me. Think it a little over. Perhaps you are not so much aware as I

am of the mischief that _may_, of the unpleasantness that _must_ arise from a young man's being received in

this manner: domesticated among us; authorised to come at all hours, and placed suddenly on a footing which

must do away all restraints. To think only of the licence which every rehearsal must tend to create. It is all

very bad! Put yourself in Miss Crawford's place, Fanny. Consider what it would be to act Amelia with a

stranger. She has a right to be felt for, because she evidently feels for herself. I heard enough of what she said

to you last night to understand her unwillingness to be acting with a stranger; and as she probably engaged in

the part with different expectationsperhaps without considering the subject enough to know what was

likely to be it would be ungenerous, it would be really wrong to expose her to it. Her feelings ought to be

"I am sorry for Miss Crawford; but I am more sorry to see you drawn in to do what you had resolved against,

and what you are known to think will be disagreeable to my uncle. It will be such a triumph to the others!"

"They will not have much cause of triumph when they see how infamously I act. But, however, triumph there

certainly will be, and I must brave it. But if I can be the means of restraining the publicity of the business, of

limiting the exhibition, of concentrating our folly, I shall be well repaid. As I am now, I have no influence, I

can do nothing: I have offended them, and they will not hear me; but when I have put them in goodhumour

by this concession, I am not without hopes of persuading them to confine the representation within a much

smaller circle than they are now in the high road for. This will be a material gain. My object is to confine it to

"But still it has not your approbation. Can you mention any other measure by which I have a chance of doing

"If you are against me, I ought to distrust myself, and yetBut it is absolutely impossible to let Tom go on in

this way, riding about the country in quest of anybody who can be persuaded to actno matter whom: the

look of a gentleman is to be enough. I thought _you_ would have entered more into Miss Crawford's

"No doubt she will be very glad. It must be a great relief to her," said Fanny, trying for greater warmth of

"She never appeared more amiable than in her behaviour to you last night. It gave her a very strong claim on

She could not finish the generous effusion. Her conscience stopt her in the middle, but Edmund was satisfied.

"I shall walk down immediately after breakfast," said he, "and am sure of giving pleasure there. And now,

dear Fanny, I will not interrupt you any longer. You want to be reading. But I could not be easy till I had

spoken to you, and come to a decision. Sleeping or waking, my head has been full of this matter all night. It is

an evil, but I am certainly making it less than it might be. If Tom is up, I shall go to him directly and get it

over, and when we meet at breakfast we shall be all in high goodhumour at the prospect of acting the fool

together with such unanimity. _You_, in the meanwhile, will be taking a trip into China, I suppose. How does

Lord Macartney go on?"opening a volume on the table and then taking up some others. "And here are

Crabbe's Tales, and the Idler, at hand to relieve you, if you tire of your great book. I admire your little

establishment exceedingly; and as soon as I am gone, you will empty your head of all this nonsense of acting,

He went; but there was no reading, no China, no composure for Fanny. He had told her the most

extraordinary, the most inconceivable, the most unwelcome news; and she could think of nothing else. To be

acting! After all his objectionsobjections so just and so public! After all that she had heard him say, and

seen him look, and known him to be feeling. Could it be possible? Edmund so inconsistent! Was he not

deceiving himself? Was he not wrong? Alas! it was all Miss Crawford's doing. She had seen her influence in

every speech, and was miserable. The doubts and alarms as to her own conduct, which had previously

distressed her, and which had all slept while she listened to him, were become of little consequence now. This

deeper anxiety swallowed them up. Things should take their course; she cared not how it ended. Her cousins

might attack, but could hardly tease her. She was beyond their reach; and if at last obliged to yieldno

It was, indeed, a triumphant day to Mr. Bertram and Maria. Such a victory over Edmund's discretion had been

beyond their hopes, and was most delightful. There was no longer anything to disturb them in their darling

project, and they congratulated each other in private on the jealous weakness to which they attributed the

change, with all the glee of feelings gratified in every way. Edmund might still look grave, and say he did not

like the scheme in general, and must disapprove the play in particular; their point was gained: he was to act,

and he was driven to it by the force of selfish inclinations only. Edmund had descended from that moral

elevation which he had maintained before, and they were both as much the better as the happier for the

They behaved very well, however, to _him_ on the occasion, betraying no exultation beyond the lines about

the corners of the mouth, and seemed to think it as great an escape to be quit of the intrusion of Charles

Maddox, as if they had been forced into admitting him against their inclination. "To have it quite in their own

family circle was what they had particularly wished. A stranger among them would have been the destruction

of all their comfort"; and when Edmund, pursuing that idea, gave a hint of his hope as to the limitation of the

audience, they were ready, in the complaisance of the moment, to promise anything. It was all goodhumour

and encouragement. Mrs. Norris offered to contrive his dress, Mr. Yates assured him that Anhalt's last scene

with the Baron admitted a good deal of action and emphasis, and Mr. Rushworth undertook to count his

"Perhaps," said Tom, "Fanny may be more disposed to oblige us now. Perhaps you may persuade _her_."

"Oh! very well." And not another word was said; but Fanny felt herself again in danger, and her indifference

There were not fewer smiles at the Parsonage than at the Park on this change in Edmund; Miss Crawford

looked very lovely in hers, and entered with such an instantaneous renewal of cheerfulness into the whole

affair as could have but one effect on him. "He was certainly right in respecting such feelings; he was glad he

had determined on it." And the morning wore away in satisfactions very sweet, if not very sound. One

advantage resulted from it to Fanny: at the earnest request of Miss Crawford, Mrs. Grant had, with her usual

goodhumour, agreed to undertake the part for which Fanny had been wanted; and this was all that occurred

to gladden _her_ heart during the day; and even this, when imparted by Edmund, brought a pang with it, for it

was Miss Crawford to whom she was obligedit was Miss Crawford whose kind exertions were to excite

her gratitude, and whose merit in making them was spoken of with a glow of admiration. She was safe; but

peace and safety were unconnected here. Her mind had been never farther from peace. She could not feel that

she had done wrong herself, but she was disquieted in every other way. Her heart and her judgment were

equally against Edmund's decision: she could not acquit his unsteadiness, and his happiness under it made her

wretched. She was full of jealousy and agitation. Miss Crawford came with looks of gaiety which seemed an

insult, with friendly expressions towards herself which she could hardly answer calmly. Everybody around

her was gay and busy, prosperous and important; each had their object of interest, their part, their dress, their

favourite scene, their friends and confederates: all were finding employment in consultations and

comparisons, or diversion in the playful conceits they suggested. She alone was sad and insignificant: she had

no share in anything; she might go or stay; she might be in the midst of their noise, or retreat from it to the

solitude of the East room, without being seen or missed. She could almost think anything would have been

preferable to this. Mrs. Grant was of consequence: _her_ goodnature had honourable mention; her taste and

her time were considered; her presence was wanted; she was sought for, and attended, and praised; and Fanny

was at first in some danger of envying her the character she had accepted. But reflection brought better

feelings, and shewed her that Mrs. Grant was entitled to respect, which could never have belonged to _her_;

and that, had she received even the greatest, she could never have been easy in joining a scheme which,

Fanny's heart was not absolutely the only saddened one amongst them, as she soon began to acknowledge to

Henry Crawford had trifled with her feelings; but she had very long allowed and even sought his attentions,

with a jealousy of her sister so reasonable as ought to have been their cure; and now that the conviction of his

preference for Maria had been forced on her, she submitted to it without any alarm for Maria's situation, or

any endeavour at rational tranquillity for herself. She either sat in gloomy silence, wrapt in such gravity as

nothing could subdue, no curiosity touch, no wit amuse; or allowing the attentions of Mr. Yates, was talking

For a day or two after the affront was given, Henry Crawford had endeavoured to do it away by the usual

attack of gallantry and compliment, but he had not cared enough about it to persevere against a few repulses;

and becoming soon too busy with his play to have time for more than one flirtation, he grew indifferent to the

quarrel, or rather thought it a lucky occurrence, as quietly putting an end to what might ere long have raised

expectations in more than Mrs. Grant. She was not pleased to see Julia excluded from the play, and sitting by

disregarded; but as it was not a matter which really involved her happiness, as Henry must be the best judge

of his own, and as he did assure her, with a most persuasive smile, that neither he nor Julia had ever had a

serious thought of each other, she could only renew her former caution as to the elder sister, entreat him not

to risk his tranquillity by too much admiration there, and then gladly take her share in anything that brought

cheerfulness to the young people in general, and that did so particularly promote the pleasure of the two so

"Both! no, no, that must not be. Do not give him a hint of it. Think of Mr. Rushworth!"

"You had better tell Miss Bertram to think of Mr. Rushworth. It may do _her_ some good. I often think of

Mr. Rushworth's property and independence, and wish them in other hands; but I never think of him. A man

might represent the county with such an estate; a man might escape a profession and represent the county."

"I dare say he _will_ be in parliament soon. When Sir Thomas comes, I dare say he will be in for some

borough, but there has been nobody to put him in the way of doing anything yet."

"Sir Thomas is to achieve many mighty things when he comes home," said Mary, after a pause. "Do you

Blest leaf! whose aromatic gales dispense To Templars modesty, to Parsons sense.

Blest Knight! whose dictatorial looks dispense To Children affluence, to Rushworth sense.

Will not that do, Mrs. Grant? Everything seems to depend upon Sir Thomas's return."

"You will find his consequence very just and reasonable when you see him in his family, I assure you. I do

not think we do so well without him. He has a fine dignified manner, which suits the head of such a house,

and keeps everybody in their place. Lady Bertram seems more of a cipher now than when he is at home; and

nobody else can keep Mrs. Norris in order. But, Mary, do not fancy that Maria Bertram cares for Henry. I am

sure _Julia_ does not, or she would not have flirted as she did last night with Mr. Yates; and though he and

Maria are very good friends, I think she likes Sotherton too well to be inconstant."

"I would not give much for Mr. Rushworth's chance if Henry stept in before the articles were signed."

"If you have such a suspicion, something must be done; and as soon as the play is all over, we will talk to him

seriously and make him know his own mind; and if he means nothing, we will send him off, though he is

Julia _did_ suffer, however, though Mrs. Grant discerned it not, and though it escaped the notice of many of

her own family likewise. She had loved, she did love still, and she had all the suffering which a warm temper

and a high spirit were likely to endure under the disappointment of a dear, though irrational hope, with a

strong sense of illusage. Her heart was sore and angry, and she was capable only of angry consolations. The

sister with whom she was used to be on easy terms was now become her greatest enemy: they were alienated

from each other; and Julia was not superior to the hope of some distressing end to the attentions which were

still carrying on there, some punishment to Maria for conduct so shameful towards herself as well as towards

Mr. Rushworth. With no material fault of temper, or difference of opinion, to prevent their being very good

friends while their interests were the same, the sisters, under such a trial as this, had not affection or principle

enough to make them merciful or just, to give them honour or compassion. Maria felt her triumph, and

pursued her purpose, careless of Julia; and Julia could never see Maria distinguished by Henry Crawford

without trusting that it would create jealousy, and bring a public disturbance at last.

Fanny saw and pitied much of this in Julia; but there was no outward fellowship between them. Julia made no

communication, and Fanny took no liberties. They were two solitary sufferers, or connected only by Fanny's

The inattention of the two brothers and the aunt to Julia's discomposure, and their blindness to its true cause,

must be imputed to the fullness of their own minds. They were totally preoccupied. Tom was engrossed by

the concerns of his theatre, and saw nothing that did not immediately relate to it. Edmund, between his

theatrical and his real part, between Miss Crawford's claims and his own conduct, between love and

consistency, was equally unobservant; and Mrs. Norris was too busy in contriving and directing the general

little matters of the company, superintending their various dresses with economical expedient, for which

nobody thanked her, and saving, with delighted integrity, half a crown here and there to the absent Sir

Thomas, to have leisure for watching the behaviour, or guarding the happiness of his daughters.

Everything was now in a regular train: theatre, actors, actresses, and dresses, were all getting forward; but

though no other great impediments arose, Fanny found, before many days were past, that it was not all

uninterrupted enjoyment to the party themselves, and that she had not to witness the continuance of such

unanimity and delight as had been almost too much for her at first. Everybody began to have their vexation.

Edmund had many. Entirely against _his_ judgment, a scenepainter arrived from town, and was at work,

much to the increase of the expenses, and, what was worse, of the eclat of their proceedings; and his brother,

instead of being really guided by him as to the privacy of the representation, was giving an invitation to every

family who came in his way. Tom himself began to fret over the scenepainter's slow progress, and to feel

the miseries of waiting. He had learned his partall his parts, for he took every trifling one that could be

united with the Butler, and began to be impatient to be acting; and every day thus unemployed was tending to

increase his sense of the insignificance of all his parts together, and make him more ready to regret that some

Fanny, being always a very courteous listener, and often the only listener at hand, came in for the complaints

and the distresses of most of them. _She_ knew that Mr. Yates was in general thought to rant dreadfully; that

Mr. Yates was disappointed in Henry Crawford; that Tom Bertram spoke so quick he would be unintelligible;

that Mrs. Grant spoiled everything by laughing; that Edmund was behindhand with his part, and that it was

misery to have anything to do with Mr. Rushworth, who was wanting a prompter through every speech. She

knew, also, that poor Mr. Rushworth could seldom get anybody to rehearse with him: _his_ complaint came

before her as well as the rest; and so decided to her eye was her cousin Maria's avoidance of him, and so

needlessly often the rehearsal of the first scene between her and Mr. Crawford, that she had soon all the terror

of other complaints from _him_. So far from being all satisfied and all enjoying, she found everybody

requiring something they had not, and giving occasion of discontent to the others. Everybody had a part either

too long or too short; nobody would attend as they ought; nobody would remember on which side they were

Fanny believed herself to derive as much innocent enjoyment from the play as any of them; Henry Crawford

acted well, and it was a pleasure to _her_ to creep into the theatre, and attend the rehearsal of the first act, in

spite of the feelings it excited in some speeches for Maria. Maria, she also thought, acted well, too well; and

after the first rehearsal or two, Fanny began to be their only audience; and sometimes as prompter, sometimes

as spectator, was often very useful. As far as she could judge, Mr. Crawford was considerably the best actor

of all: he had more confidence than Edmund, more judgment than Tom, more talent and taste than Mr. Yates.

She did not like him as a man, but she must admit him to be the best actor, and on this point there were not

many who differed from her. Mr. Yates, indeed, exclaimed against his tameness and insipidity; and the day

came at last, when Mr. Rushworth turned to her with a black look, and said, "Do you think there is anything

so very fine in all this? For the life and soul of me, I cannot admire him; and, between ourselves, to see such

an undersized, little, meanlooking man, set up for a fine actor, is very ridiculous in my opinion."

From this moment there was a return of his former jealousy, which Maria, from increasing hopes of

Crawford, was at little pains to remove; and the chances of Mr. Rushworth's ever attaining to the knowledge

of his twoandforty speeches became much less. As to his ever making anything _tolerable_ of them,

nobody had the smallest idea of that except his mother; _she_, indeed, regretted that his part was not more

considerable, and deferred coming over to Mansfield till they were forward enough in their rehearsal to

comprehend all his scenes; but the others aspired at nothing beyond his remembering the catchword, and the

first line of his speech, and being able to follow the prompter through the rest. Fanny, in her pity and

kindheartedness, was at great pains to teach him how to learn, giving him all the helps and directions in her

power, trying to make an artificial memory for him, and learning every word of his part herself, but without

Many uncomfortable, anxious, apprehensive feelings she certainly had; but with all these, and other claims on

her time and attention, she was as far from finding herself without employment or utility amongst them, as

without a companion in uneasiness; quite as far from having no demand on her leisure as on her compassion.

The gloom of her first anticipations was proved to have been unfounded. She was occasionally useful to all;

There was a great deal of needlework to be done, moreover, in which her help was wanted; and that Mrs.

Norris thought her quite as well off as the rest, was evident by the manner in which she claimed it"Come,

Fanny," she cried, "these are fine times for you, but you must not be always walking from one room to the

other, and doing the lookingson at your ease, in this way; I want you here. I have been slaving myself till I

can hardly stand, to contrive Mr. Rushworth's cloak without sending for any more satin; and now I think you

may give me your help in putting it together. There are but three seams; you may do them in a trice. It would

be lucky for me if I had nothing but the executive part to do. _You_ are best off, I can tell you: but if nobody

Fanny took the work very quietly, without attempting any defence; but her kinder aunt Bertram observed on

"One cannot wonder, sister, that Fanny _should_ be delighted: it is all new to her, you know; you and I used

to be very fond of a play ourselves, and so am I still; and as soon as I am a little more at leisure, _I_ mean to

look in at their rehearsals too. What is the play about, Fanny? you have never told me."

"Oh! sister, pray do not ask her now; for Fanny is not one of those who can talk and work at the same time. It

"I believe," said Fanny to her aunt Bertram, "there will be three acts rehearsed tomorrow evening, and that

"You had better stay till the curtain is hung," interposed Mrs. Norris; "the curtain will be hung in a day or

two there is very little sense in a play without a curtain and I am much mistaken if you do not find it

Lady Bertram seemed quite resigned to waiting. Fanny did not share her aunt's composure: she thought of the

morrow a great deal, for if the three acts were rehearsed, Edmund and Miss Crawford would then be acting

together for the first time; the third act would bring a scene between them which interested her most

particularly, and which she was longing and dreading to see how they would perform. The whole subject of it

was love a marriage of love was to be described by the gentleman, and very little short of a declaration of

She had read and read the scene again with many painful, many wondering emotions, and looked forward to

their representation of it as a circumstance almost too interesting. She did not _believe_ they had yet

The morrow came, the plan for the evening continued, and Fanny's consideration of it did not become less

agitated. She worked very diligently under her aunt's directions, but her diligence and her silence concealed a

very absent, anxious mind; and about noon she made her escape with her work to the East room, that she

might have no concern in another, and, as she deemed it, most unnecessary rehearsal of the first act, which

Henry Crawford was just proposing, desirous at once of having her time to herself, and of avoiding the sight

of Mr. Rushworth. A glimpse, as she passed through the hall, of the two ladies walking up from the

Parsonage made no change in her wish of retreat, and she worked and meditated in the East room,

undisturbed, for a quarter of an hour, when a gentle tap at the door was followed by the entrance of Miss

"Am I right? Yes; this is the East room. My dear Miss Price, I beg your pardon, but I have made my way to

Fanny, quite surprised, endeavoured to shew herself mistress of the room by her civilities, and looked at the

"Thank you; I am quite warm, very warm. Allow me to stay here a little while, and do have the goodness to

hear me my third act. I have brought my book, and if you would but rehearse it with me, I should be _so_

obliged! I came here today intending to rehearse it with Edmund by ourselvesagainst the evening, but

he is not in the way; and if he _were_, I do not think I could go through it with _him_, till I have hardened

myself a little; for really there is a speech or two. You will be so good, won't you?"

Fanny was most civil in her assurances, though she could not give them in a very steady voice.

"Have you ever happened to look at the part I mean?" continued Miss Crawford, opening her book. "Here it

is. I did not think much of it at firstbut, upon my word. There, look at _that_ speech, and _that_, and

_that_. How am I ever to look him in the face and say such things? Could you do it? But then he is your

cousin, which makes all the difference. You must rehearse it with me, that I may fancy _you_ him, and get on

"Have I? I will do my best with the greatest readiness; but I must _read_ the part, for I can say very little of

"_None_ of it, I suppose. You are to have the book, of course. Now for it. We must have two chairs at hand

for you to bring forward to the front of the stage. Therevery good schoolroom chairs, not made for a

theatre, I dare say; much more fitted for little girls to sit and kick their feet against when they are learning a

lesson. What would your governess and your uncle say to see them used for such a purpose? Could Sir

Thomas look in upon us just now, he would bless himself, for we are rehearsing all over the house. Yates is

storming away in the diningroom. I heard him as I came upstairs, and the theatre is engaged of course by

those indefatigable rehearsers, Agatha and Frederick. If _they_ are not perfect, I _shall_ be surprised. By the

bye, I looked in upon them five minutes ago, and it happened to be exactly at one of the times when they

were trying _not_ to embrace, and Mr. Rushworth was with me. I thought he began to look a little queer, so I

turned it off as well as I could, by whispering to him, 'We shall have an excellent Agatha; there is something

so _maternal_ in her manner, so completely _maternal_ in her voice and countenance.' Was not that well

She began, and Fanny joined in with all the modest feeling which the idea of representing Edmund was so

strongly calculated to inspire; but with looks and voice so truly feminine as to be no very good picture of a

man. With such an Anhalt, however, Miss Crawford had courage enough; and they had got through half the

scene, when a tap at the door brought a pause, and the entrance of Edmund, the next moment, suspended it

Surprise, consciousness, and pleasure appeared in each of the three on this unexpected meeting; and as

Edmund was come on the very same business that had brought Miss Crawford, consciousness and pleasure

were likely to be more than momentary in _them_. He too had his book, and was seeking Fanny, to ask her to

rehearse with him, and help him to prepare for the evening, without knowing Miss Crawford to be in the

house; and great was the joy and animation of being thus thrown together, of comparing schemes, and

_She_ could not equal them in their warmth. _Her_ spirits sank under the glow of theirs, and she felt herself

becoming too nearly nothing to both to have any comfort in having been sought by either. They must now

rehearse together. Edmund proposed, urged, entreated it, till the lady, not very unwilling at first, could refuse

no longer, and Fanny was wanted only to prompt and observe them. She was invested, indeed, with the office

of judge and critic, and earnestly desired to exercise it and tell them all their faults; but from doing so every

feeling within her shrankshe could not, would not, dared not attempt it: had she been otherwise qualified

for criticism, her conscience must have restrained her from venturing at disapprobation. She believed herself

to feel too much of it in the aggregate for honesty or safety in particulars. To prompt them must be enough

for her; and it was sometimes _more_ than enough; for she could not always pay attention to the book. In

watching them she forgot herself; and, agitated by the increasing spirit of Edmund's manner, had once closed

the page and turned away exactly as he wanted help. It was imputed to very reasonable weariness, and she

was thanked and pitied; but she deserved their pity more than she hoped they would ever surmise. At last the

scene was over, and Fanny forced herself to add her praise to the compliments each was giving the other; and

when again alone and able to recall the whole, she was inclined to believe their performance would, indeed,

have such nature and feeling in it as must ensure their credit, and make it a very suffering exhibition to

herself. Whatever might be its effect, however, she must stand the brunt of it again that very day.

The first regular rehearsal of the three first acts was certainly to take place in the evening: Mrs. Grant and the

Crawfords were engaged to return for that purpose as soon as they could after dinner; and every one

concerned was looking forward with eagerness. There seemed a general diffusion of cheerfulness on the

occasion. Tom was enjoying such an advance towards the end; Edmund was in spirits from the morning's

rehearsal, and little vexations seemed everywhere smoothed away. All were alert and impatient; the ladies

moved soon, the gentlemen soon followed them, and with the exception of Lady Bertram, Mrs. Norris, and

Julia, everybody was in the theatre at an early hour; and having lighted it up as well as its unfinished state

admitted, were waiting only the arrival of Mrs. Grant and the Crawfords to begin.

They did not wait long for the Crawfords, but there was no Mrs. Grant. She could not come. Dr. Grant,

professing an indisposition, for which he had little credit with his fair sisterinlaw, could not spare his wife.

"Dr. Grant is ill," said she, with mock solemnity. "He has been ill ever since he did not eat any of the

pheasant today. He fancied it tough, sent away his plate, and has been suffering ever since".

Here was disappointment! Mrs. Grant's nonattendance was sad indeed. Her pleasant manners and cheerful

conformity made her always valuable amongst them; but _now_ she was absolutely necessary. They could

not act, they could not rehearse with any satisfaction without her. The comfort of the whole evening was

destroyed. What was to be done? Tom, as Cottager, was in despair. After a pause of perplexity, some eyes

began to be turned towards Fanny, and a voice or two to say, "If Miss Price would be so good as to _read_

the part." She was immediately surrounded by supplications; everybody asked it; even Edmund said, "Do,

But Fanny still hung back. She could not endure the idea of it. Why was not Miss Crawford to be applied to

as well? Or why had not she rather gone to her own room, as she had felt to be safest, instead of attending the

rehearsal at all? She had known it would irritate and distress her; she had known it her duty to keep away.

"And I do believe she can say every word of it," added Maria, "for she could put Mrs. Grant right the other

Fanny could not say she did _not_; and as they all persevered, as Edmund repeated his wish, and with a look

of even fond dependence on her goodnature, she must yield. She would do her best. Everybody was

satisfied; and she was left to the tremors of a most palpitating heart, while the others prepared to begin.

They _did_ begin; and being too much engaged in their own noise to be struck by an unusual noise in the

other part of the house, had proceeded some way when the door of the room was thrown open, and Julia,

appearing at it, with a face all aghast, exclaimed, "My father is come! He is in the hall at this moment."

How is the consternation of the party to be described? To the greater number it was a moment of absolute

horror. Sir Thomas in the house! All felt the instantaneous conviction. Not a hope of imposition or mistake

was harboured anywhere. Julia's looks were an evidence of the fact that made it indisputable; and after the

first starts and exclamations, not a word was spoken for half a minute: each with an altered countenance was

looking at some other, and almost each was feeling it a stroke the most unwelcome, most illtimed, most

appalling! Mr. Yates might consider it only as a vexatious interruption for the evening, and Mr. Rushworth

might imagine it a blessing; but every other heart was sinking under some degree of selfcondemnation or

undefined alarm, every other heart was suggesting, "What will become of us? what is to be done now?" It

was a terrible pause; and terrible to every ear were the corroborating sounds of opening doors and passing

Julia was the first to move and speak again. Jealousy and bitterness had been suspended: selfishness was lost

in the common cause; but at the moment of her appearance, Frederick was listening with looks of devotion to

Agatha's narrative, and pressing her hand to his heart; and as soon as she could notice this, and see that, in

spite of the shock of her words, he still kept his station and retained her sister's hand, her wounded heart

swelled again with injury, and looking as red as she had been white before, she turned out of the room,

Her going roused the rest; and at the same moment the two brothers stepped forward, feeling the necessity of

doing something. A very few words between them were sufficient. The case admitted no difference of

opinion: they must go to the drawingroom directly. Maria joined them with the same intent, just then the

stoutest of the three; for the very circumstance which had driven Julia away was to her the sweetest support.

Henry Crawford's retaining her hand at such a moment, a moment of such peculiar proof and importance, was

worth ages of doubt and anxiety. She hailed it as an earnest of the most serious determination, and was equal

even to encounter her father. They walked off, utterly heedless of Mr. Rushworth's repeated question of,

"Shall I go too? Had not I better go too? Will not it be right for me to go too?" but they were no sooner

through the door than Henry Crawford undertook to answer the anxious inquiry, and, encouraging him by all

means to pay his respects to Sir Thomas without delay, sent him after the others with delighted haste.

Fanny was left with only the Crawfords and Mr. Yates. She had been quite overlooked by her cousins; and as

her own opinion of her claims on Sir Thomas's affection was much too humble to give her any idea of

classing herself with his children, she was glad to remain behind and gain a little breathingtime. Her

agitation and alarm exceeded all that was endured by the rest, by the right of a disposition which not even

innocence could keep from suffering. She was nearly fainting: all her former habitual dread of her uncle was

returning, and with it compassion for him and for almost every one of the party on the development before

him, with solicitude on Edmund's account indescribable. She had found a seat, where in excessive trembling

she was enduring all these fearful thoughts, while the other three, no longer under any restraint, were giving

vent to their feelings of vexation, lamenting over such an unlookedfor premature arrival as a most untoward

event, and without mercy wishing poor Sir Thomas had been twice as long on his passage, or were still in

The Crawfords were more warm on the subject than Mr. Yates, from better understanding the family, and

judging more clearly of the mischief that must ensue. The ruin of the play was to them a certainty: they felt

the total destruction of the scheme to be inevitably at hand; while Mr. Yates considered it only as a temporary

interruption, a disaster for the evening, and could even suggest the possibility of the rehearsal being renewed

after tea, when the bustle of receiving Sir Thomas were over, and he might be at leisure to be amused by it.

The Crawfords laughed at the idea; and having soon agreed on the propriety of their walking quietly home

and leaving the family to themselves, proposed Mr. Yates's accompanying them and spending the evening at

the Parsonage. But Mr. Yates, having never been with those who thought much of parental claims, or family

confidence, could not perceive that anything of the kind was necessary; and therefore, thanking them, said,

"he preferred remaining where he was, that he might pay his respects to the old gentleman handsomely since

he _was_ come; and besides, he did not think it would be fair by the others to have everybody run away."

Fanny was just beginning to collect herself, and to feel that if she staid longer behind it might seem

disrespectful, when this point was settled, and being commissioned with the brother and sister's apology, saw

them preparing to go as she quitted the room herself to perform the dreadful duty of appearing before her

Too soon did she find herself at the drawingroom door; and after pausing a moment for what she knew

would not come, for a courage which the outside of no door had ever supplied to her, she turned the lock in

desperation, and the lights of the drawingroom, and all the collected family, were before her. As she

entered, her own name caught her ear. Sir Thomas was at that moment looking round him, and saying, "But

where is Fanny? Why do not I see my little Fanny?"and on perceiving her, came forward with a kindness

which astonished and penetrated her, calling her his dear Fanny, kissing her affectionately, and observing

with decided pleasure how much she was grown! Fanny knew not how to feel, nor where to look. She was

quite oppressed. He had never been so kind, so _very_ kind to her in his life. His manner seemed changed,

his voice was quick from the agitation of joy; and all that had been awful in his dignity seemed lost in

tenderness. He led her nearer the light and looked at her again inquired particularly after her health, and

then, correcting himself, observed that he need not inquire, for her appearance spoke sufficiently on that

point. A fine blush having succeeded the previous paleness of her face, he was justified in his belief of her

equal improvement in health and beauty. He inquired next after her family, especially William: and his

kindness altogether was such as made her reproach herself for loving him so little, and thinking his return a

misfortune; and when, on having courage to lift her eyes to his face, she saw that he was grown thinner, and

had the burnt, fagged, worn look of fatigue and a hot climate, every tender feeling was increased, and she was

miserable in considering how much unsuspected vexation was probably ready to burst on him.

Sir Thomas was indeed the life of the party, who at his suggestion now seated themselves round the fire. He

had the best right to be the talker; and the delight of his sensations in being again in his own house, in the

centre of his family, after such a separation, made him communicative and chatty in a very unusual degree;

and he was ready to give every information as to his voyage, and answer every question of his two sons

almost before it was put. His business in Antigua had latterly been prosperously rapid, and he came directly

from Liverpool, having had an opportunity of making his passage thither in a private vessel, instead of

waiting for the packet; and all the little particulars of his proceedings and events, his arrivals and departures,

were most promptly delivered, as he sat by Lady Bertram and looked with heartfelt satisfaction on the faces

around himinterrupting himself more than once, however, to remark on his good fortune in finding them

all at homecoming unexpectedly as he did all collected together exactly as he could have wished, but

dared not depend on. Mr. Rushworth was not forgotten: a most friendly reception and warmth of

handshaking had already met him, and with pointed attention he was now included in the objects most

intimately connected with Mansfield. There was nothing disagreeable in Mr. Rushworth's appearance, and Sir

By not one of the circle was he listened to with such unbroken, unalloyed enjoyment as by his wife, who was

really extremely happy to see him, and whose feelings were so warmed by his sudden arrival as to place her

nearer agitation than she had been for the last twenty years. She had been _almost_ fluttered for a few

minutes, and still remained so sensibly animated as to put away her work, move Pug from her side, and give

all her attention and all the rest of her sofa to her husband. She had no anxieties for anybody to cloud _her_

pleasure: her own time had been irreproachably spent during his absence: she had done a great deal of

carpetwork, and made many yards of fringe; and she would have answered as freely for the good conduct

and useful pursuits of all the young people as for her own. It was so agreeable to her to see him again, and

hear him talk, to have her ear amused and her whole comprehension filled by his narratives, that she began

particularly to feel how dreadfully she must have missed him, and how impossible it would have been for her

Mrs. Norris was by no means to be compared in happiness to her sister. Not that _she_ was incommoded by

many fears of Sir Thomas's disapprobation when the present state of his house should be known, for her

judgment had been so blinded that, except by the instinctive caution with which she had whisked away Mr.

Rushworth's pink satin cloak as her brotherinlaw entered, she could hardly be said to shew any sign of

alarm; but she was vexed by the _manner_ of his return. It had left her nothing to do. Instead of being sent for

out of the room, and seeing him first, and having to spread the happy news through the house, Sir Thomas,

with a very reasonable dependence, perhaps, on the nerves of his wife and children, had sought no confidant

but the butler, and had been following him almost instantaneously into the drawingroom. Mrs. Norris felt

herself defrauded of an office on which she had always depended, whether his arrival or his death were to be

the thing unfolded; and was now trying to be in a bustle without having anything to bustle about, and

labouring to be important where nothing was wanted but tranquillity and silence. Would Sir Thomas have

consented to eat, she might have gone to the housekeeper with troublesome directions, and insulted the

footmen with injunctions of despatch; but Sir Thomas resolutely declined all dinner: he would take nothing,

nothing till tea camehe would rather wait for tea. Still Mrs. Norris was at intervals urging something

different; and in the most interesting moment of his passage to England, when the alarm of a French privateer

was at the height, she burst through his recital with the proposal of soup. "Sure, my dear Sir Thomas, a basin

of soup would be a much better thing for you than tea. Do have a basin of soup."

Sir Thomas could not be provoked. "Still the same anxiety for everybody's comfort, my dear Mrs. Norris,"

"Well, then, Lady Bertram, suppose you speak for tea directly; suppose you hurry Baddeley a little; he seems

behindhand tonight." She carried this point, and Sir Thomas's narrative proceeded.

At length there was a pause. His immediate communications were exhausted, and it seemed enough to be

looking joyfully around him, now at one, now at another of the beloved circle; but the pause was not long: in

the elation of her spirits Lady Bertram became talkative, and what were the sensations of her children upon

hearing her say, "How do you think the young people have been amusing themselves lately, Sir Thomas?

"The _all_ will soon be told," cried Tom hastily, and with affected unconcern; "but it is not worth while to

bore my father with it now. You will hear enough of it tomorrow, sir. We have just been trying, by way of

doing something, and amusing my mother, just within the last week, to get up a few scenes, a mere trifle. We

have had such incessant rains almost since October began, that we have been nearly confined to the house for

days together. I have hardly taken out a gun since the 3rd. Tolerable sport the first three days, but there has

been no attempting anything since. The first day I went over Mansfield Wood, and Edmund took the copses

beyond Easton, and we brought home six brace between us, and might each have killed six times as many,

but we respect your pheasants, sir, I assure you, as much as you could desire. I do not think you will find your

woods by any means worse stocked than they were. _I_ never saw Mansfield Wood so full of pheasants in

my life as this year. I hope you will take a day's sport there yourself, sir, soon."

For the present the danger was over, and Fanny's sick feelings subsided; but when tea was soon afterwards

brought in, and Sir Thomas, getting up, said that he found that he could not be any longer in the house

without just looking into his own dear room, every agitation was returning. He was gone before anything had

been said to prepare him for the change he must find there; and a pause of alarm followed his disappearance.

"It is time to think of our visitors," said Maria, still feeling her hand pressed to Henry Crawford's heart, and

"Then poor Yates is all alone," cried Tom. "I will go and fetch him. He will be no bad assistant when it all

To the theatre he went, and reached it just in time to witness the first meeting of his father and his friend. Sir

Thomas had been a good deal surprised to find candles burning in his room; and on casting his eye round it,

to see other symptoms of recent habitation and a general air of confusion in the furniture. The removal of the

bookcase from before the billiardroom door struck him especially, but he had scarcely more than time to

feel astonished at all this, before there were sounds from the billiardroom to astonish him still farther. Some

one was talking there in a very loud accent; he did not know the voicemore than talkingalmost

hallooing. He stepped to the door, rejoicing at that moment in having the means of immediate

communication, and, opening it, found himself on the stage of a theatre, and opposed to a ranting young man,

who appeared likely to knock him down backwards. At the very moment of Yates perceiving Sir Thomas,

and giving perhaps the very best start he had ever given in the whole course of his rehearsals, Tom Bertram

entered at the other end of the room; and never had he found greater difficulty in keeping his countenance.

His father's looks of solemnity and amazement on this his first appearance on any stage, and the gradual

metamorphosis of the impassioned Baron Wildenheim into the wellbred and easy Mr. Yates, making his

bow and apology to Sir Thomas Bertram, was such an exhibition, such a piece of true acting, as he would not

have lost upon any account. It would be the last in all probabilitythe last scene on that stage; but he was

There was little time, however, for the indulgence of any images of merriment. It was necessary for him to

step forward, too, and assist the introduction, and with many awkward sensations he did his best. Sir Thomas

received Mr. Yates with all the appearance of cordiality which was due to his own character, but was really as

far from pleased with the necessity of the acquaintance as with the manner of its commencement. Mr. Yates's

family and connexions were sufficiently known to him to render his introduction as the "particular friend,"

another of the hundred particular friends of his son, exceedingly unwelcome; and it needed all the felicity of

being again at home, and all the forbearance it could supply, to save Sir Thomas from anger on finding

himself thus bewildered in his own house, making part of a ridiculous exhibition in the midst of theatrical

nonsense, and forced in so untoward a moment to admit the acquaintance of a young man whom he felt sure

of disapproving, and whose easy indifference and volubility in the course of the first five minutes seemed to

Tom understood his father's thoughts, and heartily wishing he might be always as well disposed to give them

but partial expression, began to see, more clearly than he had ever done before, that there might be some

ground of offence, that there might be some reason for the glance his father gave towards the ceiling and

stucco of the room; and that when he inquired with mild gravity after the fate of the billiardtable, he was not

proceeding beyond a very allowable curiosity. A few minutes were enough for such unsatisfactory sensations

on each side; and Sir Thomas having exerted himself so far as to speak a few words of calm approbation in

reply to an eager appeal of Mr. Yates, as to the happiness of the arrangement, the three gentlemen returned to

the drawingroom together, Sir Thomas with an increase of gravity which was not lost on all.

"I come from your theatre," said he composedly, as he sat down; "I found myself in it rather unexpectedly. Its

vicinity to my own roombut in every respect, indeed, it took me by surprise, as I had not the smallest

suspicion of your acting having assumed so serious a character. It appears a neat job, however, as far as I

could judge by candlelight, and does my friend Christopher Jackson credit." And then he would have changed

the subject, and sipped his coffee in peace over domestic matters of a calmer hue; but Mr. Yates, without

discernment to catch Sir Thomas's meaning, or diffidence, or delicacy, or discretion enough to allow him to

lead the discourse while he mingled among the others with the least obtrusiveness himself, would keep him

on the topic of the theatre, would torment him with questions and remarks relative to it, and finally would

make him hear the whole history of his disappointment at Ecclesford. Sir Thomas listened most politely, but

found much to offend his ideas of decorum, and confirm his illopinion of Mr. Yates's habits of thinking,

from the beginning to the end of the story; and when it was over, could give him no other assurance of

"This was, in fact, the origin of _our_ acting," said Tom, after a moment's thought. "My friend Yates brought

the infection from Ecclesford, and it spreadas those things always spread, you know, sirthe faster,

probably, from _your_ having so often encouraged the sort of thing in us formerly. It was like treading old

Mr. Yates took the subject from his friend as soon as possible, and immediately gave Sir Thomas an account

of what they had done and were doing: told him of the gradual increase of their views, the happy conclusion

of their first difficulties, and present promising state of affairs; relating everything with so blind an interest as

made him not only totally unconscious of the uneasy movements of many of his friends as they sat, the

change of countenance, the fidget, the hem! of unquietness, but prevented him even from seeing the

expression of the face on which his own eyes were fixedfrom seeing Sir Thomas's dark brow contract as he

looked with inquiring earnestness at his daughters and Edmund, dwelling particularly on the latter, and

speaking a language, a remonstrance, a reproof, which _he_ felt at his heart. Not less acutely was it felt by

Fanny, who had edged back her chair behind her aunt's end of the sofa, and, screened from notice herself,

saw all that was passing before her. Such a look of reproach at Edmund from his father she could never have

expected to witness; and to feel that it was in any degree deserved was an aggravation indeed. Sir Thomas's

look implied, "On your judgment, Edmund, I depended; what have you been about?" She knelt in spirit to her

uncle, and her bosom swelled to utter, "Oh, not to _him_! Look so to all the others, but not to _him_!"

Mr. Yates was still talking. "To own the truth, Sir Thomas, we were in the middle of a rehearsal when you

arrived this evening. We were going through the three first acts, and not unsuccessfully upon the whole. Our

company is now so dispersed, from the Crawfords being gone home, that nothing more can be done tonight;

but if you will give us the honour of your company tomorrow evening, I should not be afraid of the result.

We bespeak your indulgence, you understand, as young performers; we bespeak your indulgence."

"My indulgence shall be given, sir," replied Sir Thomas gravely, "but without any other rehearsal." And with

a relenting smile, he added, "I come home to be happy and indulgent." Then turning away towards any or all

of the rest, he tranquilly said, "Mr. and Miss Crawford were mentioned in my last letters from Mansfield. Do

Tom was the only one at all ready with an answer, but he being entirely without particular regard for either,

without jealousy either in love or acting, could speak very handsomely of both. "Mr. Crawford was a most

Mr. Rushworth could be silent no longer. "I do not say he is not gentlemanlike, considering; but you should

tell your father he is not above five feet eight, or he will be expecting a welllooking man."

Sir Thomas did not quite understand this, and looked with some surprise at the speaker.

"If I must say what I think," continued Mr. Rushworth, "in my opinion it is very disagreeable to be always

rehearsing. It is having too much of a good thing. I am not so fond of acting as I was at first. I think we are a

great deal better employed, sitting comfortably here among ourselves, and doing nothing."

Sir Thomas looked again, and then replied with an approving smile, "I am happy to find our sentiments on

this subject so much the same. It gives me sincere satisfaction. That I should be cautious and quicksighted,

and feel many scruples which my children do _not_ feel, is perfectly natural; and equally so that my value for

domestic tranquillity, for a home which shuts out noisy pleasures, should much exceed theirs. But at your

time of life to feel all this, is a most favourable circumstance for yourself, and for everybody connected with

Sir Thomas meant to be giving Mr. Rushworth's opinion in better words than he could find himself. He was

aware that he must not expect a genius in Mr. Rushworth; but as a welljudging, steady young man, with

better notions than his elocution would do justice to, he intended to value him very highly. It was impossible

for many of the others not to smile. Mr. Rushworth hardly knew what to do with so much meaning; but by

looking, as he really felt, most exceedingly pleased with Sir Thomas's good opinion, and saying scarcely

Edmund's first object the next morning was to see his father alone, and give him a fair statement of the whole

acting scheme, defending his own share in it as far only as he could then, in a soberer moment, feel his

motives to deserve, and acknowledging, with perfect ingenuousness, that his concession had been attended

with such partial good as to make his judgment in it very doubtful. He was anxious, while vindicating

himself, to say nothing unkind of the others: but there was only one amongst them whose conduct he could

mention without some necessity of defence or palliation. "We have all been more or less to blame," said he,

"every one of us, excepting Fanny. Fanny is the only one who has judged rightly throughout; who has been

consistent. _Her_ feelings have been steadily against it from first to last. She never ceased to think of what

Sir Thomas saw all the impropriety of such a scheme among such a party, and at such a time, as strongly as

his son had ever supposed he must; he felt it too much, indeed, for many words; and having shaken hands

with Edmund, meant to try to lose the disagreeable impression, and forget how much he had been forgotten

himself as soon as he could, after the house had been cleared of every object enforcing the remembrance, and

restored to its proper state. He did not enter into any remonstrance with his other children: he was more

willing to believe they felt their error than to run the risk of investigation. The reproof of an immediate

There was one person, however, in the house, whom he could not leave to learn his sentiments merely

through his conduct. He could not help giving Mrs. Norris a hint of his having hoped that her advice might

have been interposed to prevent what her judgment must certainly have disapproved. The young people had

been very inconsiderate in forming the plan; they ought to have been capable of a better decision themselves;

but they were young; and, excepting Edmund, he believed, of unsteady characters; and with greater surprise,

therefore, he must regard her acquiescence in their wrong measures, her countenance of their unsafe

amusements, than that such measures and such amusements should have been suggested. Mrs. Norris was a

little confounded and as nearly being silenced as ever she had been in her life; for she was ashamed to

confess having never seen any of the impropriety which was so glaring to Sir Thomas, and would not have

admitted that her influence was insufficient that she might have talked in vain. Her only resource was to

get out of the subject as fast as possible, and turn the current of Sir Thomas's ideas into a happier channel.

She had a great deal to insinuate in her own praise as to _general_ attention to the interest and comfort of his

family, much exertion and many sacrifices to glance at in the form of hurried walks and sudden removals

from her own fireside, and many excellent hints of distrust and economy to Lady Bertram and Edmund to

detail, whereby a most considerable saving had always arisen, and more than one bad servant been detected.

But her chief strength lay in Sotherton. Her greatest support and glory was in having formed the connexion

with the Rushworths. _There_ she was impregnable. She took to herself all the credit of bringing Mr.

Rushworth's admiration of Maria to any effect. "If I had not been active," said she, "and made a point of

being introduced to his mother, and then prevailed on my sister to pay the first visit, I am as certain as I sit

here that nothing would have come of it; for Mr. Rushworth is the sort of amiable modest young man who

wants a great deal of encouragement, and there were girls enough on the catch for him if we had been idle.

But I left no stone unturned. I was ready to move heaven and earth to persuade my sister, and at last I did

persuade her. You know the distance to Sotherton; it was in the middle of winter, and the roads almost

"I know how great, how justly great, your influence is with Lady Bertram and her children, and am the more

"My dear Sir Thomas, if you had seen the state of the roads _that_ day! I thought we should never have got

through them, though we had the four horses of course; and poor old coachman would attend us, out of his

great love and kindness, though he was hardly able to sit the box on account of the rheumatism which I had

been doctoring him for ever since Michaelmas. I cured him at last; but he was very bad all the winterand

this was such a day, I could not help going to him up in his room before we set off to advise him not to

venture: he was putting on his wig; so I said, 'Coachman, you had much better not go; your Lady and I shall

be very safe; you know how steady Stephen is, and Charles has been upon the leaders so often now, that I am

sure there is no fear.' But, however, I soon found it would not do; he was bent upon going, and as I hate to be

worrying and officious, I said no more; but my heart quite ached for him at every jolt, and when we got into

the rough lanes about Stoke, where, what with frost and snow upon beds of stones, it was worse than

anything you can imagine, I was quite in an agony about him. And then the poor horses too! To see them

straining away! You know how I always feel for the horses. And when we got to the bottom of Sandcroft

Hill, what do you think I did? You will laugh at me; but I got out and walked up. I did indeed. It might not be

saving them much, but it was something, and I could not bear to sit at my ease and be dragged up at the

expense of those noble animals. I caught a dreadful cold, but _that_ I did not regard. My object was

"I hope we shall always think the acquaintance worth any trouble that might be taken to establish it. There is

nothing very striking in Mr. Rushworth's manners, but I was pleased last night with what appeared to be his

opinion on one subject: his decided preference of a quiet family party to the bustle and confusion of acting.

"Yes, indeed, and the more you know of him the better you will like him. He is not a shining character, but he

has a thousand good qualities; and is so disposed to look up to you, that I am quite laughed at about it, for

everybody considers it as my doing. 'Upon my word, Mrs. Norris,' said Mrs. Grant the other day, 'if Mr.

Rushworth were a son of your own, he could not hold Sir Thomas in greater respect.'"

Sir Thomas gave up the point, foiled by her evasions, disarmed by her flattery; and was obliged to rest

satisfied with the conviction that where the present pleasure of those she loved was at stake, her kindness did

It was a busy morning with him. Conversation with any of them occupied but a small part of it. He had to

reinstate himself in all the wonted concerns of his Mansfield life: to see his steward and his bailiff; to

examine and compute, and, in the intervals of business, to walk into his stables and his gardens, and nearest

plantations; but active and methodical, he had not only done all this before he resumed his seat as master of

the house at dinner, he had also set the carpenter to work in pulling down what had been so lately put up in

the billiardroom, and given the scenepainter his dismissal long enough to justify the pleasing belief of his

being then at least as far off as Northampton. The scenepainter was gone, having spoilt only the floor of one

room, ruined all the coachman's sponges, and made five of the underservants idle and dissatisfied; and Sir

Thomas was in hopes that another day or two would suffice to wipe away every outward memento of what

had been, even to the destruction of every unbound copy of Lovers' Vows in the house, for he was burning all

Mr. Yates was beginning now to understand Sir Thomas's intentions, though as far as ever from

understanding their source. He and his friend had been out with their guns the chief of the morning, and Tom

had taken the opportunity of explaining, with proper apologies for his father's particularity, what was to be

expected. Mr. Yates felt it as acutely as might be supposed. To be a second time disappointed in the same

way was an instance of very severe illluck; and his indignation was such, that had it not been for delicacy

towards his friend, and his friend's youngest sister, he believed he should certainly attack the baronet on the

absurdity of his proceedings, and argue him into a little more rationality. He believed this very stoutly while

he was in Mansfield Wood, and all the way home; but there was a something in Sir Thomas, when they sat

round the same table, which made Mr. Yates think it wiser to let him pursue his own way, and feel the folly

of it without opposition. He had known many disagreeable fathers before, and often been struck with the

inconveniences they occasioned, but never, in the whole course of his life, had he seen one of that class so

unintelligibly moral, so infamously tyrannical as Sir Thomas. He was not a man to be endured but for his

children's sake, and he might be thankful to his fair daughter Julia that Mr. Yates did yet mean to stay a few

The evening passed with external smoothness, though almost every mind was ruffled; and the music which

Sir Thomas called for from his daughters helped to conceal the want of real harmony. Maria was in a good

deal of agitation. It was of the utmost consequence to her that Crawford should now lose no time in declaring

himself, and she was disturbed that even a day should be gone by without seeming to advance that point. She

had been expecting to see him the whole morning, and all the evening, too, was still expecting him. Mr.

Rushworth had set off early with the great news for Sotherton; and she had fondly hoped for such an

immediate _eclaircissement_ as might save him the trouble of ever coming back again. But they had seen no

one from the Parsonage, not a creature, and had heard no tidings beyond a friendly note of congratulation and

inquiry from Mrs. Grant to Lady Bertram. It was the first day for many, many weeks, in which the families

had been wholly divided. Fourandtwenty hours had never passed before, since August began, without

bringing them together in some way or other. It was a sad, anxious day; and the morrow, though differing in

the sort of evil, did by no means bring less. A few moments of feverish enjoyment were followed by hours of

acute suffering. Henry Crawford was again in the house: he walked up with Dr. Grant, who was anxious to

pay his respects to Sir Thomas, and at rather an early hour they were ushered into the breakfastroom, where

were most of the family. Sir Thomas soon appeared, and Maria saw with delight and agitation the

introduction of the man she loved to her father. Her sensations were indefinable, and so were they a few

minutes afterwards upon hearing Henry Crawford, who had a chair between herself and Tom, ask the latter in

an undervoice whether there were any plans for resuming the play after the present happy interruption (with a

courteous glance at Sir Thomas), because, in that case, he should make a point of returning to Mansfield at

any time required by the party: he was going away immediately, being to meet his uncle at Bath without

delay; but if there were any prospect of a renewal of Lovers' Vows, he should hold himself positively

engaged, he should break through every other claim, he should absolutely condition with his uncle for

attending them whenever he might be wanted. The play should not be lost by _his_ absence.

"From Bath, Norfolk, London, York, wherever I may be," said he; "I will attend you from any place in

It was well at that moment that Tom had to speak, and not his sister. He could immediately say with easy

fluency, "I am sorry you are going; but as to our play, _that_ is all overentirely at an end" (looking

significantly at his father). "The painter was sent off yesterday, and very little will remain of the theatre

tomorrow. I knew how _that_ would be from the first. It is early for Bath. You will find nobody there."

"Whose stables do you use at Bath?" was the next question; and while this branch of the subject was under

discussion, Maria, who wanted neither pride nor resolution, was preparing to encounter her share of it with

To her he soon turned, repeating much of what he had already said, with only a softened air and stronger

expressions of regret. But what availed his expressions or his air? He was going, and, if not voluntarily going,

voluntarily intending to stay away; for, excepting what might be due to his uncle, his engagements were all

selfimposed. He might talk of necessity, but she knew his independence. The hand which had so pressed

hers to his heart! the hand and the heart were alike motionless and passive now! Her spirit supported her, but

the agony of her mind was severe. She had not long to endure what arose from listening to language which

his actions contradicted, or to bury the tumult of her feelings under the restraint of society; for general

civilities soon called his notice from her, and the farewell visit, as it then became openly acknowledged, was

a very short one. He was gonehe had touched her hand for the last time, he had made his parting bow, and

she might seek directly all that solitude could do for her. Henry Crawford was gone, gone from the house,

and within two hours afterwards from the parish; and so ended all the hopes his selfish vanity had raised in

Julia could rejoice that he was gone. His presence was beginning to be odious to her; and if Maria gained him

not, she was now cool enough to dispense with any other revenge. She did not want exposure to be added to

With a purer spirit did Fanny rejoice in the intelligence. She heard it at dinner, and felt it a blessing. By all

the others it was mentioned with regret; and his merits honoured with due gradation of feeling from the

sincerity of Edmund's too partial regard, to the unconcern of his mother speaking entirely by rote. Mrs. Norris

began to look about her, and wonder that his falling in love with Julia had come to nothing; and could almost

fear that she had been remiss herself in forwarding it; but with so many to care for, how was it possible for

Another day or two, and Mr. Yates was gone likewise. In _his_ departure Sir Thomas felt the chief interest:

wanting to be alone with his family, the presence of a stranger superior to Mr. Yates must have been irksome;

but of him, trifling and confident, idle and expensive, it was every way vexatious. In himself he was

wearisome, but as the friend of Tom and the admirer of Julia he became offensive. Sir Thomas had been quite

indifferent to Mr. Crawford's going or staying: but his good wishes for Mr. Yates's having a pleasant journey,

as he walked with him to the halldoor, were given with genuine satisfaction. Mr. Yates had staid to see the

destruction of every theatrical preparation at Mansfield, the removal of everything appertaining to the play:

he left the house in all the soberness of its general character; and Sir Thomas hoped, in seeing him out of it, to

be rid of the worst object connected with the scheme, and the last that must be inevitably reminding him of its

Mrs. Norris contrived to remove one article from his sight that might have distressed him. The curtain, over

which she had presided with such talent and such success, went off with her to her cottage, where she

Sir Thomas's return made a striking change in the ways of the family, independent of Lovers' Vows. Under

his government, Mansfield was an altered place. Some members of their society sent away, and the spirits of

many others saddened it was all sameness and gloom compared with the past a sombre family party

rarely enlivened. There was little intercourse with the Parsonage. Sir Thomas, drawing back from intimacies

in general, was particularly disinclined, at this time, for any engagements but in one quarter. The Rushworths

Edmund did not wonder that such should be his father's feelings, nor could he regret anything but the

exclusion of the Grants. "But they," he observed to Fanny, "have a claim. They seem to belong to us; they

seem to be part of ourselves. I could wish my father were more sensible of their very great attention to my

mother and sisters while he was away. I am afraid they may feel themselves neglected. But the truth is, that

my father hardly knows them. They had not been here a twelvemonth when he left England. If he knew them

better, he would value their society as it deserves; for they are in fact exactly the sort of people he would like.

We are sometimes a little in want of animation among ourselves: my sisters seem out of spirits, and Tom is

certainly not at his ease. Dr. and Mrs. Grant would enliven us, and make our evenings pass away with more

"Do you think so?" said Fanny: "in my opinion, my uncle would not like _any_ addition. I think he values the

very quietness you speak of, and that the repose of his own family circle is all he wants. And it does not

appear to me that we are more serious than we used to beI mean before my uncle went abroad. As well as I

can recollect, it was always much the same. There was never much laughing in his presence; or, if there is

any difference, it is not more, I think, than such an absence has a tendency to produce at first. There must be a

sort of shyness; but I cannot recollect that our evenings formerly were ever merry, except when my uncle was

in town. No young people's are, I suppose, when those they look up to are at home".

"I believe you are right, Fanny," was his reply, after a short consideration. "I believe our evenings are rather

returned to what they were, than assuming a new character. The novelty was in their being lively. Yet, how

strong the impression that only a few weeks will give! I have been feeling as if we had never lived so before."

"I suppose I am graver than other people," said Fanny. "The evenings do not appear long to me. I love to hear

my uncle talk of the West Indies. I could listen to him for an hour together. It entertains _me_ more than

"Why should you dare say _that_?" (smiling). "Do you want to be told that you are only unlike other people

in being more wise and discreet? But when did you, or anybody, ever get a compliment from me, Fanny? Go

to my father if you want to be complimented. He will satisfy you. Ask your uncle what he thinks, and you

will hear compliments enough: and though they may be chiefly on your person, you must put up with it, and

"Your uncle thinks you very pretty, dear Fanny and that is the long and the short of the matter. Anybody

but myself would have made something more of it, and anybody but you would resent that you had not been

thought very pretty before; but the truth is, that your uncle never did admire you till nowand now he does.

Your complexion is so improved!and you have gained so much countenance!and your figurenay,

Fanny, do not turn away about itit is but an uncle. If you cannot bear an uncle's admiration, what is to

become of you? You must really begin to harden yourself to the idea of being worth looking at. You must try

"Oh! don't talk so, don't talk so," cried Fanny, distressed by more feelings than he was aware of; but seeing

that she was distressed, he had done with the subject, and only added more seriously

"Your uncle is disposed to be pleased with you in every respect; and I only wish you would talk to him more.

"But I do talk to him more than I used. I am sure I do. Did not you hear me ask him about the slavetrade last

"I didand was in hopes the question would be followed up by others. It would have pleased your uncle to

"And I longed to do itbut there was such a dead silence! And while my cousins were sitting by without

speaking a word, or seeming at all interested in the subject, I did not like I thought it would appear as if I

wanted to set myself off at their expense, by shewing a curiosity and pleasure in his information which he

"Miss Crawford was very right in what she said of you the other day: that you seemed almost as fearful of

notice and praise as other women were of neglect. We were talking of you at the Parsonage, and those were

her words. She has great discernment. I know nobody who distinguishes characters better. For so young a

woman it is remarkable! She certainly understands _you_ better than you are understood by the greater part

of those who have known you so long; and with regard to some others, I can perceive, from occasional lively

hints, the unguarded expressions of the moment, that she could define _many_ as accurately, did not delicacy

forbid it. I wonder what she thinks of my father! She must admire him as a finelooking man, with most

gentlemanlike, dignified, consistent manners; but perhaps, having seen him so seldom, his reserve may be a

little repulsive. Could they be much together, I feel sure of their liking each other. He would enjoy her

liveliness and she has talents to value his powers. I wish they met more frequently! I hope she does not

"She must know herself too secure of the regard of all the rest of you," said Fanny, with half a sigh, "to have

any such apprehension. And Sir Thomas's wishing just at first to be only with his family, is so very natural,

that she can argue nothing from that. After a little while, I dare say, we shall be meeting again in the same

"This is the first October that she has passed in the country since her infancy. I do not call Tunbridge or

Cheltenham the country; and November is a still more serious month, and I can see that Mrs. Grant is very

Fanny could have said a great deal, but it was safer to say nothing, and leave untouched all Miss Crawford's

resources her accomplishments, her spirits, her importance, her friends, lest it should betray her into any

observations seemingly unhandsome. Miss Crawford's kind opinion of herself deserved at least a grateful

"Tomorrow, I think, my uncle dines at Sotherton, and you and Mr. Bertram too. We shall be quite a small

"That is impossible, Fanny. He must like him less after tomorrow's visit, for we shall be five hours in his

company. I should dread the stupidity of the day, if there were not a much greater evil to follow the

impression it must leave on Sir Thomas. He cannot much longer deceive himself. I am sorry for them all, and

In this quarter, indeed, disappointment was impending over Sir Thomas. Not all his goodwill for Mr.

Rushworth, not all Mr. Rushworth's deference for him, could prevent him from soon discerning some part of

the truth that Mr. Rushworth was an inferior young man, as ignorant in business as in books, with opinions

He had expected a very different soninlaw; and beginning to feel grave on Maria's account, tried to

understand _her_ feelings. Little observation there was necessary to tell him that indifference was the most

favourable state they could be in. Her behaviour to Mr. Rushworth was careless and cold. She could not, did

not like him. Sir Thomas resolved to speak seriously to her. Advantageous as would be the alliance, and long

standing and public as was the engagement, her happiness must not be sacrificed to it. Mr. Rushworth had,

perhaps, been accepted on too short an acquaintance, and, on knowing him better, she was repenting.

With solemn kindness Sir Thomas addressed her: told her his fears, inquired into her wishes, entreated her to

be open and sincere, and assured her that every inconvenience should be braved, and the connexion entirely

given up, if she felt herself unhappy in the prospect of it. He would act for her and release her. Maria had a

moment's struggle as she listened, and only a moment's: when her father ceased, she was able to give her

answer immediately, decidedly, and with no apparent agitation. She thanked him for his great attention, his

paternal kindness, but he was quite mistaken in supposing she had the smallest desire of breaking through her

engagement, or was sensible of any change of opinion or inclination since her forming it. She had the highest

esteem for Mr. Rushworth's character and disposition, and could not have a doubt of her happiness with him.

Sir Thomas was satisfied; too glad to be satisfied, perhaps, to urge the matter quite so far as his judgment

might have dictated to others. It was an alliance which he could not have relinquished without pain; and thus

he reasoned. Mr. Rushworth was young enough to improve. Mr. Rushworth must and would improve in good

society; and if Maria could now speak so securely of her happiness with him, speaking certainly without the

prejudice, the blindness of love, she ought to be believed. Her feelings, probably, were not acute; he had

never supposed them to be so; but her comforts might not be less on that account; and if she could dispense

with seeing her husband a leading, shining character, there would certainly be everything else in her favour.

A welldisposed young woman, who did not marry for love, was in general but the more attached to her own

family; and the nearness of Sotherton to Mansfield must naturally hold out the greatest temptation, and

would, in all probability, be a continual supply of the most amiable and innocent enjoyments. Such and

suchlike were the reasonings of Sir Thomas, happy to escape the embarrassing evils of a rupture, the

wonder, the reflections, the reproach that must attend it; happy to secure a marriage which would bring him

such an addition of respectability and influence, and very happy to think anything of his daughter's

To her the conference closed as satisfactorily as to him. She was in a state of mind to be glad that she had

secured her fate beyond recall: that she had pledged herself anew to Sotherton; that she was safe from the

possibility of giving Crawford the triumph of governing her actions, and destroying her prospects; and retired

in proud resolve, determined only to behave more cautiously to Mr. Rushworth in future, that her father

Had Sir Thomas applied to his daughter within the first three or four days after Henry Crawford's leaving

Mansfield, before her feelings were at all tranquillised, before she had given up every hope of him, or

absolutely resolved on enduring his rival, her answer might have been different; but after another three or

four days, when there was no return, no letter, no message, no symptom of a softened heart, no hope of

advantage from separation, her mind became cool enough to seek all the comfort that pride and self revenge

Henry Crawford had destroyed her happiness, but he should not know that he had done it; he should not

destroy her credit, her appearance, her prosperity, too. He should not have to think of her as pining in the

retirement of Mansfield for _him_, rejecting Sotherton and London, independence and splendour, for _his_

sake. Independence was more needful than ever; the want of it at Mansfield more sensibly felt. She was less

and less able to endure the restraint which her father imposed. The liberty which his absence had given was

now become absolutely necessary. She must escape from him and Mansfield as soon as possible, and find

consolation in fortune and consequence, bustle and the world, for a wounded spirit. Her mind was quite

To such feelings delay, even the delay of much preparation, would have been an evil, and Mr. Rushworth

could hardly be more impatient for the marriage than herself. In all the important preparations of the mind she

was complete: being prepared for matrimony by an hatred of home, restraint, and tranquillity; by the misery

of disappointed affection, and contempt of the man she was to marry. The rest might wait. The preparations

of new carriages and furniture might wait for London and spring, when her own taste could have fairer play.

The principals being all agreed in this respect, it soon appeared that a very few weeks would be sufficient for

Mrs. Rushworth was quite ready to retire, and make way for the fortunate young woman whom her dear son

had selected; and very early in November removed herself, her maid, her footman, and her chariot, with true

dowager propriety, to Bath, there to parade over the wonders of Sotherton in her evening parties; enjoying

them as thoroughly, perhaps, in the animation of a cardtable, as she had ever done on the spot; and before

the middle of the same month the ceremony had taken place which gave Sotherton another mistress.

It was a very proper wedding. The bride was elegantly dressed; the two bridesmaids were duly inferior; her

father gave her away; her mother stood with salts in her hand, expecting to be agitated; her aunt tried to cry;

and the service was impressively read by Dr. Grant. Nothing could be objected to when it came under the

discussion of the neighbourhood, except that the carriage which conveyed the bride and bridegroom and Julia

from the churchdoor to Sotherton was the same chaise which Mr. Rushworth had used for a twelvemonth

before. In everything else the etiquette of the day might stand the strictest investigation.

It was done, and they were gone. Sir Thomas felt as an anxious father must feel, and was indeed experiencing

much of the agitation which his wife had been apprehensive of for herself, but had fortunately escaped. Mrs.

Norris, most happy to assist in the duties of the day, by spending it at the Park to support her sister's spirits,

and drinking the health of Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth in a supernumerary glass or two, was all joyous delight;

for she had made the match; she had done everything; and no one would have supposed, from her confident

triumph, that she had ever heard of conjugal infelicity in her life, or could have the smallest insight into the

The plan of the young couple was to proceed, after a few days, to Brighton, and take a house there for some

weeks. Every public place was new to Maria, and Brighton is almost as gay in winter as in summer. When the

novelty of amusement there was over, it would be time for the wider range of London.

Julia was to go with them to Brighton. Since rivalry between the sisters had ceased, they had been gradually

recovering much of their former good understanding; and were at least sufficiently friends to make each of

them exceedingly glad to be with the other at such a time. Some other companion than Mr. Rushworth was of

the first consequence to his lady; and Julia was quite as eager for novelty and pleasure as Maria, though she

might not have struggled through so much to obtain them, and could better bear a subordinate situation.

Their departure made another material change at Mansfield, a chasm which required some time to fill up. The

family circle became greatly contracted; and though the Miss Bertrams had latterly added little to its gaiety,

they could not but be missed. Even their mother missed them; and how much more their tenderhearted

cousin, who wandered about the house, and thought of them, and felt for them, with a degree of affectionate

Fanny's consequence increased on the departure of her cousins. Becoming, as she then did, the only young

woman in the drawingroom, the only occupier of that interesting division of a family in which she had

hitherto held so humble a third, it was impossible for her not to be more looked at, more thought of and

attended to, than she had ever been before; and "Where is Fanny?" became no uncommon question, even

Not only at home did her value increase, but at the Parsonage too. In that house, which she had hardly entered

twice a year since Mr. Norris's death, she became a welcome, an invited guest, and in the gloom and dirt of a

November day, most acceptable to Mary Crawford. Her visits there, beginning by chance, were continued by

solicitation. Mrs. Grant, really eager to get any change for her sister, could, by the easiest selfdeceit,

persuade herself that she was doing the kindest thing by Fanny, and giving her the most important

Fanny, having been sent into the village on some errand by her aunt Norris, was overtaken by a heavy shower

close to the Parsonage; and being descried from one of the windows endeavouring to find shelter under the

branches and lingering leaves of an oak just beyond their premises, was forced, though not without some

modest reluctance on her part, to come in. A civil servant she had withstood; but when Dr. Grant himself

went out with an umbrella, there was nothing to be done but to be very much ashamed, and to get into the

house as fast as possible; and to poor Miss Crawford, who had just been contemplating the dismal rain in a

very desponding state of mind, sighing over the ruin of all her plan of exercise for that morning, and of every

chance of seeing a single creature beyond themselves for the next twentyfour hours, the sound of a little

bustle at the front door, and the sight of Miss Price dripping with wet in the vestibule, was delightful. The

value of an event on a wet day in the country was most forcibly brought before her. She was all alive again

directly, and among the most active in being useful to Fanny, in detecting her to be wetter than she would at

first allow, and providing her with dry clothes; and Fanny, after being obliged to submit to all this attention,

and to being assisted and waited on by mistresses and maids, being also obliged, on returning downstairs, to

be fixed in their drawingroom for an hour while the rain continued, the blessing of something fresh to see

and think of was thus extended to Miss Crawford, and might carry on her spirits to the period of dressing and

The two sisters were so kind to her, and so pleasant, that Fanny might have enjoyed her visit could she have

believed herself not in the way, and could she have foreseen that the weather would certainly clear at the end

of the hour, and save her from the shame of having Dr. Grant's carriage and horses out to take her home, with

which she was threatened. As to anxiety for any alarm that her absence in such weather might occasion at

home, she had nothing to suffer on that score; for as her being out was known only to her two aunts, she was

perfectly aware that none would be felt, and that in whatever cottage aunt Norris might chuse to establish her

during the rain, her being in such cottage would be indubitable to aunt Bertram.

It was beginning to look brighter, when Fanny, observing a harp in the room, asked some questions about it,

which soon led to an acknowledgment of her wishing very much to hear it, and a confession, which could

hardly be believed, of her having never yet heard it since its being in Mansfield. To Fanny herself it appeared

a very simple and natural circumstance. She had scarcely ever been at the Parsonage since the instrument's

arrival, there had been no reason that she should; but Miss Crawford, calling to mind an early expressed wish

on the subject, was concerned at her own neglect; and "Shall I play to you now?" and "What will you have?"

She played accordingly; happy to have a new listener, and a listener who seemed so much obliged, so full of

wonder at the performance, and who shewed herself not wanting in taste. She played till Fanny's eyes,

straying to the window on the weather's being evidently fair, spoke what she felt must be done.

"Another quarter of an hour," said Miss Crawford, "and we shall see how it will be. Do not run away the first

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

"South or north, I know a black cloud when I see it; and you must not set forward while it is so threatening.

And besides, I want to play something more to youa very pretty pieceand your cousin Edmund's prime

Fanny felt that she must; and though she had not waited for that sentence to be thinking of Edmund, such a

memento made her particularly awake to his idea, and she fancied him sitting in that room again and again,

perhaps in the very spot where she sat now, listening with constant delight to the favourite air, played, as it

appeared to her, with superior tone and expression; and though pleased with it herself, and glad to like

whatever was liked by him, she was more sincerely impatient to go away at the conclusion of it than she had

been before; and on this being evident, she was so kindly asked to call again, to take them in her walk

whenever she could, to come and hear more of the harp, that she felt it necessary to be done, if no objection

Such was the origin of the sort of intimacy which took place between them within the first fortnight after the

Miss Bertrams' going awayan intimacy resulting principally from Miss Crawford's desire of something

new, and which had little reality in Fanny's feelings. Fanny went to her every two or three days: it seemed a

kind of fascination: she could not be easy without going, and yet it was without loving her, without ever

thinking like her, without any sense of obligation for being sought after now when nobody else was to be had;

and deriving no higher pleasure from her conversation than occasional amusement, and _that_ often at the

expense of her judgment, when it was raised by pleasantry on people or subjects which she wished to be

respected. She went, however, and they sauntered about together many an halfhour in Mrs. Grant's

shrubbery, the weather being unusually mild for the time of year, and venturing sometimes even to sit down

on one of the benches now comparatively unsheltered, remaining there perhaps till, in the midst of some

tender ejaculation of Fanny's on the sweets of so protracted an autumn, they were forced, by the sudden swell

of a cold gust shaking down the last few yellow leaves about them, to jump up and walk for warmth.

"This is pretty, very pretty," said Fanny, looking around her as they were thus sitting together one day; "every

time I come into this shrubbery I am more struck with its growth and beauty. Three years ago, this was

nothing but a rough hedgerow along the upper side of the field, never thought of as anything, or capable of

becoming anything; and now it is converted into a walk, and it would be difficult to say whether most

valuable as a convenience or an ornament; and perhaps, in another three years, we may be forgettingalmost

forgetting what it was before. How wonderful, how very wonderful the operations of time, and the changes of

the human mind!" And following the latter train of thought, she soon afterwards added: "If any one faculty of

our nature may be called _more_ wonderful than the rest, I do think it is memory. There seems something

more speakingly incomprehensible in the powers, the failures, the inequalities of memory, than in any other

of our intelligences. The memory is sometimes so retentive, so serviceable, so obedient; at others, so

bewildered and so weak; and at others again, so tyrannic, so beyond control! We are, to be sure, a miracle

every way; but our powers of recollecting and of forgetting do seem peculiarly past finding out."

Miss Crawford, untouched and inattentive, had nothing to say; and Fanny, perceiving it, brought back her

"It may seem impertinent in _me_ to praise, but I must admire the taste Mrs. Grant has shewn in all this.

There is such a quiet simplicity in the plan of the walk! Not too much attempted!"

"Yes," replied Miss Crawford carelessly, "it does very well for a place of this sort. One does not think of

extent _here_; and between ourselves, till I came to Mansfield, I had not imagined a country parson ever

"I am so glad to see the evergreens thrive!" said Fanny, in reply. "My uncle's gardener always says the soil

here is better than his own, and so it appears from the growth of the laurels and evergreens in general. The

evergreen! How beautiful, how welcome, how wonderful the evergreen! When one thinks of it, how

astonishing a variety of nature! In some countries we know the tree that sheds its leaf is the variety, but that

does not make it less amazing that the same soil and the same sun should nurture plants differing in the first

rule and law of their existence. You will think me rhapsodising; but when I am out of doors, especially when

I am sitting out of doors, I am very apt to get into this sort of wondering strain. One cannot fix one's eyes on

"To say the truth," replied Miss Crawford, "I am something like the famous Doge at the court of Lewis XIV.;

and may declare that I see no wonder in this shrubbery equal to seeing myself in it. If anybody had told me a

year ago that this place would be my home, that I should be spending month after month here, as I have done,

I certainly should not have believed them. I have now been here nearly five months; and, moreover, the

"I should have thought so _theoretically_ myself, but," and her eyes brightened as she spoke, "take it all and

all, I never spent so happy a summer. But then," with a more thoughtful air and lowered voice, "there is no

Fanny's heart beat quick, and she felt quite unequal to surmising or soliciting anything more. Miss Crawford,

"I am conscious of being far better reconciled to a country residence than I had ever expected to be. I can

even suppose it pleasant to spend _half_ the year in the country, under certain circumstances, very pleasant.

An elegant, moderatesized house in the centre of family connexions; continual engagements among them;

commanding the first society in the neighbourhood; looked up to, perhaps, as leading it even more than those

of larger fortune, and turning from the cheerful round of such amusements to nothing worse than a

_teteatete_ with the person one feels most agreeable in the world. There is nothing frightful in such a

picture, is there, Miss Price? One need not envy the new Mrs. Rushworth with such a home as _that_." "Envy

Mrs. Rushworth!" was all that Fanny attempted to say. "Come, come, it would be very unhandsome in us to

be severe on Mrs. Rushworth, for I look forward to our owing her a great many gay, brilliant, happy hours. I

expect we shall be all very much at Sotherton another year. Such a match as Miss Bertram has made is a

public blessing; for the first pleasures of Mr. Rushworth's wife must be to fill her house, and give the best

Fanny was silent, and Miss Crawford relapsed into thoughtfulness, till suddenly looking up at the end of a

few minutes, she exclaimed, "Ah! here he is." It was not Mr. Rushworth, however, but Edmund, who then

appeared walking towards them with Mrs. Grant. "My sister and Mr. Bertram. I am so glad your eldest cousin

is gone, that he may be Mr. Bertram again. There is something in the sound of Mr. _Edmund_ Bertram so

"How differently we feel!" cried Fanny. "To me, the sound of _Mr._ Bertram is so cold and

nothingmeaning, so entirely without warmth or character! It just stands for a gentleman, and that's all. But

there is nobleness in the name of Edmund. It is a name of heroism and renown; of kings, princes, and knights;

"I grant you the name is good in itself, and _Lord_ Edmund or _Sir_ Edmund sound delightfully; but sink it

under the chill, the annihilation of a Mr., and Mr. Edmund is no more than Mr. John or Mr. Thomas. Well,

shall we join and disappoint them of half their lecture upon sitting down out of doors at this time of year, by

Edmund met them with particular pleasure. It was the first time of his seeing them together since the

beginning of that better acquaintance which he had been hearing of with great satisfaction. A friendship

between two so very dear to him was exactly what he could have wished: and to the credit of the lover's

understanding, be it stated, that he did not by any means consider Fanny as the only, or even as the greater

"Well," said Miss Crawford, "and do you not scold us for our imprudence? What do you think we have been

sitting down for but to be talked to about it, and entreated and supplicated never to do so again?"

"Perhaps I might have scolded," said Edmund, "if either of you had been sitting down alone; but while you do

"They cannot have been sitting long," cried Mrs. Grant, "for when I went up for my shawl I saw them from

"And really," added Edmund, "the day is so mild, that your sitting down for a few minutes can be hardly

thought imprudent. Our weather must not always be judged by the calendar. We may sometimes take greater

"Upon my word," cried Miss Crawford, "you are two of the most disappointing and unfeeling kind friends I

ever met with! There is no giving you a moment's uneasiness. You do not know how much we have been

suffering, nor what chills we have felt! But I have long thought Mr. Bertram one of the worst subjects to

work on, in any little manoeuvre against common sense, that a woman could be plagued with. I had very little

hope of _him_ from the first; but you, Mrs. Grant, my sister, my own sister, I think I had a right to alarm you

"Do not flatter yourself, my dearest Mary. You have not the smallest chance of moving me. I have my

alarms, but they are quite in a different quarter; and if I could have altered the weather, you would have had a

good sharp east wind blowing on you the whole timefor here are some of my plants which Robert _will_

leave out because the nights are so mild, and I know the end of it will be, that we shall have a sudden change

of weather, a hard frost setting in all at once, taking everybody (at least Robert) by surprise, and I shall lose

every one; and what is worse, cook has just been telling me that the turkey, which I particularly wished not to

be dressed till Sunday, because I know how much more Dr. Grant would enjoy it on Sunday after the fatigues

of the day, will not keep beyond tomorrow. These are something like grievances, and make me think the

"The sweets of housekeeping in a country village!" said Miss Crawford archly. "Commend me to the

"My dear child, commend Dr. Grant to the deanery of Westminster or St. Paul's, and I should be as glad of

your nurseryman and poulterer as you could be. But we have no such people in Mansfield. What would you

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

"Thank you; but there is no escaping these little vexations, Mary, live where we may; and when you are

settled in town and I come to see you, I dare say I shall find you with yours, in spite of the nurseryman and

the poulterer, perhaps on their very account. Their remoteness and unpunctuality, or their exorbitant charges

"I mean to be too rich to lament or to feel anything of the sort. A large income is the best recipe for happiness

"You intend to be very rich?" said Edmund, with a look which, to Fanny's eye, had a great deal of serious

"I cannot intend anything which it must be so completely beyond my power to command. Miss Crawford

may chuse her degree of wealth. She has only to fix on her number of thousands a year, and there can be no

"By moderation and economy, and bringing down your wants to your income, and all that. I understand

youand a very proper plan it is for a person at your time of life, with such limited means and indifferent

connexions. What can _you_ want but a decent maintenance? You have not much time before you; and your

relations are in no situation to do anything for you, or to mortify you by the contrast of their own wealth and

consequence. Be honest and poor, by all meansbut I shall not envy you; I do not much think I shall even

"Your degree of respect for honesty, rich or poor, is precisely what I have no manner of concern with. I do

not mean to be poor. Poverty is exactly what I have determined against. Honesty, in the something between,

in the middle state of worldly circumstances, is all that I am anxious for your not looking down on."

"But I do look down upon it, if it might have been higher. I must look down upon anything contented with

This was not so very easy a question to answer, and occasioned an "Oh!" of some length from the fair lady

before she could add, "You ought to be in parliament, or you should have gone into the army ten years ago."

"_That_ is not much to the purpose now; and as to my being in parliament, I believe I must wait till there is

an especial assembly for the representation of younger sons who have little to live on. No, Miss Crawford,"

he added, in a more serious tone, "there _are_ distinctions which I should be miserable if I thought myself

without any chance absolutely without chance or possibility of obtaining but they are of a different

A look of consciousness as he spoke, and what seemed a consciousness of manner on Miss Crawford's side as

she made some laughing answer, was sorrowfull food for Fanny's observation; and finding herself quite

unable to attend as she ought to Mrs. Grant, by whose side she was now following the others, she had nearly

resolved on going home immediately, and only waited for courage to say so, when the sound of the great

clock at Mansfield Park, striking three, made her feel that she had really been much longer absent than usual,

and brought the previous selfinquiry of whether she should take leave or not just then, and how, to a very

speedy issue. With undoubting decision she directly began her adieus; and Edmund began at the same time to

recollect that his mother had been inquiring for her, and that he had walked down to the Parsonage on

Fanny's hurry increased; and without in the least expecting Edmund's attendance, she would have hastened

away alone; but the general pace was quickened, and they all accompanied her into the house, through which

it was necessary to pass. Dr. Grant was in the vestibule, and as they stopt to speak to him she found, from

Edmund's manner, that he _did_ mean to go with her. He too was taking leave. She could not but be thankful.

In the moment of parting, Edmund was invited by Dr. Grant to eat his mutton with him the next day; and

Fanny had barely time for an unpleasant feeling on the occasion, when Mrs. Grant, with sudden recollection,

turned to her and asked for the pleasure of her company too. This was so new an attention, so perfectly new a

circumstance in the events of Fanny's life, that she was all surprise and embarrassment; and while

stammering out her great obligation, and her "but she did not suppose it would be in her power," was looking

at Edmund for his opinion and help. But Edmund, delighted with her having such an happiness offered, and

ascertaining with half a look, and half a sentence, that she had no objection but on her aunt's account, could

not imagine that his mother would make any difficulty of sparing her, and therefore gave his decided open

advice that the invitation should be accepted; and though Fanny would not venture, even on his

encouragement, to such a flight of audacious independence, it was soon settled, that if nothing were heard to

"And you know what your dinner will be," said Mrs. Grant, smiling"the turkey, and I assure you a very

fine one; for, my dear," turning to her husband, "cook insists upon the turkey's being dressed tomorrow."

"Very well, very well," cried Dr. Grant, "all the better; I am glad to hear you have anything so good in the

house. But Miss Price and Mr. Edmund Bertram, I dare say, would take their chance. We none of us want to

hear the bill of fare. A friendly meeting, and not a fine dinner, is all we have in view. A turkey, or a goose, or

The two cousins walked home together; and, except in the immediate discussion of this engagement, which

Edmund spoke of with the warmest satisfaction, as so particularly desirable for her in the intimacy which he

saw with so much pleasure established, it was a silent walk; for having finished that subject, he grew

"But why should Mrs. Grant ask Fanny?" said Lady Bertram. "How came she to think of asking Fanny?

Fanny never dines there, you know, in this sort of way. I cannot spare her, and I am sure she does not want to

"If you put such a question to her," cried Edmund, preventing his cousin's speaking, "Fanny will immediately

say No; but I am sure, my dear mother, she would like to go; and I can see no reason why she should not."

"I cannot imagine why Mrs. Grant should think of asking her? She never did before. She used to ask your

"That's well thought of. So I will, Edmund. I will ask Sir Thomas, as soon as he comes in, whether I can do

"As you please, ma'am, on that head; but I meant my father's opinion as to the _propriety_ of the invitation's

being accepted or not; and I think he will consider it a right thing by Mrs. Grant, as well as by Fanny, that

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

There was nothing more to be said, or that could be said to any purpose, till Sir Thomas were present; but the

subject involving, as it did, her own evening's comfort for the morrow, was so much uppermost in Lady

Bertram's mind, that half an hour afterwards, on his looking in for a minute in his way from his plantation to

his dressingroom, she called him back again, when he had almost closed the door, with "Sir Thomas, stop a

Her tone of calm languor, for she never took the trouble of raising her voice, was always heard and attended

to; and Sir Thomas came back. Her story began; and Fanny immediately slipped out of the room; for to hear

herself the subject of any discussion with her uncle was more than her nerves could bear. She was anxious,

she knew more anxious perhaps than she ought to befor what was it after all whether she went or staid?

but if her uncle were to be a great while considering and deciding, and with very grave looks, and those grave

looks directed to her, and at last decide against her, she might not be able to appear properly submissive and

indifferent. Her cause, meanwhile, went on well. It began, on Lady Bertram's part, with"I have something

"She will be late," said Sir Thomas, taking out his watch; "but what is your difficulty?"

Edmund found himself obliged to speak and fill up the blanks in his mother's story. He told the whole; and

"But is it not very natural," observed Edmund, "that Mrs. Grant should wish to procure so agreeable a visitor

"Nothing can be more natural," said Sir Thomas, after a short deliberation; "nor, were there no sister in the

case, could anything, in my opinion, be more natural. Mrs. Grant's shewing civility to Miss Price, to Lady

Bertram's niece, could never want explanation. The only surprise I can feel is, that this should be the _first_

time of its being paid. Fanny was perfectly right in giving only a conditional answer. She appears to feel as

she ought. But as I conclude that she must wish to go, since all young people like to be together, I can see no

"Your sister, perhaps, may be prevailed on to spend the day with us, and I shall certainly be at home."

The good news soon followed her. Edmund knocked at her door in his way to his own.

"Well, Fanny, it is all happily settled, and without the smallest hesitation on your uncle's side. He had but one

"Thank you, I am _so_ glad," was Fanny's instinctive reply; though when she had turned from him and shut

the door, she could not help feeling, "And yet why should I be glad? for am I not certain of seeing or hearing

In spite of this conviction, however, she was glad. Simple as such an engagement might appear in other eyes,

it had novelty and importance in hers, for excepting the day at Sotherton, she had scarcely ever dined out

before; and though now going only half a mile, and only to three people, still it was dining out, and all the

little interests of preparation were enjoyments in themselves. She had neither sympathy nor assistance from

those who ought to have entered into her feelings and directed her taste; for Lady Bertram never thought of

being useful to anybody, and Mrs. Norris, when she came on the morrow, in consequence of an early call and

invitation from Sir Thomas, was in a very ill humour, and seemed intent only on lessening her niece's

"Upon my word, Fanny, you are in high luck to meet with such attention and indulgence! You ought to be

very much obliged to Mrs. Grant for thinking of you, and to your aunt for letting you go, and you ought to

look upon it as something extraordinary; for I hope you are aware that there is no real occasion for your going

into company in this sort of way, or ever dining out at all; and it is what you must not depend upon ever being

repeated. Nor must you be fancying that the invitation is meant as any particular compliment to _you_; the

compliment is intended to your uncle and aunt and me. Mrs. Grant thinks it a civility due to _us_ to take a

little notice of you, or else it would never have come into her head, and you may be very certain that, if your

Mrs. Norris had now so ingeniously done away all Mrs. Grant's part of the favour, that Fanny, who found

herself expected to speak, could only say that she was very much obliged to her aunt Bertram for sparing her,

and that she was endeavouring to put her aunt's evening work in such a state as to prevent her being missed.

"Oh! depend upon it, your aunt can do very well without you, or you would not be allowed to go. _I_ shall be

here, so you may be quite easy about your aunt. And I hope you will have a very _agreeable_ day, and find it

all mighty _delightful_. But I must observe that five is the very awkwardest of all possible numbers to sit

down to table; and I cannot but be surprised that such an _elegant_ lady as Mrs. Grant should not contrive

better! And round their enormous great wide table, too, which fills up the room so dreadfully! Had the doctor

been contented to take my diningtable when I came away, as anybody in their senses would have done,

instead of having that absurd new one of his own, which is wider, literally wider than the dinnertable here,

how infinitely better it would have been! and how much more he would have been respected! for people are

never respected when they step out of their proper sphere. Remember that, Fanny. Fiveonly five to be

sitting round that table. However, you will have dinner enough on it for ten, I dare say."

"The nonsense and folly of people's stepping out of their rank and trying to appear above themselves, makes

me think it right to give _you_ a hint, Fanny, now that you are going into company without any of us; and I

do beseech and entreat you not to be putting yourself forward, and talking and giving your opinion as if you

were one of your cousinsas if you were dear Mrs. Rushworth or Julia. _That_ will never do, believe me.

Remember, wherever you are, you must be the lowest and last; and though Miss Crawford is in a manner at

home at the Parsonage, you are not to be taking place of her. And as to coming away at night, you are to stay

"And if it should rain, which I think exceedingly likely, for I never saw it more threatening for a wet evening

in my life, you must manage as well as you can, and not be expecting the carriage to be sent for you. I

certainly do not go home tonight, and, therefore, the carriage will not be out on my account; so you must

Her niece thought it perfectly reasonable. She rated her own claims to comfort as low even as Mrs. Norris

could; and when Sir Thomas soon afterwards, just opening the door, said, "Fanny, at what time would you

have the carriage come round?" she felt a degree of astonishment which made it impossible for her to speak.

"Walk!" repeated Sir Thomas, in a tone of most unanswerable dignity, and coming farther into the room. "My

niece walk to a dinner engagement at this time of the year! Will twenty minutes after four suit you?"

"Yes, sir," was Fanny's humble answer, given with the feelings almost of a criminal towards Mrs. Norris; and

not bearing to remain with her in what might seem a state of triumph, she followed her uncle out of the room,

having staid behind him only long enough to hear these words spoken in angry agitation

"Quite unnecessary! a great deal too kind! But Edmund goes; true, it is upon Edmund's account. I observed

But this could not impose on Fanny. She felt that the carriage was for herself, and herself alone: and her

uncle's consideration of her, coming immediately after such representations from her aunt, cost her some

The coachman drove round to a minute; another minute brought down the gentleman; and as the lady had,

with a most scrupulous fear of being late, been many minutes seated in the drawingroom, Sir Thomas saw

"Now I must look at you, Fanny," said Edmund, with the kind smile of an affectionate brother, "and tell you

how I like you; and as well as I can judge by this light, you look very nicely indeed. What have you got on?"

"The new dress that my uncle was so good as to give me on my cousin's marriage. I hope it is not too fine;

but I thought I ought to wear it as soon as I could, and that I might not have such another opportunity all the

"A woman can never be too fine while she is all in white. No, I see no finery about you; nothing but what is

perfectly proper. Your gown seems very pretty. I like these glossy spots. Has not Miss Crawford a gown

In approaching the Parsonage they passed close by the stableyard and coachhouse.

"Heyday!" said Edmund, "here's company, here's a carriage! who have they got to meet us?" And letting

down the sideglass to distinguish, "'Tis Crawford's, Crawford's barouche, I protest! There are his own two

men pushing it back into its old quarters. He is here, of course. This is quite a surprise, Fanny. I shall be very

There was no occasion, there was no time for Fanny to say how very differently she felt; but the idea of

having such another to observe her was a great increase of the trepidation with which she performed the very

In the drawingroom Mr. Crawford certainly was, having been just long enough arrived to be ready for

dinner; and the smiles and pleased looks of the three others standing round him, shewed how welcome was

his sudden resolution of coming to them for a few days on leaving Bath. A very cordial meeting passed

between him and Edmund; and with the exception of Fanny, the pleasure was general; and even to _her_

there might be some advantage in his presence, since every addition to the party must rather forward her

favourite indulgence of being suffered to sit silent and unattended to. She was soon aware of this herself; for

though she must submit, as her own propriety of mind directed, in spite of her aunt Norris's opinion, to being

the principal lady in company, and to all the little distinctions consequent thereon, she found, while they were

at table, such a happy flow of conversation prevailing, in which she was not required to take any partthere

was so much to be said between the brother and sister about Bath, so much between the two young men about

hunting, so much of politics between Mr. Crawford and Dr. Grant, and of everything and all together between

Mr. Crawford and Mrs. Grant, as to leave her the fairest prospect of having only to listen in quiet, and of

passing a very agreeable day. She could not compliment the newly arrived gentleman, however, with any

appearance of interest, in a scheme for extending his stay at Mansfield, and sending for his hunters from

Norfolk, which, suggested by Dr. Grant, advised by Edmund, and warmly urged by the two sisters, was soon

in possession of his mind, and which he seemed to want to be encouraged even by her to resolve on. Her

opinion was sought as to the probable continuance of the open weather, but her answers were as short and

indifferent as civility allowed. She could not wish him to stay, and would much rather not have him speak to

Her two absent cousins, especially Maria, were much in her thoughts on seeing him; but no embarrassing

remembrance affected _his_ spirits. Here he was again on the same ground where all had passed before, and

apparently as willing to stay and be happy without the Miss Bertrams, as if he had never known Mansfield in

any other state. She heard them spoken of by him only in a general way, till they were all reassembled in the

drawingroom, when Edmund, being engaged apart in some matter of business with Dr. Grant, which

seemed entirely to engross them, and Mrs. Grant occupied at the teatable, he began talking of them with

more particularity to his other sister. With a significant smile, which made Fanny quite hate him, he said,

"Yes, they have been there about a fortnight, Miss Price, have they not? And Julia is with them."

"Mr. Yates! Oh! we hear nothing of Mr. Yates. I do not imagine he figures much in the letters to Mansfield

Park; do you, Miss Price? I think my friend Julia knows better than to entertain her father with Mr. Yates."

"Poor Rushworth and his twoandforty speeches!" continued Crawford. "Nobody can ever forget them.

Poor fellow! I see him nowhis toil and his despair. Well, I am much mistaken if his lovely Maria will ever

want him to make twoandforty speeches to her"; adding, with a momentary seriousness, "She is too good

for him much too good." And then changing his tone again to one of gentle gallantry, and addressing

Fanny, he said, "You were Mr. Rushworth's best friend. Your kindness and patience can never be forgotten,

your indefatigable patience in trying to make it possible for him to learn his part in trying to give him a

brain which nature had denied to mix up an understanding for him out of the superfluity of your own!

_He_ might not have sense enough himself to estimate your kindness, but I may venture to say that it had

"It is as a dream, a pleasant dream!" he exclaimed, breaking forth again, after a few minutes' musing. "I shall

always look back on our theatricals with exquisite pleasure. There was such an interest, such an animation,

such a spirit diffused. Everybody felt it. We were all alive. There was employment, hope, solicitude, bustle,

for every hour of the day. Always some little objection, some little doubt, some little anxiety to be got over. I

With silent indignation Fanny repeated to herself, "Never happier!never happier than when doing what you

must know was not justifiable!never happier than when behaving so dishonourably and unfeelingly! Oh!

"We were unlucky, Miss Price," he continued, in a lower tone, to avoid the possibility of being heard by

Edmund, and not at all aware of her feelings, "we certainly were very unlucky. Another week, only one other

week, would have been enough for us. I think if we had had the disposal of eventsif Mansfield Park had

had the government of the winds just for a week or two, about the equinox, there would have been a

difference. Not that we would have endangered his safety by any tremendous weather but only by a steady

contrary wind, or a calm. I think, Miss Price, we would have indulged ourselves with a week's calm in the

He seemed determined to be answered; and Fanny, averting her face, said, with a firmer tone than usual, "As

far as _I_ am concerned, sir, I would not have delayed his return for a day. My uncle disapproved it all so

entirely when he did arrive, that in my opinion everything had gone quite far enough."

She had never spoken so much at once to him in her life before, and never so angrily to any one; and when

her speech was over, she trembled and blushed at her own daring. He was surprised; but after a few moments'

silent consideration of her, replied in a calmer, graver tone, and as if the candid result of conviction, "I

believe you are right. It was more pleasant than prudent. We were getting too noisy." And then turning the

conversation, he would have engaged her on some other subject, but her answers were so shy and reluctant

Miss Crawford, who had been repeatedly eyeing Dr. Grant and Edmund, now observed, "Those gentlemen

"The most interesting in the world," replied her brother "how to make money; how to turn a good income

into a better. Dr. Grant is giving Bertram instructions about the living he is to step into so soon. I find he

takes orders in a few weeks. They were at it in the diningparlour. I am glad to hear Bertram will be so well

off. He will have a very pretty income to make ducks and drakes with, and earned without much trouble. I

apprehend he will not have less than seven hundred a year. Seven hundred a year is a fine thing for a younger

brother; and as of course he will still live at home, it will be all for his _menus_ _plaisirs_; and a sermon at

His sister tried to laugh off her feelings by saying, "Nothing amuses me more than the easy manner with

which everybody settles the abundance of those who have a great deal less than themselves. You would look

rather blank, Henry, if your _menus_ _plaisirs_ were to be limited to seven hundred a year."

"Perhaps I might; but all _that_ you know is entirely comparative. Birthright and habit must settle the

business. Bertram is certainly well off for a cadet of even a baronet's family. By the time he is four or five

Miss Crawford _could_ have said that there would be a something to do and to suffer for it, which she could

not think lightly of; but she checked herself and let it pass; and tried to look calm and unconcerned when the

"Bertram," said Henry Crawford, "I shall make a point of coming to Mansfield to hear you preach your first

sermon. I shall come on purpose to encourage a young beginner. When is it to be? Miss Price, will not you

join me in encouraging your cousin? Will not you engage to attend with your eyes steadily fixed on him the

whole time as I shall donot to lose a word; or only looking off just to note down any sentence

preeminently beautiful? We will provide ourselves with tablets and a pencil. When will it be? You must

"I shall keep clear of you, Crawford, as long as I can," said Edmund; "for you would be more likely to

disconcert me, and I should be more sorry to see you trying at it than almost any other man."

The party being now all united, and the chief talkers attracting each other, she remained in tranquillity; and as

a whisttable was formed after teaformed really for the amusement of Dr. Grant, by his attentive wife,

though it was not to be supposed soand Miss Crawford took her harp, she had nothing to do but to listen;

and her tranquillity remained undisturbed the rest of the evening, except when Mr. Crawford now and then

addressed to her a question or observation, which she could not avoid answering. Miss Crawford was too

much vexed by what had passed to be in a humour for anything but music. With that she soothed herself and

The assurance of Edmund's being so soon to take orders, coming upon her like a blow that had been

suspended, and still hoped uncertain and at a distance, was felt with resentment and mortification. She was

very angry with him. She had thought her influence more. She _had_ begun to think of him; she felt that she

had, with great regard, with almost decided intentions; but she would now meet him with his own cool

feelings. It was plain that he could have no serious views, no true attachment, by fixing himself in a situation

which he must know she would never stoop to. She would learn to match him in his indifference. She would

henceforth admit his attentions without any idea beyond immediate amusement. If _he_ could so command

Henry Crawford had quite made up his mind by the next morning to give another fortnight to Mansfield, and

having sent for his hunters, and written a few lines of explanation to the Admiral, he looked round at his

sister as he sealed and threw the letter from him, and seeing the coast clear of the rest of the family, said, with

a smile, "And how do you think I mean to amuse myself, Mary, on the days that I do not hunt? I am grown

too old to go out more than three times a week; but I have a plan for the intermediate days, and what do you

"Not exactly, though I shall be happy to do both, but _that_ would be exercise only to my body, and I must

take care of my mind. Besides, _that_ would be all recreation and indulgence, without the wholesome alloy

of labour, and I do not like to eat the bread of idleness. No, my plan is to make Fanny Price in love with me."

"Fanny Price! Nonsense! No, no. You ought to be satisfied with her two cousins."

"But I cannot be satisfied without Fanny Price, without making a small hole in Fanny Price's heart. You do

not seem properly aware of her claims to notice. When we talked of her last night, you none of you seemed

sensible of the wonderful improvement that has taken place in her looks within the last six weeks. You see

her every day, and therefore do not notice it; but I assure you she is quite a different creature from what she

was in the autumn. She was then merely a quiet, modest, not plainlooking girl, but she is now absolutely

pretty. I used to think she had neither complexion nor countenance; but in that soft skin of hers, so frequently

tinged with a blush as it was yesterday, there is decided beauty; and from what I observed of her eyes and

mouth, I do not despair of their being capable of expression enough when she has anything to express. And

then, her air, her manner, her _tout_ _ensemble_, is so indescribably improved! She must be grown two

"Phoo! phoo! This is only because there were no tall women to compare her with, and because she has got a

new gown, and you never saw her so well dressed before. She is just what she was in October, believe me.

The truth is, that she was the only girl in company for you to notice, and you must have a somebody. I have

always thought her prettynot strikingly prettybut 'pretty enough,' as people say; a sort of beauty that

grows on one. Her eyes should be darker, but she has a sweet smile; but as for this wonderful degree of

improvement, I am sure it may all be resolved into a better style of dress, and your having nobody else to

look at; and therefore, if you do set about a flirtation with her, you never will persuade me that it is in

compliment to her beauty, or that it proceeds from anything but your own idleness and folly."

Her brother gave only a smile to this accusation, and soon afterwards said, "I do not quite know what to make

of Miss Fanny. I do not understand her. I could not tell what she would be at yesterday. What is her

character? Is she solemn? Is she queer? Is she prudish? Why did she draw back and look so grave at me? I

could hardly get her to speak. I never was so long in company with a girl in my life, trying to entertain her,

and succeed so ill! Never met with a girl who looked so grave on me! I must try to get the better of this. Her

looks say, 'I will not like you, I am determined not to like you'; and I say she shall."

"Foolish fellow! And so this is her attraction after all! This it is, her not caring about you, which gives her

such a soft skin, and makes her so much taller, and produces all these charms and graces! I do desire that you

will not be making her really unhappy; a _little_ love, perhaps, may animate and do her good, but I will not

have you plunge her deep, for she is as good a little creature as ever lived, and has a great deal of feeling."

"It can be but for a fortnight," said Henry; "and if a fortnight can kill her, she must have a constitution which

nothing could save. No, I will not do her any harm, dear little soul! only want her to look kindly on me, to

give me smiles as well as blushes, to keep a chair for me by herself wherever we are, and be all animation

when I take it and talk to her; to think as I think, be interested in all my possessions and pleasures, try to keep

me longer at Mansfield, and feel when I go away that she shall be never happy again. I want nothing more."

"Moderation itself!" said Mary. "I can have no scruples now. Well, you will have opportunities enough of

And without attempting any farther remonstrance, she left Fanny to her fate, a fate which, had not Fanny's

heart been guarded in a way unsuspected by Miss Crawford, might have been a little harder than she

deserved; for although there doubtless are such unconquerable young ladies of eighteen (or one should not

read about them) as are never to be persuaded into love against their judgment by all that talent, manner,

attention, and flattery can do, I have no inclination to believe Fanny one of them, or to think that with so

much tenderness of disposition, and so much taste as belonged to her, she could have escaped heartwhole

from the courtship (though the courtship only of a fortnight) of such a man as Crawford, in spite of there

being some previous ill opinion of him to be overcome, had not her affection been engaged elsewhere. With

all the security which love of another and disesteem of him could give to the peace of mind he was attacking,

his continued attentionscontinued, but not obtrusive, and adapting themselves more and more to the

gentleness and delicacy of her characterobliged her very soon to dislike him less than formerly. She had by

no means forgotten the past, and she thought as ill of him as ever; but she felt his powers: he was

entertaining; and his manners were so improved, so polite, so seriously and blamelessly polite, that it was

A very few days were enough to effect this; and at the end of those few days, circumstances arose which had

a tendency rather to forward his views of pleasing her, inasmuch as they gave her a degree of happiness

which must dispose her to be pleased with everybody. William, her brother, the so long absent and dearly

loved brother, was in England again. She had a letter from him herself, a few hurried happy lines, written as

the ship came up Channel, and sent into Portsmouth with the first boat that left the Antwerp at anchor in

Spithead; and when Crawford walked up with the newspaper in his hand, which he had hoped would bring

the first tidings, he found her trembling with joy over this letter, and listening with a glowing, grateful

countenance to the kind invitation which her uncle was most collectedly dictating in reply.

It was but the day before that Crawford had made himself thoroughly master of the subject, or had in fact

become at all aware of her having such a brother, or his being in such a ship, but the interest then excited had

been very properly lively, determining him on his return to town to apply for information as to the probable

period of the Antwerp's return from the Mediterranean, etc.; and the good luck which attended his early

examination of ship news the next morning seemed the reward of his ingenuity in finding out such a method

of pleasing her, as well as of his dutiful attention to the Admiral, in having for many years taken in the paper

esteemed to have the earliest naval intelligence. He proved, however, to be too late. All those fine first

feelings, of which he had hoped to be the exciter, were already given. But his intention, the kindness of his

intention, was thankfully acknowledged: quite thankfully and warmly, for she was elevated beyond the

This dear William would soon be amongst them. There could be no doubt of his obtaining leave of absence

immediately, for he was still only a midshipman; and as his parents, from living on the spot, must already

have seen him, and be seeing him perhaps daily, his direct holidays might with justice be instantly given to

the sister, who had been his best correspondent through a period of seven years, and the uncle who had done

most for his support and advancement; and accordingly the reply to her reply, fixing a very early day for his

arrival, came as soon as possible; and scarcely ten days had passed since Fanny had been in the agitation of

her first dinnervisit, when she found herself in an agitation of a higher nature, watching in the hall, in the

lobby, on the stairs, for the first sound of the carriage which was to bring her a brother.

It came happily while she was thus waiting; and there being neither ceremony nor fearfulness to delay the

moment of meeting, she was with him as he entered the house, and the first minutes of exquisite feeling had

no interruption and no witnesses, unless the servants chiefly intent upon opening the proper doors could be

called such. This was exactly what Sir Thomas and Edmund had been separately conniving at, as each proved

to the other by the sympathetic alacrity with which they both advised Mrs. Norris's continuing where she was,

instead of rushing out into the hall as soon as the noises of the arrival reached them.

William and Fanny soon shewed themselves; and Sir Thomas had the pleasure of receiving, in his protege,

certainly a very different person from the one he had equipped seven years ago, but a young man of an open,

pleasant countenance, and frank, unstudied, but feeling and respectful manners, and such as confirmed him

It was long before Fanny could recover from the agitating happiness of such an hour as was formed by the

last thirty minutes of expectation, and the first of fruition; it was some time even before her happiness could

be said to make her happy, before the disappointment inseparable from the alteration of person had vanished,

and she could see in him the same William as before, and talk to him, as her heart had been yearning to do

through many a past year. That time, however, did gradually come, forwarded by an affection on his side as

warm as her own, and much less encumbered by refinement or selfdistrust. She was the first object of his

love, but it was a love which his stronger spirits, and bolder temper, made it as natural for him to express as

to feel. On the morrow they were walking about together with true enjoyment, and every succeeding morrow

renewed a _teteatete_ which Sir Thomas could not but observe with complacency, even before Edmund

Excepting the moments of peculiar delight, which any marked or unlookedfor instance of Edmund's

consideration of her in the last few months had excited, Fanny had never known so much felicity in her life,

as in this unchecked, equal, fearless intercourse with the brother and friend who was opening all his heart to

her, telling her all his hopes and fears, plans, and solicitudes respecting that long thought of, dearly earned,

and justly valued blessing of promotion; who could give her direct and minute information of the father and

mother, brothers and sisters, of whom she very seldom heard; who was interested in all the comforts and all

the little hardships of her home at Mansfield; ready to think of every member of that home as she directed, or

differing only by a less scrupulous opinion, and more noisy abuse of their aunt Norris, and with whom

(perhaps the dearest indulgence of the whole) all the evil and good of their earliest years could be gone over

again, and every former united pain and pleasure retraced with the fondest recollection. An advantage this, a

strengthener of love, in which even the conjugal tie is beneath the fraternal. Children of the same family, the

same blood, with the same first associations and habits, have some means of enjoyment in their power, which

no subsequent connexions can supply; and it must be by a long and unnatural estrangement, by a divorce

which no subsequent connexion can justify, if such precious remains of the earliest attachments are ever

entirely outlived. Too often, alas! it is so. Fraternal love, sometimes almost everything, is at others worse than

nothing. But with William and Fanny Price it was still a sentiment in all its prime and freshness, wounded by

no opposition of interest, cooled by no separate attachment, and feeling the influence of time and absence

An affection so amiable was advancing each in the opinion of all who had hearts to value anything good.

Henry Crawford was as much struck with it as any. He honoured the warmhearted, blunt fondness of the

young sailor, which led him to say, with his hands stretched towards Fanny's head, "Do you know, I begin to

like that queer fashion already, though when I first heard of such things being done in England, I could not

believe it; and when Mrs. Brown, and the other women at the Commissioner's at Gibraltar, appeared in the

same trim, I thought they were mad; but Fanny can reconcile me to anything"; and saw, with lively

admiration, the glow of Fanny's cheek, the brightness of her eye, the deep interest, the absorbed attention,

while her brother was describing any of the imminent hazards, or terrific scenes, which such a period at sea

It was a picture which Henry Crawford had moral taste enough to value. Fanny's attractions

increasedincreased twofold; for the sensibility which beautified her complexion and illumined her

countenance was an attraction in itself. He was no longer in doubt of the capabilities of her heart. She had

feeling, genuine feeling. It would be something to be loved by such a girl, to excite the first ardours of her

young unsophisticated mind! She interested him more than he had foreseen. A fortnight was not enough. His

William was often called on by his uncle to be the talker. His recitals were amusing in themselves to Sir

Thomas, but the chief object in seeking them was to understand the reciter, to know the young man by his

histories; and he listened to his clear, simple, spirited details with full satisfaction, seeing in them the proof of

good principles, professional knowledge, energy, courage, and cheerfulness, everything that could deserve or

promise well. Young as he was, William had already seen a great deal. He had been in the Mediterranean; in

the West Indies; in the Mediterranean again; had been often taken on shore by the favour of his captain, and

in the course of seven years had known every variety of danger which sea and war together could offer. With

such means in his power he had a right to be listened to; and though Mrs. Norris could fidget about the room,

and disturb everybody in quest of two needlefuls of thread or a secondhand shirt button, in the midst of her

nephew's account of a shipwreck or an engagement, everybody else was attentive; and even Lady Bertram

could not hear of such horrors unmoved, or without sometimes lifting her eyes from her work to say, "Dear

To Henry Crawford they gave a different feeling. He longed to have been at sea, and seen and done and

suffered as much. His heart was warmed, his fancy fired, and he felt the highest respect for a lad who, before

he was twenty, had gone through such bodily hardships and given such proofs of mind. The glory of heroism,

of usefulness, of exertion, of endurance, made his own habits of selfish indulgence appear in shameful

contrast; and he wished he had been a William Price, distinguishing himself and working his way to fortune

and consequence with so much selfrespect and happy ardour, instead of what he was!

The wish was rather eager than lasting. He was roused from the reverie of retrospection and regret produced

by it, by some inquiry from Edmund as to his plans for the next day's hunting; and he found it was as well to

be a man of fortune at once with horses and grooms at his command. In one respect it was better, as it gave

him the means of conferring a kindness where he wished to oblige. With spirits, courage, and curiosity up to

anything, William expressed an inclination to hunt; and Crawford could mount him without the slightest

inconvenience to himself, and with only some scruples to obviate in Sir Thomas, who knew better than his

nephew the value of such a loan, and some alarms to reason away in Fanny. She feared for William; by no

means convinced by all that he could relate of his own horsemanship in various countries, of the scrambling

parties in which he had been engaged, the rough horses and mules he had ridden, or his many narrow escapes

from dreadful falls, that he was at all equal to the management of a highfed hunter in an English foxchase;

nor till he returned safe and well, without accident or discredit, could she be reconciled to the risk, or feel any

of that obligation to Mr. Crawford for lending the horse which he had fully intended it should produce. When

it was proved, however, to have done William no harm, she could allow it to be a kindness, and even reward

the owner with a smile when the animal was one minute tendered to his use again; and the next, with the

greatest cordiality, and in a manner not to be resisted, made over to his use entirely so long as he remained in

[End volume one of this edition. Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty at the Edinburgh

The intercourse of the two families was at this period more nearly restored to what it had been in the autumn,

than any member of the old intimacy had thought ever likely to be again. The return of Henry Crawford, and

the arrival of William Price, had much to do with it, but much was still owing to Sir Thomas's more than

toleration of the neighbourly attempts at the Parsonage. His mind, now disengaged from the cares which had

pressed on him at first, was at leisure to find the Grants and their young inmates really worth visiting; and

though infinitely above scheming or contriving for any the most advantageous matrimonial establishment that

could be among the apparent possibilities of any one most dear to him, and disdaining even as a littleness the

being quicksighted on such points, he could not avoid perceiving, in a grand and careless way, that Mr.

Crawford was somewhat distinguishing his niece nor perhaps refrain (though unconsciously) from giving a

His readiness, however, in agreeing to dine at the Parsonage, when the general invitation was at last hazarded,

after many debates and many doubts as to whether it were worth while, "because Sir Thomas seemed so ill

inclined, and Lady Bertram was so indolent!" proceeded from goodbreeding and goodwill alone, and had

nothing to do with Mr. Crawford, but as being one in an agreeable group: for it was in the course of that very

visit that he first began to think that any one in the habit of such idle observations _would_ _have_ _thought_

The meeting was generally felt to be a pleasant one, being composed in a good proportion of those who

would talk and those who would listen; and the dinner itself was elegant and plentiful, according to the usual

style of the Grants, and too much according to the usual habits of all to raise any emotion except in Mrs.

Norris, who could never behold either the wide table or the number of dishes on it with patience, and who did

always contrive to experience some evil from the passing of the servants behind her chair, and to bring away

some fresh conviction of its being impossible among so many dishes but that some must be cold.

In the evening it was found, according to the predetermination of Mrs. Grant and her sister, that after making

up the whisttable there would remain sufficient for a round game, and everybody being as perfectly

complying and without a choice as on such occasions they always are, speculation was decided on almost as

soon as whist; and Lady Bertram soon found herself in the critical situation of being applied to for her own

choice between the games, and being required either to draw a card for whist or not. She hesitated. Luckily

Sir Thomas, after a moment's thought, recommended speculation. He was a whist player himself, and perhaps

"Very well," was her ladyship's contented answer; "then speculation, if you please, Mrs. Grant. I know

Here Fanny interposed, however, with anxious protestations of her own equal ignorance; she had never

played the game nor seen it played in her life; and Lady Bertram felt a moment's indecision again; but upon

everybody's assuring her that nothing could be so easy, that it was the easiest game on the cards, and Henry

Crawford's stepping forward with a most earnest request to be allowed to sit between her ladyship and Miss

Price, and teach them both, it was so settled; and Sir Thomas, Mrs. Norris, and Dr. and Mrs. Grant being

seated at the table of prime intellectual state and dignity, the remaining six, under Miss Crawford's direction,

were arranged round the other. It was a fine arrangement for Henry Crawford, who was close to Fanny, and

with his hands full of business, having two persons' cards to manage as well as his own; for though it was

impossible for Fanny not to feel herself mistress of the rules of the game in three minutes, he had yet to

inspirit her play, sharpen her avarice, and harden her heart, which, especially in any competition with

William, was a work of some difficulty; and as for Lady Bertram, he must continue in charge of all her fame

and fortune through the whole evening; and if quick enough to keep her from looking at her cards when the

deal began, must direct her in whatever was to be done with them to the end of it.

He was in high spirits, doing everything with happy ease, and preeminent in all the lively turns, quick

resources, and playful impudence that could do honour to the game; and the round table was altogether a very

Twice had Sir Thomas inquired into the enjoyment and success of his lady, but in vain; no pause was long

enough for the time his measured manner needed; and very little of her state could be known till Mrs. Grant

"Oh dear, yes! very entertaining indeed. A very odd game. I do not know what it is all about. I am never to

"Bertram," said Crawford, some time afterwards, taking the opportunity of a little languor in the game, "I

have never told you what happened to me yesterday in my ride home." They had been hunting together, and

were in the midst of a good run, and at some distance from Mansfield, when his horse being found to have

flung a shoe, Henry Crawford had been obliged to give up, and make the best of his way back. "I told you I

lost my way after passing that old farmhouse with the yewtrees, because I can never bear to ask; but I have

not told you that, with my usual luckfor I never do wrong without gaining by itI found myself in due

time in the very place which I had a curiosity to see. I was suddenly, upon turning the corner of a steepish

downy field, in the midst of a retired little village between gently rising hills; a small stream before me to be

forded, a church standing on a sort of knoll to my right which church was strikingly large and handsome

for the place, and not a gentleman or half a gentleman's house to be seen excepting oneto be presumed the

Parsonage within a stone's throw of the said knoll and church. I found myself, in short, in Thornton

"It sounds like it," said Edmund; "but which way did you turn after passing Sewell's farm?"

"I answer no such irrelevant and insidious questions; though were I to answer all that you could put in the

course of an hour, you would never be able to prove that it was _not_ Thornton Laceyfor such it certainly

"No, I never inquire. But I _told_ a man mending a hedge that it was Thornton Lacey, and he agreed to it."

"You have a good memory. I had forgotten having ever told you half so much of the place."

Thornton Lacey was the name of his impending living, as Miss Crawford well knew; and her interest in a

"Very much indeed. You are a lucky fellow. There will be work for five summers at least before the place is

"No, no, not so bad as that. The farmyard must be moved, I grant you; but I am not aware of anything else.

The house is by no means bad, and when the yard is removed, there may be a very tolerable approach to it."

"The farmyard must be cleared away entirely, and planted up to shut out the blacksmith's shop. The house

must be turned to front the east instead of the north the entrance and principal rooms, I mean, must be on

that side, where the view is really very pretty; I am sure it may be done. And _there_ must be your approach,

through what is at present the garden. You must make a new garden at what is now the back of the house;

which will be giving it the best aspect in the world, sloping to the southeast. The ground seems precisely

formed for it. I rode fifty yards up the lane, between the church and the house, in order to look about me; and

saw how it might all be. Nothing can be easier. The meadows beyond what _will_ _be_ the garden, as well as

what now _is_, sweeping round from the lane I stood in to the northeast, that is, to the principal road

through the village, must be all laid together, of course; very pretty meadows they are, finely sprinkled with

timber. They belong to the living, I suppose; if not, you must purchase them. Then the streamsomething

must be done with the stream; but I could not quite determine what. I had two or three ideas."

"And I have two or three ideas also," said Edmund, "and one of them is, that very little of your plan for

Thornton Lacey will ever be put in practice. I must be satisfied with rather less ornament and beauty. I think

the house and premises may be made comfortable, and given the air of a gentleman's residence, without any

very heavy expense, and that must suffice me; and, I hope, may suffice all who care about me."

Miss Crawford, a little suspicious and resentful of a certain tone of voice, and a certain halflook attending

the last expression of his hope, made a hasty finish of her dealings with William Price; and securing his

knave at an exorbitant rate, exclaimed, "There, I will stake my last like a woman of spirit. No cold prudence

for me. I am not born to sit still and do nothing. If I lose the game, it shall not be from not striving for it."

The game was hers, and only did not pay her for what she had given to secure it. Another deal proceeded, and

"My plan may not be the best possible: I had not many minutes to form it in; but you must do a good deal.

The place deserves it, and you will find yourself not satisfied with much less than it is capable of. (Excuse

me, your ladyship must not see your cards. There, let them lie just before you.) The place deserves it,

Bertram. You talk of giving it the air of a gentleman's residence. _That_ will be done by the removal of the

farmyard; for, independent of that terrible nuisance, I never saw a house of the kind which had in itself so

much the air of a gentleman's residence, so much the look of a something above a mere

parsonagehouseabove the expenditure of a few hundreds a year. It is not a scrambling collection of low

single rooms, with as many roofs as windows; it is not cramped into the vulgar compactness of a square

farmhouse: it is a solid, roomy, mansionlike looking house, such as one might suppose a respectable old

country family had lived in from generation to generation, through two centuries at least, and were now

spending from two to three thousand a year in." Miss Crawford listened, and Edmund agreed to this. "The air

of a gentleman's residence, therefore, you cannot but give it, if you do anything. But it is capable of much

more. (Let me see, Mary; Lady Bertram bids a dozen for that queen; no, no, a dozen is more than it is worth.

Lady Bertram does not bid a dozen. She will have nothing to say to it. Go on, go on.) By some such

improvements as I have suggested (I do not really require you to proceed upon my plan, though, by the bye, I

doubt anybody's striking out a better) you may give it a higher character. You may raise it into a _place_.

From being the mere gentleman's residence, it becomes, by judicious improvement, the residence of a man of

education, taste, modern manners, good connexions. All this may be stamped on it; and that house receive

such an air as to make its owner be set down as the great landholder of the parish by every creature travelling

the road; especially as there is no real squire's house to dispute the pointa circumstance, between ourselves,

to enhance the value of such a situation in point of privilege and independence beyond all calculation. _You_

think with me, I hope" (turning with a softened voice to Fanny). "Have you ever seen the place?"

Fanny gave a quick negative, and tried to hide her interest in the subject by an eager attention to her brother,

who was driving as hard a bargain, and imposing on her as much as he could; but Crawford pursued with

"No, no, you must not part with the queen. You have bought her too dearly, and your brother does not offer

half her value. No, no, sir, hands off, hands off. Your sister does not part with the queen. She is quite

determined. The game will be yours," turning to her again; "it will certainly be yours."

"And Fanny had much rather it were William's," said Edmund, smiling at her. "Poor Fanny! not allowed to

"Mr. Bertram," said Miss Crawford, a few minutes afterwards, "you know Henry to be such a capital

improver, that you cannot possibly engage in anything of the sort at Thornton Lacey without accepting his

help. Only think how useful he was at Sotherton! Only think what grand things were produced there by our

all going with him one hot day in August to drive about the grounds, and see his genius take fire. There we

Fanny's eyes were turned on Crawford for a moment with an expression more than graveeven reproachful;

but on catching his, were instantly withdrawn. With something of consciousness he shook his head at his

sister, and laughingly replied, "I cannot say there was much done at Sotherton; but it was a hot day, and we

were all walking after each other, and bewildered." As soon as a general buzz gave him shelter, he added, in a

low voice, directed solely at Fanny, "I should be sorry to have my powers of _planning_ judged of by the day

at Sotherton. I see things very differently now. Do not think of me as I appeared then."

Sotherton was a word to catch Mrs. Norris, and being just then in the happy leisure which followed securing

the odd trick by Sir Thomas's capital play and her own against Dr. and Mrs. Grant's great hands, she called

out, in high goodhumour, "Sotherton! Yes, that is a place, indeed, and we had a charming day there.

William, you are quite out of luck; but the next time you come, I hope dear Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth will be

at home, and I am sure I can answer for your being kindly received by both. Your cousins are not of a sort to

forget their relations, and Mr. Rushworth is a most amiable man. They are at Brighton now, you know; in one

of the best houses there, as Mr. Rushworth's fine fortune gives them a right to be. I do not exactly know the

distance, but when you get back to Portsmouth, if it is not very far off, you ought to go over and pay your

respects to them; and I could send a little parcel by you that I want to get conveyed to your cousins."

"I should be very happy, aunt; but Brighton is almost by Beachey Head; and if I could get so far, I could not

expect to be welcome in such a smart place as that poor scrubby midshipman as I am."

Mrs. Norris was beginning an eager assurance of the affability he might depend on, when she was stopped by

Sir Thomas's saying with authority, "I do not advise your going to Brighton, William, as I trust you may soon

have more convenient opportunities of meeting; but my daughters would be happy to see their cousins

anywhere; and you will find Mr. Rushworth most sincerely disposed to regard all the connexions of our

"I would rather find him private secretary to the First Lord than anything else," was William's only answer, in

As yet Sir Thomas had seen nothing to remark in Mr. Crawford's behaviour; but when the whisttable broke

up at the end of the second rubber, and leaving Dr. Grant and Mrs. Norris to dispute over their last play, he

became a lookeron at the other, he found his niece the object of attentions, or rather of professions, of a

Henry Crawford was in the first glow of another scheme about Thornton Lacey; and not being able to catch

Edmund's ear, was detailing it to his fair neighbour with a look of considerable earnestness. His scheme was

to rent the house himself the following winter, that he might have a home of his own in that neighbourhood;

and it was not merely for the use of it in the huntingseason (as he was then telling her), though _that_

consideration had certainly some weight, feeling as he did that, in spite of all Dr. Grant's very great kindness,

it was impossible for him and his horses to be accommodated where they now were without material

inconvenience; but his attachment to that neighbourhood did not depend upon one amusement or one season

of the year: he had set his heart upon having a something there that he could come to at any time, a little

homestall at his command, where all the holidays of his year might be spent, and he might find himself

continuing, improving, and _perfecting_ that friendship and intimacy with the Mansfield Park family which

was increasing in value to him every day. Sir Thomas heard and was not offended. There was no want of

respect in the young man's address; and Fanny's reception of it was so proper and modest, so calm and

uninviting, that he had nothing to censure in her. She said little, assented only here and there, and betrayed no

inclination either of appropriating any part of the compliment to herself, or of strengthening his views in

favour of Northamptonshire. Finding by whom he was observed, Henry Crawford addressed himself on the

"I want to be your neighbour, Sir Thomas, as you have, perhaps, heard me telling Miss Price. May I hope for

your acquiescence, and for your not influencing your son against such a tenant?"

Sir Thomas, politely bowing, replied, "It is the only way, sir, in which I could _not_ wish you established as a

permanent neighbour; but I hope, and believe, that Edmund will occupy his own house at Thornton Lacey.

Edmund, on this appeal, had first to hear what was going on; but, on understanding the question, was at no

"Certainly, sir, I have no idea but of residence. But, Crawford, though I refuse you as a tenant, come to me as

a friend. Consider the house as half your own every winter, and we will add to the stables on your own

improved plan, and with all the improvements of your improved plan that may occur to you this spring."

"We shall be the losers," continued Sir Thomas. "His going, though only eight miles, will be an unwelcome

contraction of our family circle; but I should have been deeply mortified if any son of mine could reconcile

himself to doing less. It is perfectly natural that you should not have thought much on the subject, Mr.

Crawford. But a parish has wants and claims which can be known only by a clergyman constantly resident,

and which no proxy can be capable of satisfying to the same extent. Edmund might, in the common phrase,

do the duty of Thornton, that is, he might read prayers and preach, without giving up Mansfield Park: he

might ride over every Sunday, to a house nominally inhabited, and go through divine service; he might be the

clergyman of Thornton Lacey every seventh day, for three or four hours, if that would content him. But it will

not. He knows that human nature needs more lessons than a weekly sermon can convey; and that if he does

not live among his parishioners, and prove himself, by constant attention, their wellwisher and friend, he

"I repeat again," added Sir Thomas, "that Thornton Lacey is the only house in the neighbourhood in which I

"Sir Thomas," said Edmund, "undoubtedly understands the duty of a parish priest. We must hope his son may

Whatever effect Sir Thomas's little harangue might really produce on Mr. Crawford, it raised some awkward

sensations in two of the others, two of his most attentive listeners Miss Crawford and Fanny. One of

whom, having never before understood that Thornton was so soon and so completely to be his home, was

pondering with downcast eyes on what it would be _not_ to see Edmund every day; and the other, startled

from the agreeable fancies she had been previously indulging on the strength of her brother's description, no

longer able, in the picture she had been forming of a future Thornton, to shut out the church, sink the

clergyman, and see only the respectable, elegant, modernised, and occasional residence of a man of

independent fortune, was considering Sir Thomas, with decided illwill, as the destroyer of all this, and

suffering the more from that involuntary forbearance which his character and manner commanded, and from

not daring to relieve herself by a single attempt at throwing ridicule on his cause.

All the agreeable of _her_ speculation was over for that hour. It was time to have done with cards, if sermons

prevailed; and she was glad to find it necessary to come to a conclusion, and be able to refresh her spirits by a

The chief of the party were now collected irregularly round the fire, and waiting the final breakup. William

and Fanny were the most detached. They remained together at the otherwise deserted cardtable, talking very

comfortably, and not thinking of the rest, till some of the rest began to think of them. Henry Crawford's chair

was the first to be given a direction towards them, and he sat silently observing them for a few minutes;

himself, in the meanwhile, observed by Sir Thomas, who was standing in chat with Dr. Grant.

"This is the assembly night," said William. "If I were at Portsmouth I should be at it, perhaps."

"No, Fanny, that I do not. I shall have enough of Portsmouth and of dancing too, when I cannot have you.

And I do not know that there would be any good in going to the assembly, for I might not get a partner. The

Portsmouth girls turn up their noses at anybody who has not a commission. One might as well be nothing as a

midshipman. One _is_ nothing, indeed. You remember the Gregorys; they are grown up amazing fine girls,

"Oh! shame, shame! But never mind it, William" (her own cheeks in a glow of indignation as she spoke). "It

is not worth minding. It is no reflection on _you_; it is no more than what the greatest admirals have all

experienced, more or less, in their time. You must think of that, you must try to make up your mind to it as

one of the hardships which fall to every sailor's share, like bad weather and hard living, only with this

advantage, that there will be an end to it, that there will come a time when you will have nothing of that sort

to endure. When you are a lieutenant! only think, William, when you are a lieutenant, how little you will care

"I begin to think I shall never be a lieutenant, Fanny. Everybody gets made but me."

"Oh! my dear William, do not talk so; do not be so desponding. My uncle says nothing, but I am sure he will

do everything in his power to get you made. He knows, as well as you do, of what consequence it is."

She was checked by the sight of her uncle much nearer to them than she had any suspicion of, and each found

"I should like to go to a ball with you and see you dance. Have you never any balls at Northampton? I should

like to see you dance, and I'd dance with you if you _would_, for nobody would know who I was here, and I

should like to be your partner once more. We used to jump about together many a time, did not we? when the

handorgan was in the street? I am a pretty good dancer in my way, but I dare say you are a better." And

turning to his uncle, who was now close to them, "Is not Fanny a very good dancer, sir?"

Fanny, in dismay at such an unprecedented question, did not know which way to look, or how to be prepared

for the answer. Some very grave reproof, or at least the coldest expression of indifference, must be coming to

distress her brother, and sink her to the ground. But, on the contrary, it was no worse than, "I am sorry to say

that I am unable to answer your question. I have never seen Fanny dance since she was a little girl; but I trust

we shall both think she acquits herself like a gentlewoman when we do see her, which, perhaps, we may have

"I have had the pleasure of seeing your sister dance, Mr. Price," said Henry Crawford, leaning forward, "and

will engage to answer every inquiry which you can make on the subject, to your entire satisfaction. But I

believe" (seeing Fanny looked distressed) "it must be at some other time. There is _one_ person in company

True enough, he had once seen Fanny dance; and it was equally true that he would now have answered for

her gliding about with quiet, light elegance, and in admirable time; but, in fact, he could not for the life of

him recall what her dancing had been, and rather took it for granted that she had been present than

He passed, however, for an admirer of her dancing; and Sir Thomas, by no means displeased, prolonged the

conversation on dancing in general, and was so well engaged in describing the balls of Antigua, and listening

to what his nephew could relate of the different modes of dancing which had fallen within his observation,

that he had not heard his carriage announced, and was first called to the knowledge of it by the bustle of Mrs.

"Come, Fanny, Fanny, what are you about? We are going. Do not you see your aunt is going? Quick, quick! I

cannot bear to keep good old Wilcox waiting. You should always remember the coachman and horses. My

dear Sir Thomas, we have settled it that the carriage should come back for you, and Edmund and William."

Sir Thomas could not dissent, as it had been his own arrangement, previously communicated to his wife and

sister; but _that_ seemed forgotten by Mrs. Norris, who must fancy that she settled it all herself.

Fanny's last feeling in the visit was disappointment: for the shawl which Edmund was quietly taking from the

servant to bring and put round her shoulders was seized by Mr. Crawford's quicker hand, and she was obliged

William's desire of seeing Fanny dance made more than a momentary impression on his uncle. The hope of

an opportunity, which Sir Thomas had then given, was not given to be thought of no more. He remained

steadily inclined to gratify so amiable a feeling; to gratify anybody else who might wish to see Fanny dance,

and to give pleasure to the young people in general; and having thought the matter over, and taken his

resolution in quiet independence, the result of it appeared the next morning at breakfast, when, after recalling

and commending what his nephew had said, he added, "I do not like, William, that you should leave

Northamptonshire without this indulgence. It would give me pleasure to see you both dance. You spoke of

the balls at Northampton. Your cousins have occasionally attended them; but they would not altogether suit

us now. The fatigue would be too much for your aunt. I believe we must not think of a Northampton ball. A

"Ah, my dear Sir Thomas!" interrupted Mrs. Norris, "I knew what was coming. I knew what you were going

to say. If dear Julia were at home, or dearest Mrs. Rushworth at Sotherton, to afford a reason, an occasion for

such a thing, you would be tempted to give the young people a dance at Mansfield. I know you would. If

_they_ were at home to grace the ball, a ball you would have this very Christmas. Thank your uncle, William,

"My daughters," replied Sir Thomas, gravely interposing, "have their pleasures at Brighton, and I hope are

very happy; but the dance which I think of giving at Mansfield will be for their cousins. Could we be all

assembled, our satisfaction would undoubtedly be more complete, but the absence of some is not to debar the

Mrs. Norris had not another word to say. She saw decision in his looks, and her surprise and vexation

required some minutes' silence to be settled into composure. A ball at such a time! His daughters absent and

herself not consulted! There was comfort, however, soon at hand. _She_ must be the doer of everything:

Lady Bertram would of course be spared all thought and exertion, and it would all fall upon _her_. She

should have to do the honours of the evening; and this reflection quickly restored so much of her

goodhumour as enabled her to join in with the others, before their happiness and thanks were all expressed.

Edmund, William, and Fanny did, in their different ways, look and speak as much grateful pleasure in the

promised ball as Sir Thomas could desire. Edmund's feelings were for the other two. His father had never

Lady Bertram was perfectly quiescent and contented, and had no objections to make. Sir Thomas engaged for

its giving her very little trouble; and she assured him "that she was not at all afraid of the trouble; indeed, she

Mrs. Norris was ready with her suggestions as to the rooms he would think fittest to be used, but found it all

prearranged; and when she would have conjectured and hinted about the day, it appeared that the day was

settled too. Sir Thomas had been amusing himself with shaping a very complete outline of the business; and

as soon as she would listen quietly, could read his list of the families to be invited, from whom he calculated,

with all necessary allowance for the shortness of the notice, to collect young people enough to form twelve or

fourteen couple: and could detail the considerations which had induced him to fix on the 22nd as the most

eligible day. William was required to be at Portsmouth on the 24th; the 22nd would therefore be the last day

of his visit; but where the days were so few it would be unwise to fix on any earlier. Mrs. Norris was obliged

to be satisfied with thinking just the same, and with having been on the point of proposing the 22nd herself,

The ball was now a settled thing, and before the evening a proclaimed thing to all whom it concerned.

Invitations were sent with despatch, and many a young lady went to bed that night with her head full of happy

cares as well as Fanny. To her the cares were sometimes almost beyond the happiness; for young and

inexperienced, with small means of choice and no confidence in her own taste, the "how she should be

dressed" was a point of painful solicitude; and the almost solitary ornament in her possession, a very pretty

amber cross which William had brought her from Sicily, was the greatest distress of all, for she had nothing

but a bit of ribbon to fasten it to; and though she had worn it in that manner once, would it be allowable at

such a time in the midst of all the rich ornaments which she supposed all the other young ladies would appear

in? And yet not to wear it! William had wanted to buy her a gold chain too, but the purchase had been beyond

his means, and therefore not to wear the cross might be mortifying him. These were anxious considerations;

enough to sober her spirits even under the prospect of a ball given principally for her gratification.

The preparations meanwhile went on, and Lady Bertram continued to sit on her sofa without any

inconvenience from them. She had some extra visits from the housekeeper, and her maid was rather hurried

in making up a new dress for her: Sir Thomas gave orders, and Mrs. Norris ran about; but all this gave _her_

no trouble, and as she had foreseen, "there was, in fact, no trouble in the business."

Edmund was at this time particularly full of cares: his mind being deeply occupied in the consideration of two

important events now at hand, which were to fix his fate in lifeordination and matrimonyevents of such

a serious character as to make the ball, which would be very quickly followed by one of them, appear of less

moment in his eyes than in those of any other person in the house. On the 23rd he was going to a friend near

Peterborough, in the same situation as himself, and they were to receive ordination in the course of the

Christmas week. Half his destiny would then be determined, but the other half might not be so very smoothly

wooed. His duties would be established, but the wife who was to share, and animate, and reward those duties,

might yet be unattainable. He knew his own mind, but he was not always perfectly assured of knowing Miss

Crawford's. There were points on which they did not quite agree; there were moments in which she did not

seem propitious; and though trusting altogether to her affection, so far as to be resolvedalmost resolved

on bringing it to a decision within a very short time, as soon as the variety of business before him were

arranged, and he knew what he had to offer her, he had many anxious feelings, many doubting hours as to the

result. His conviction of her regard for him was sometimes very strong; he could look back on a long course

of encouragement, and she was as perfect in disinterested attachment as in everything else. But at other times

doubt and alarm intermingled with his hopes; and when he thought of her acknowledged disinclination for

privacy and retirement, her decided preference of a London life, what could he expect but a determined

rejection? unless it were an acceptance even more to be deprecated, demanding such sacrifices of situation

The issue of all depended on one question. Did she love him well enough to forego what had used to be

essential points? Did she love him well enough to make them no longer essential? And this question, which

he was continually repeating to himself, though oftenest answered with a "Yes," had sometimes its "No."

Miss Crawford was soon to leave Mansfield, and on this circumstance the "no" and the "yes" had been very

recently in alternation. He had seen her eyes sparkle as she spoke of the dear friend's letter, which claimed a

long visit from her in London, and of the kindness of Henry, in engaging to remain where he was till January,

that he might convey her thither; he had heard her speak of the pleasure of such a journey with an animation

which had "no" in every tone. But this had occurred on the first day of its being settled, within the first hour

of the burst of such enjoyment, when nothing but the friends she was to visit was before her. He had since

heard her express herself differently, with other feelings, more chequered feelings: he had heard her tell Mrs.

Grant that she should leave her with regret; that she began to believe neither the friends nor the pleasures she

was going to were worth those she left behind; and that though she felt she must go, and knew she should

enjoy herself when once away, she was already looking forward to being at Mansfield again. Was there not a

With such matters to ponder over, and arrange, and rearrange, Edmund could not, on his own account, think

very much of the evening which the rest of the family were looking forward to with a more equal degree of

strong interest. Independent of his two cousins' enjoyment in it, the evening was to him of no higher value

than any other appointed meeting of the two families might be. In every meeting there was a hope of

receiving farther confirmation of Miss Crawford's attachment; but the whirl of a ballroom, perhaps, was not

particularly favourable to the excitement or expression of serious feelings. To engage her early for the two

first dances was all the command of individual happiness which he felt in his power, and the only preparation

for the ball which he could enter into, in spite of all that was passing around him on the subject, from

Thursday was the day of the ball; and on Wednesday morning Fanny, still unable to satisfy herself as to what

she ought to wear, determined to seek the counsel of the more enlightened, and apply to Mrs. Grant and her

sister, whose acknowledged taste would certainly bear her blameless; and as Edmund and William were gone

to Northampton, and she had reason to think Mr. Crawford likewise out, she walked down to the Parsonage

without much fear of wanting an opportunity for private discussion; and the privacy of such a discussion was

a most important part of it to Fanny, being more than halfashamed of her own solicitude.

She met Miss Crawford within a few yards of the Parsonage, just setting out to call on her, and as it seemed

to her that her friend, though obliged to insist on turning back, was unwilling to lose her walk, she explained

her business at once, and observed, that if she would be so kind as to give her opinion, it might be all talked

over as well without doors as within. Miss Crawford appeared gratified by the application, and after a

moment's thought, urged Fanny's returning with her in a much more cordial manner than before, and

proposed their going up into her room, where they might have a comfortable coze, without disturbing Dr. and

Mrs. Grant, who were together in the drawingroom. It was just the plan to suit Fanny; and with a great deal

of gratitude on her side for such ready and kind attention, they proceeded indoors, and upstairs, and were

soon deep in the interesting subject. Miss Crawford, pleased with the appeal, gave her all her best judgment

and taste, made everything easy by her suggestions, and tried to make everything agreeable by her

encouragement. The dress being settled in all its grander parts "But what shall you have by way of

necklace?" said Miss Crawford. "Shall not you wear your brother's cross?" And as she spoke she was undoing

a small parcel, which Fanny had observed in her hand when they met. Fanny acknowledged her wishes and

doubts on this point: she did not know how either to wear the cross, or to refrain from wearing it. She was

answered by having a small trinketbox placed before her, and being requested to chuse from among several

gold chains and necklaces. Such had been the parcel with which Miss Crawford was provided, and such the

object of her intended visit: and in the kindest manner she now urged Fanny's taking one for the cross and to

keep for her sake, saying everything she could think of to obviate the scruples which were making Fanny start

"You see what a collection I have," said she; "more by half than I ever use or think of. I do not offer them as

new. I offer nothing but an old necklace. You must forgive the liberty, and oblige me."

Fanny still resisted, and from her heart. The gift was too valuable. But Miss Crawford persevered, and argued

the case with so much affectionate earnestness through all the heads of William and the cross, and the ball,

and herself, as to be finally successful. Fanny found herself obliged to yield, that she might not be accused of

pride or indifference, or some other littleness; and having with modest reluctance given her consent,

proceeded to make the selection. She looked and looked, longing to know which might be least valuable; and

was determined in her choice at last, by fancying there was one necklace more frequently placed before her

eyes than the rest. It was of gold, prettily worked; and though Fanny would have preferred a longer and a

plainer chain as more adapted for her purpose, she hoped, in fixing on this, to be chusing what Miss Crawford

least wished to keep. Miss Crawford smiled her perfect approbation; and hastened to complete the gift by

putting the necklace round her, and making her see how well it looked. Fanny had not a word to say against

its becomingness, and, excepting what remained of her scruples, was exceedingly pleased with an acquisition

so very apropos. She would rather, perhaps, have been obliged to some other person. But this was an

unworthy feeling. Miss Crawford had anticipated her wants with a kindness which proved her a real friend.

"When I wear this necklace I shall always think of you," said she, "and feel how very kind you were."

"You must think of somebody else too, when you wear that necklace," replied Miss Crawford. "You must

think of Henry, for it was his choice in the first place. He gave it to me, and with the necklace I make over to

you all the duty of remembering the original giver. It is to be a family remembrancer. The sister is not to be in

Fanny, in great astonishment and confusion, would have returned the present instantly. To take what had been

the gift of another person, of a brother too, impossible! it must not be! and with an eagerness and

embarrassment quite diverting to her companion, she laid down the necklace again on its cotton, and seemed

resolved either to take another or none at all. Miss Crawford thought she had never seen a prettier

consciousness. "My dear child," said she, laughing, "what are you afraid of? Do you think Henry will claim

the necklace as mine, and fancy you did not come honestly by it? or are you imagining he would be too much

flattered by seeing round your lovely throat an ornament which his money purchased three years ago, before

he knew there was such a throat in the world? or perhaps"looking archly "you suspect a confederacy

between us, and that what I am now doing is with his knowledge and at his desire?"

"Well, then," replied Miss Crawford more seriously, but without at all believing her, "to convince me that

you suspect no trick, and are as unsuspicious of compliment as I have always found you, take the necklace

and say no more about it. Its being a gift of my brother's need not make the smallest difference in your

accepting it, as I assure you it makes none in my willingness to part with it. He is always giving me

something or other. I have such innumerable presents from him that it is quite impossible for me to value or

for him to remember half. And as for this necklace, I do not suppose I have worn it six times: it is very pretty,

but I never think of it; and though you would be most heartily welcome to any other in my trinketbox, you

have happened to fix on the very one which, if I have a choice, I would rather part with and see in your

possession than any other. Say no more against it, I entreat you. Such a trifle is not worth half so many

Fanny dared not make any farther opposition; and with renewed but less happy thanks accepted the necklace

again, for there was an expression in Miss Crawford's eyes which she could not be satisfied with.

It was impossible for her to be insensible of Mr. Crawford's change of manners. She had long seen it. He

evidently tried to please her: he was gallant, he was attentive, he was something like what he had been to her

cousins: he wanted, she supposed, to cheat her of her tranquillity as he had cheated them; and whether he

might not have some concern in this necklaceshe could not be convinced that he had not, for Miss

Reflecting and doubting, and feeling that the possession of what she had so much wished for did not bring

much satisfaction, she now walked home again, with a change rather than a diminution of cares since her

On reaching home Fanny went immediately upstairs to deposit this unexpected acquisition, this doubtful

good of a necklace, in some favourite box in the East room, which held all her smaller treasures; but on

opening the door, what was her surprise to find her cousin Edmund there writing at the table! Such a sight

"Fanny," said he directly, leaving his seat and his pen, and meeting her with something in his hand, "I beg

your pardon for being here. I came to look for you, and after waiting a little while in hope of your coming in,

was making use of your inkstand to explain my errand. You will find the beginning of a note to yourself; but

I can now speak my business, which is merely to beg your acceptance of this little triflea chain for

William's cross. You ought to have had it a week ago, but there has been a delay from my brother's not being

in town by several days so soon as I expected; and I have only just now received it at Northampton. I hope

you will like the chain itself, Fanny. I endeavoured to consult the simplicity of your taste; but, at any rate, I

know you will be kind to my intentions, and consider it, as it really is, a token of the love of one of your

And so saying, he was hurrying away, before Fanny, overpowered by a thousand feelings of pain and

pleasure, could attempt to speak; but quickened by one sovereign wish, she then called out, "Oh! cousin, stop

"I cannot attempt to thank you," she continued, in a very agitated manner; "thanks are out of the question. I

feel much more than I can possibly express. Your goodness in thinking of me in such a way is beyond "

Almost unconsciously she had now undone the parcel he had just put into her hand, and seeing before her, in

all the niceness of jewellers' packing, a plain gold chain, perfectly simple and neat, she could not help

bursting forth again, "Oh, this is beautiful indeed! This is the very thing, precisely what I wished for! This is

the only ornament I have ever had a desire to possess. It will exactly suit my cross. They must and shall be

worn together. It comes, too, in such an acceptable moment. Oh, cousin, you do not know how acceptable it

"My dear Fanny, you feel these things a great deal too much. I am most happy that you like the chain, and

that it should be here in time for tomorrow; but your thanks are far beyond the occasion. Believe me, I have

no pleasure in the world superior to that of contributing to yours. No, I can safely say, I have no pleasure so

Upon such expressions of affection Fanny could have lived an hour without saying another word; but

Edmund, after waiting a moment, obliged her to bring down her mind from its heavenly flight by saying,

It was about the necklace, which she was now most earnestly longing to return, and hoped to obtain his

approbation of her doing. She gave the history of her recent visit, and now her raptures might well be over;

for Edmund was so struck with the circumstance, so delighted with what Miss Crawford had done, so

gratified by such a coincidence of conduct between them, that Fanny could not but admit the superior power

of one pleasure over his own mind, though it might have its drawback. It was some time before she could get

his attention to her plan, or any answer to her demand of his opinion: he was in a reverie of fond reflection,

uttering only now and then a few halfsentences of praise; but when he did awake and understand, he was

"Return the necklace! No, my dear Fanny, upon no account. It would be mortifying her severely. There can

hardly be a more unpleasant sensation than the having anything returned on our hands which we have given

with a reasonable hope of its contributing to the comfort of a friend. Why should she lose a pleasure which

"If it had been given to me in the first instance," said Fanny, "I should not have thought of returning it; but

being her brother's present, is not it fair to suppose that she would rather not part with it, when it is not

"She must not suppose it not wanted, not acceptable, at least: and its having been originally her brother's gift

makes no difference; for as she was not prevented from offering, nor you from taking it on that account, it

ought not to prevent you from keeping it. No doubt it is handsomer than mine, and fitter for a ballroom."

"No, it is not handsomer, not at all handsomer in its way, and, for my purpose, not half so fit. The chain will

"For one night, Fanny, for only one night, if it _be_ a sacrifice; I am sure you will, upon consideration, make

that sacrifice rather than give pain to one who has been so studious of your comfort. Miss Crawford's

attentions to you have beennot more than you were justly entitled to I am the last person to think that

_could_ _be_, but they have been invariable; and to be returning them with what must have something the

_air_ of ingratitude, though I know it could never have the _meaning_, is not in your nature, I am sure. Wear

the necklace, as you are engaged to do, tomorrow evening, and let the chain, which was not ordered with

any reference to the ball, be kept for commoner occasions. This is my advice. I would not have the shadow of

a coolness between the two whose intimacy I have been observing with the greatest pleasure, and in whose

characters there is so much general resemblance in true generosity and natural delicacy as to make the few

slight differences, resulting principally from situation, no reasonable hindrance to a perfect friendship. I

would not have the shadow of a coolness arise," he repeated, his voice sinking a little, "between the two

He was gone as he spoke; and Fanny remained to tranquillise herself as she could. She was one of his two

dearest that must support her. But the other: the first! She had never heard him speak so openly before, and

though it told her no more than what she had long perceived, it was a stab, for it told of his own convictions

and views. They were decided. He would marry Miss Crawford. It was a stab, in spite of every longstanding

expectation; and she was obliged to repeat again and again, that she was one of his two dearest, before the

words gave her any sensation. Could she believe Miss Crawford to deserve him, it would beoh, how

different would it be how far more tolerable! But he was deceived in her: he gave her merits which she had

not; her faults were what they had ever been, but he saw them no longer. Till she had shed many tears over

this deception, Fanny could not subdue her agitation; and the dejection which followed could only be relieved

It was her intention, as she felt it to be her duty, to try to overcome all that was excessive, all that bordered on

selfishness, in her affection for Edmund. To call or to fancy it a loss, a disappointment, would be a

presumption for which she had not words strong enough to satisfy her own humility. To think of him as Miss

Crawford might be justified in thinking, would in her be insanity. To her he could be nothing under any

circumstances; nothing dearer than a friend. Why did such an idea occur to her even enough to be reprobated

and forbidden? It ought not to have touched on the confines of her imagination. She would endeavour to be

rational, and to deserve the right of judging of Miss Crawford's character, and the privilege of true solicitude

She had all the heroism of principle, and was determined to do her duty; but having also many of the feelings

of youth and nature, let her not be much wondered at, if, after making all these good resolutions on the side of

selfgovernment, she seized the scrap of paper on which Edmund had begun writing to her, as a treasure

beyond all her hopes, and reading with the tenderest emotion these words, "My very dear Fanny, you must do

me the favour to accept" locked it up with the chain, as the dearest part of the gift. It was the only thing

approaching to a letter which she had ever received from him; she might never receive another; it was

impossible that she ever should receive another so perfectly gratifying in the occasion and the style. Two

lines more prized had never fallen from the pen of the most distinguished authornever more completely

blessed the researches of the fondest biographer. The enthusiasm of a woman's love is even beyond the

biographer's. To her, the handwriting itself, independent of anything it may convey, is a blessedness. Never

were such characters cut by any other human being as Edmund's commonest handwriting gave! This

specimen, written in haste as it was, had not a fault; and there was a felicity in the flow of the first four

words, in the arrangement of "My very dear Fanny," which she could have looked at for ever.

Having regulated her thoughts and comforted her feelings by this happy mixture of reason and weakness, she

was able in due time to go down and resume her usual employments near her aunt Bertram, and pay her the

Thursday, predestined to hope and enjoyment, came; and opened with more kindness to Fanny than such

selfwilled, unmanageable days often volunteer, for soon after breakfast a very friendly note was brought

from Mr. Crawford to William, stating that as he found himself obliged to go to London on the morrow for a

few days, he could not help trying to procure a companion; and therefore hoped that if William could make

up his mind to leave Mansfield half a day earlier than had been proposed, he would accept a place in his

carriage. Mr. Crawford meant to be in town by his uncle's accustomary late dinnerhour, and William was

invited to dine with him at the Admiral's. The proposal was a very pleasant one to William himself, who

enjoyed the idea of travelling post with four horses, and such a goodhumoured, agreeable friend; and, in

likening it to going up with despatches, was saying at once everything in favour of its happiness and dignity

which his imagination could suggest; and Fanny, from a different motive, was exceedingly pleased; for the

original plan was that William should go up by the mail from Northampton the following night, which would

not have allowed him an hour's rest before he must have got into a Portsmouth coach; and though this offer of

Mr. Crawford's would rob her of many hours of his company, she was too happy in having William spared

from the fatigue of such a journey, to think of anything else. Sir Thomas approved of it for another reason.

His nephew's introduction to Admiral Crawford might be of service. The Admiral, he believed, had interest.

Upon the whole, it was a very joyous note. Fanny's spirits lived on it half the morning, deriving some

As for the ball, so near at hand, she had too many agitations and fears to have half the enjoyment in

anticipation which she ought to have had, or must have been supposed to have by the many young ladies

looking forward to the same event in situations more at ease, but under circumstances of less novelty, less

interest, less peculiar gratification, than would be attributed to her. Miss Price, known only by name to half

the people invited, was now to make her first appearance, and must be regarded as the queen of the evening.

Who could be happier than Miss Price? But Miss Price had not been brought up to the trade of _coming_

_out_; and had she known in what light this ball was, in general, considered respecting her, it would very

much have lessened her comfort by increasing the fears she already had of doing wrong and being looked at.

To dance without much observation or any extraordinary fatigue, to have strength and partners for about half

the evening, to dance a little with Edmund, and not a great deal with Mr. Crawford, to see William enjoy

himself, and be able to keep away from her aunt Norris, was the height of her ambition, and seemed to

comprehend her greatest possibility of happiness. As these were the best of her hopes, they could not always

prevail; and in the course of a long morning, spent principally with her two aunts, she was often under the

influence of much less sanguine views. William, determined to make this last day a day of thorough

enjoyment, was out snipeshooting; Edmund, she had too much reason to suppose, was at the Parsonage; and

left alone to bear the worrying of Mrs. Norris, who was cross because the housekeeper would have her own

way with the supper, and whom _she_ could not avoid though the housekeeper might, Fanny was worn down

at last to think everything an evil belonging to the ball, and when sent off with a parting worry to dress,

moved as languidly towards her own room, and felt as incapable of happiness as if she had been allowed no

As she walked slowly upstairs she thought of yesterday; it had been about the same hour that she had returned

from the Parsonage, and found Edmund in the East room. "Suppose I were to find him there again today!"

"Fanny," said a voice at that moment near her. Starting and looking up, she saw, across the lobby she had just

reached, Edmund himself, standing at the head of a different staircase. He came towards her. "You look tired

"Then you have had fatigues within doors, which are worse. You had better have gone out."

Fanny, not liking to complain, found it easiest to make no answer; and though he looked at her with his usual

kindness, she believed he had soon ceased to think of her countenance. He did not appear in spirits:

something unconnected with her was probably amiss. They proceeded upstairs together, their rooms being on

"I come from Dr. Grant's," said Edmund presently. "You may guess my errand there, Fanny." And he looked

so conscious, that Fanny could think but of one errand, which turned her too sick for speech. "I wished to

engage Miss Crawford for the two first dances," was the explanation that followed, and brought Fanny to life

again, enabling her, as she found she was expected to speak, to utter something like an inquiry as to the

"Yes," he answered, "she is engaged to me; but" (with a smile that did not sit easy) "she says it is to be the

last time that she ever will dance with me. She is not serious. I think, I hope, I am sure she is not serious; but

I would rather not hear it. She never has danced with a clergyman, she says, and she never _will_. For my

own sake, I could wish there had been no ball just atI mean not this very week, this very day; tomorrow I

Fanny struggled for speech, and said, "I am very sorry that anything has occurred to distress you. This ought

"Oh yes, yes! and it will be a day of pleasure. It will all end right. I am only vexed for a moment. In fact, it is

not that I consider the ball as illtimed; what does it signify? But, Fanny," stopping her, by taking her hand,

and speaking low and seriously, "you know what all this means. You see how it is; and could tell me, perhaps

better than I could tell you, how and why I am vexed. Let me talk to you a little. You are a kind, kind listener.

I have been pained by her manner this morning, and cannot get the better of it. I know her disposition to be as

sweet and faultless as your own, but the influence of her former companions makes her seemgives to her

conversation, to her professed opinions, sometimes a tinge of wrong. She does not _think_ evil, but she

speaks it, speaks it in playfulness; and though I know it to be playfulness, it grieves me to the soul."

Edmund could not but agree to it. "Yes, that uncle and aunt! They have injured the finest mind; for

sometimes, Fanny, I own to you, it does appear more than manner: it appears as if the mind itself was

Fanny imagined this to be an appeal to her judgment, and therefore, after a moment's consideration, said, "If

you only want me as a listener, cousin, I will be as useful as I can; but I am not qualified for an adviser. Do

"You are right, Fanny, to protest against such an office, but you need not be afraid. It is a subject on which I

should never ask advice; it is the sort of subject on which it had better never be asked; and few, I imagine, do

ask it, but when they want to be influenced against their conscience. I only want to talk to you."

"One thing more. Excuse the liberty; but take care _how_ you talk to me. Do not tell me anything now, which

"Dearest Fanny!" cried Edmund, pressing her hand to his lips with almost as much warmth as if it had been

Miss Crawford's, "you are all considerate thought! But it is unnecessary here. The time will never come. No

such time as you allude to will ever come. I begin to think it most improbable: the chances grow less and less;

and even if it should, there will be nothing to be remembered by either you or me that we need be afraid of,

for I can never be ashamed of my own scruples; and if they are removed, it must be by changes that will only

raise her character the more by the recollection of the faults she once had. You are the only being upon earth

to whom I should say what I have said; but you have always known my opinion of her; you can bear me

witness, Fanny, that I have never been blinded. How many a time have we talked over her little errors! You

need not fear me; I have almost given up every serious idea of her; but I must be a blockhead indeed, if,

whatever befell me, I could think of your kindness and sympathy without the sincerest gratitude."

He had said enough to shake the experience of eighteen. He had said enough to give Fanny some happier

feelings than she had lately known, and with a brighter look, she answered, "Yes, cousin, I am convinced that

_you_ would be incapable of anything else, though perhaps some might not. I cannot be afraid of hearing

They were now on the second floor, and the appearance of a housemaid prevented any farther conversation.

For Fanny's present comfort it was concluded, perhaps, at the happiest moment: had he been able to talk

another five minutes, there is no saying that he might not have talked away all Miss Crawford's faults and his

own despondence. But as it was, they parted with looks on his side of grateful affection, and with some very

precious sensations on hers. She had felt nothing like it for hours. Since the first joy from Mr. Crawford's

note to William had worn away, she had been in a state absolutely the reverse; there had been no comfort

around, no hope within her. Now everything was smiling. William's good fortune returned again upon her

mind, and seemed of greater value than at first. The ball, toosuch an evening of pleasure before her! It was

now a real animation; and she began to dress for it with much of the happy flutter which belongs to a ball. All

went well: she did not dislike her own looks; and when she came to the necklaces again, her good fortune

seemed complete, for upon trial the one given her by Miss Crawford would by no means go through the ring

of the cross. She had, to oblige Edmund, resolved to wear it; but it was too large for the purpose. His,

therefore, must be worn; and having, with delightful feelings, joined the chain and the crossthose

memorials of the two most beloved of her heart, those dearest tokens so formed for each other by everything

real and imaginaryand put them round her neck, and seen and felt how full of William and Edmund they

were, she was able, without an effort, to resolve on wearing Miss Crawford's necklace too. She acknowledged

it to be right. Miss Crawford had a claim; and when it was no longer to encroach on, to interfere with the

stronger claims, the truer kindness of another, she could do her justice even with pleasure to herself. The

necklace really looked very well; and Fanny left her room at last, comfortably satisfied with herself and all

Her aunt Bertram had recollected her on this occasion with an unusual degree of wakefulness. It had really

occurred to her, unprompted, that Fanny, preparing for a ball, might be glad of better help than the upper

housemaid's, and when dressed herself, she actually sent her own maid to assist her; too late, of course, to be

of any use. Mrs. Chapman had just reached the attic floor, when Miss Price came out of her room completely

dressed, and only civilities were necessary; but Fanny felt her aunt's attention almost as much as Lady

Her uncle and both her aunts were in the drawingroom when Fanny went down. To the former she was an

interesting object, and he saw with pleasure the general elegance of her appearance, and her being in

remarkably good looks. The neatness and propriety of her dress was all that he would allow himself to

commend in her presence, but upon her leaving the room again soon afterwards, he spoke of her beauty with

"Look well! Oh, yes!" cried Mrs. Norris, "she has good reason to look well with all her advantages: brought

up in this family as she has been, with all the benefit of her cousins' manners before her. Only think, my dear

Sir Thomas, what extraordinary advantages you and I have been the means of giving her. The very gown you

have been taking notice of is your own generous present to her when dear Mrs. Rushworth married. What

Sir Thomas said no more; but when they sat down to table the eyes of the two young men assured him that

the subject might be gently touched again, when the ladies withdrew, with more success. Fanny saw that she

was approved; and the consciousness of looking well made her look still better. From a variety of causes she

was happy, and she was soon made still happier; for in following her aunts out of the room, Edmund, who

was holding open the door, said, as she passed him, "You must dance with me, Fanny; you must keep two

dances for me; any two that you like, except the first." She had nothing more to wish for. She had hardly ever

been in a state so nearly approaching high spirits in her life. Her cousins' former gaiety on the day of a ball

was no longer surprising to her; she felt it to be indeed very charming, and was actually practising her steps

about the drawingroom as long as she could be safe from the notice of her aunt Norris, who was entirely

taken up at first in fresh arranging and injuring the noble fire which the butler had prepared.

Half an hour followed that would have been at least languid under any other circumstances, but Fanny's

happiness still prevailed. It was but to think of her conversation with Edmund, and what was the restlessness

The gentlemen joined them; and soon after began the sweet expectation of a carriage, when a general spirit of

ease and enjoyment seemed diffused, and they all stood about and talked and laughed, and every moment had

its pleasure and its hope. Fanny felt that there must be a struggle in Edmund's cheerfulness, but it was

When the carriages were really heard, when the guests began really to assemble, her own gaiety of heart was

much subdued: the sight of so many strangers threw her back into herself; and besides the gravity and

formality of the first great circle, which the manners of neither Sir Thomas nor Lady Bertram were of a kind

to do away, she found herself occasionally called on to endure something worse. She was introduced here and

there by her uncle, and forced to be spoken to, and to curtsey, and speak again. This was a hard duty, and she

was never summoned to it without looking at William, as he walked about at his ease in the background of

The entrance of the Grants and Crawfords was a favourable epoch. The stiffness of the meeting soon gave

way before their popular manners and more diffused intimacies: little groups were formed, and everybody

grew comfortable. Fanny felt the advantage; and, drawing back from the toils of civility, would have been

again most happy, could she have kept her eyes from wandering between Edmund and Mary Crawford.

_She_ looked all lovelinessand what might not be the end of it? Her own musings were brought to an end

on perceiving Mr. Crawford before her, and her thoughts were put into another channel by his engaging her

almost instantly for the first two dances. Her happiness on this occasion was very much _a_ _la_ _mortal_,

finely chequered. To be secure of a partner at first was a most essential good for the moment of beginning

was now growing seriously near; and she so little understood her own claims as to think that if Mr. Crawford

had not asked her, she must have been the last to be sought after, and should have received a partner only

through a series of inquiry, and bustle, and interference, which would have been terrible; but at the same time

there was a pointedness in his manner of asking her which she did not like, and she saw his eye glancing for a

moment at her necklace, with a smileshe thought there was a smilewhich made her blush and feel

wretched. And though there was no second glance to disturb her, though his object seemed then to be only

quietly agreeable, she could not get the better of her embarrassment, heightened as it was by the idea of his

perceiving it, and had no composure till he turned away to some one else. Then she could gradually rise up to

the genuine satisfaction of having a partner, a voluntary partner, secured against the dancing began.

When the company were moving into the ballroom, she found herself for the first time near Miss Crawford,

whose eyes and smiles were immediately and more unequivocally directed as her brother's had been, and who

was beginning to speak on the subject, when Fanny, anxious to get the story over, hastened to give the

explanation of the second necklace: the real chain. Miss Crawford listened; and all her intended compliments

and insinuations to Fanny were forgotten: she felt only one thing; and her eyes, bright as they had been

before, shewing they could yet be brighter, she exclaimed with eager pleasure, "Did he? Did Edmund? That

was like himself. No other man would have thought of it. I honour him beyond expression." And she looked

around as if longing to tell him so. He was not near, he was attending a party of ladies out of the room; and

Mrs. Grant coming up to the two girls, and taking an arm of each, they followed with the rest.

Fanny's heart sunk, but there was no leisure for thinking long even of Miss Crawford's feelings. They were in

the ballroom, the violins were playing, and her mind was in a flutter that forbade its fixing on anything

serious. She must watch the general arrangements, and see how everything was done.

In a few minutes Sir Thomas came to her, and asked if she were engaged; and the "Yes, sir; to Mr.

Crawford," was exactly what he had intended to hear. Mr. Crawford was not far off; Sir Thomas brought him

to her, saying something which discovered to Fanny, that _she_ was to lead the way and open the ball; an

idea that had never occurred to her before. Whenever she had thought of the minutiae of the evening, it had

been as a matter of course that Edmund would begin with Miss Crawford; and the impression was so strong,

that though _her_ _uncle_ spoke the contrary, she could not help an exclamation of surprise, a hint of her

unfitness, an entreaty even to be excused. To be urging her opinion against Sir Thomas's was a proof of the

extremity of the case; but such was her horror at the first suggestion, that she could actually look him in the

face and say that she hoped it might be settled otherwise; in vain, however: Sir Thomas smiled, tried to

encourage her, and then looked too serious, and said too decidedly, "It must be so, my dear," for her to hazard

another word; and she found herself the next moment conducted by Mr. Crawford to the top of the room, and

standing there to be joined by the rest of the dancers, couple after couple, as they were formed.

She could hardly believe it. To be placed above so many elegant young women! The distinction was too

great. It was treating her like her cousins! And her thoughts flew to those absent cousins with most unfeigned

and truly tender regret, that they were not at home to take their own place in the room, and have their share of

a pleasure which would have been so very delightful to them. So often as she had heard them wish for a ball

at home as the greatest of all felicities! And to have them away when it was givenand for _her_ to be

opening the ball and with Mr. Crawford too! She hoped they would not envy her that distinction _now_;

but when she looked back to the state of things in the autumn, to what they had all been to each other when

once dancing in that house before, the present arrangement was almost more than she could understand

The ball began. It was rather honour than happiness to Fanny, for the first dance at least: her partner was in

excellent spirits, and tried to impart them to her; but she was a great deal too much frightened to have any

enjoyment till she could suppose herself no longer looked at. Young, pretty, and gentle, however, she had no

awkwardnesses that were not as good as graces, and there were few persons present that were not disposed to

praise her. She was attractive, she was modest, she was Sir Thomas's niece, and she was soon said to be

admired by Mr. Crawford. It was enough to give her general favour. Sir Thomas himself was watching her

progress down the dance with much complacency; he was proud of his niece; and without attributing all her

personal beauty, as Mrs. Norris seemed to do, to her transplantation to Mansfield, he was pleased with

himself for having supplied everything else: education and manners she owed to him.

Miss Crawford saw much of Sir Thomas's thoughts as he stood, and having, in spite of all his wrongs towards

her, a general prevailing desire of recommending herself to him, took an opportunity of stepping aside to say

something agreeable of Fanny. Her praise was warm, and he received it as she could wish, joining in it as far

as discretion, and politeness, and slowness of speech would allow, and certainly appearing to greater

advantage on the subject than his lady did soon afterwards, when Mary, perceiving her on a sofa very near,

turned round before she began to dance, to compliment her on Miss Price's looks.

"Yes, she does look very well," was Lady Bertram's placid reply. "Chapman helped her to dress. I sent

Chapman to her." Not but that she was really pleased to have Fanny admired; but she was so much more

struck with her own kindness in sending Chapman to her, that she could not get it out of her head.

Miss Crawford knew Mrs. Norris too well to think of gratifying _her_ by commendation of Fanny; to her, it

was as the occasion offered"Ah! ma'am, how much we want dear Mrs. Rushworth and Julia tonight!" and

Mrs. Norris paid her with as many smiles and courteous words as she had time for, amid so much occupation

as she found for herself in making up cardtables, giving hints to Sir Thomas, and trying to move all the

Miss Crawford blundered most towards Fanny herself in her intentions to please. She meant to be giving her

little heart a happy flutter, and filling her with sensations of delightful selfconsequence; and, misinterpreting

Fanny's blushes, still thought she must be doing so when she went to her after the two first dances, and said,

with a significant look, "Perhaps _you_ can tell me why my brother goes to town tomorrow? He says he has

business there, but will not tell me what. The first time he ever denied me his confidence! But this is what we

all come to. All are supplanted sooner or later. Now, I must apply to you for information. Pray, what is Henry

"Well, then," replied Miss Crawford, laughing, "I must suppose it to be purely for the pleasure of conveying

Fanny was confused, but it was the confusion of discontent; while Miss Crawford wondered she did not

smile, and thought her overanxious, or thought her odd, or thought her anything rather than insensible of

pleasure in Henry's attentions. Fanny had a good deal of enjoyment in the course of the evening; but Henry's

attentions had very little to do with it. She would much rather _not_ have been asked by him again so very

soon, and she wished she had not been obliged to suspect that his previous inquiries of Mrs. Norris, about the

supper hour, were all for the sake of securing her at that part of the evening. But it was not to be avoided: he

made her feel that she was the object of all; though she could not say that it was unpleasantly done, that there

was indelicacy or ostentation in his manner; and sometimes, when he talked of William, he was really not

unagreeable, and shewed even a warmth of heart which did him credit. But still his attentions made no part of

her satisfaction. She was happy whenever she looked at William, and saw how perfectly he was enjoying

himself, in every five minutes that she could walk about with him and hear his account of his partners; she

was happy in knowing herself admired; and she was happy in having the two dances with Edmund still to

look forward to, during the greatest part of the evening, her hand being so eagerly sought after that her

indefinite engagement with _him_ was in continual perspective. She was happy even when they did take

place; but not from any flow of spirits on his side, or any such expressions of tender gallantry as had blessed

the morning. His mind was fagged, and her happiness sprung from being the friend with whom it could find

repose. "I am worn out with civility," said he. "I have been talking incessantly all night, and with nothing to

say. But with _you_, Fanny, there may be peace. You will not want to be talked to. Let us have the luxury of

silence." Fanny would hardly even speak her agreement. A weariness, arising probably, in great measure,

from the same feelings which he had acknowledged in the morning, was peculiarly to be respected, and they

went down their two dances together with such sober tranquillity as might satisfy any lookeron that Sir

The evening had afforded Edmund little pleasure. Miss Crawford had been in gay spirits when they first

danced together, but it was not her gaiety that could do him good: it rather sank than raised his comfort; and

afterwards, for he found himself still impelled to seek her again, she had absolutely pained him by her

manner of speaking of the profession to which he was now on the point of belonging. They had talked, and

they had been silent; he had reasoned, she had ridiculed; and they had parted at last with mutual vexation.

Fanny, not able to refrain entirely from observing them, had seen enough to be tolerably satisfied. It was

barbarous to be happy when Edmund was suffering. Yet some happiness must and would arise from the very

When her two dances with him were over, her inclination and strength for more were pretty well at an end;

and Sir Thomas, having seen her walk rather than dance down the shortening set, breathless, and with her

hand at her side, gave his orders for her sitting down entirely. From that time Mr. Crawford sat down

"Poor Fanny!" cried William, coming for a moment to visit her, and working away his partner's fan as if for

life, "how soon she is knocked up! Why, the sport is but just begun. I hope we shall keep it up these two

"So soon! my good friend," said Sir Thomas, producing his watch with all necessary caution; "it is three

"Well, then, Fanny, you shall not get up tomorrow before I go. Sleep as long as you can, and never mind

"Oh! yes, sir," cried Fanny, rising eagerly from her seat to be nearer her uncle; "I must get up and breakfast

"You had better not. He is to have breakfasted and be gone by halfpast nine. Mr. Crawford, I think you call

Fanny was too urgent, however, and had too many tears in her eyes for denial; and it ended in a gracious

"Yes, halfpast nine," said Crawford to William as the latter was leaving them, "and I shall be punctual, for

there will be no kind sister to get up for _me_." And in a lower tone to Fanny, "I shall have only a desolate

house to hurry from. Your brother will find my ideas of time and his own very different tomorrow."

After a short consideration, Sir Thomas asked Crawford to join the early breakfast party in that house instead

of eating alone: he should himself be of it; and the readiness with which his invitation was accepted

convinced him that the suspicions whence, he must confess to himself, this very ball had in great measure

sprung, were well founded. Mr. Crawford was in love with Fanny. He had a pleasing anticipation of what

would be. His niece, meanwhile, did not thank him for what he had just done. She had hoped to have William

all to herself the last morning. It would have been an unspeakable indulgence. But though her wishes were

overthrown, there was no spirit of murmuring within her. On the contrary, she was so totally unused to have

her pleasure consulted, or to have anything take place at all in the way she could desire, that she was more

disposed to wonder and rejoice in having carried her point so far, than to repine at the counteraction which

Shortly afterward, Sir Thomas was again interfering a little with her inclination, by advising her to go

immediately to bed. "Advise" was his word, but it was the advice of absolute power, and she had only to rise,

and, with Mr. Crawford's very cordial adieus, pass quietly away; stopping at the entrancedoor, like the Lady

of Branxholm Hall, "one moment and no more," to view the happy scene, and take a last look at the five or

six determined couple who were still hard at work; and then, creeping slowly up the principal staircase,

pursued by the ceaseless countrydance, feverish with hopes and fears, soup and negus, sorefooted and

fatigued, restless and agitated, yet feeling, in spite of everything, that a ball was indeed delightful.

In thus sending her away, Sir Thomas perhaps might not be thinking merely of her health. It might occur to

him that Mr. Crawford had been sitting by her long enough, or he might mean to recommend her as a wife by

The ball was over, and the breakfast was soon over too; the last kiss was given, and William was gone. Mr.

Crawford had, as he foretold, been very punctual, and short and pleasant had been the meal.

After seeing William to the last moment, Fanny walked back to the breakfastroom with a very saddened

heart to grieve over the melancholy change; and there her uncle kindly left her to cry in peace, conceiving,

perhaps, that the deserted chair of each young man might exercise her tender enthusiasm, and that the

remaining cold pork bones and mustard in William's plate might but divide her feelings with the broken

eggshells in Mr. Crawford's. She sat and cried _con_ _amore_ as her uncle intended, but it was _con_

_amore_ fraternal and no other. William was gone, and she now felt as if she had wasted half his visit in idle

Fanny's disposition was such that she could never even think of her aunt Norris in the meagreness and

cheerlessness of her own small house, without reproaching herself for some little want of attention to her

when they had been last together; much less could her feelings acquit her of having done and said and

It was a heavy, melancholy day. Soon after the second breakfast, Edmund bade them goodbye for a week,

and mounted his horse for Peterborough, and then all were gone. Nothing remained of last night but

remembrances, which she had nobody to share in. She talked to her aunt Bertram she must talk to

somebody of the ball; but her aunt had seen so little of what had passed, and had so little curiosity, that it was

heavy work. Lady Bertram was not certain of anybody's dress or anybody's place at supper but her own. "She

could not recollect what it was that she had heard about one of the Miss Maddoxes, or what it was that Lady

Prescott had noticed in Fanny: she was not sure whether Colonel Harrison had been talking of Mr. Crawford

or of William when he said he was the finest young man in the room somebody had whispered something

to her; she had forgot to ask Sir Thomas what it could be." And these were her longest speeches and clearest

communications: the rest was only a languid "Yes, yes; very well; did you? did he? I did not see _that_; I

should not know one from the other." This was very bad. It was only better than Mrs. Norris's sharp answers

would have been; but she being gone home with all the supernumerary jellies to nurse a sick maid, there was

peace and goodhumour in their little party, though it could not boast much beside.

The evening was heavy like the day. "I cannot think what is the matter with me," said Lady Bertram, when

the teathings were removed. "I feel quite stupid. It must be sitting up so late last night. Fanny, you must do

something to keep me awake. I cannot work. Fetch the cards; I feel so very stupid."

The cards were brought, and Fanny played at cribbage with her aunt till bedtime; and as Sir Thomas was

reading to himself, no sounds were heard in the room for the next two hours beyond the reckonings of the

game"And _that_ makes thirtyone; four in hand and eight in crib. You are to deal, ma'am; shall I deal for

you?" Fanny thought and thought again of the difference which twentyfour hours had made in that room,

and all that part of the house. Last night it had been hope and smiles, bustle and motion, noise and brilliancy,

in the drawingroom, and out of the drawingroom, and everywhere. Now it was languor, and all but

A good night's rest improved her spirits. She could think of William the next day more cheerfully; and as the

morning afforded her an opportunity of talking over Thursday night with Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford, in a

very handsome style, with all the heightenings of imagination, and all the laughs of playfulness which are so

essential to the shade of a departed ball, she could afterwards bring her mind without much effort into its

everyday state, and easily conform to the tranquillity of the present quiet week.

They were indeed a smaller party than she had ever known there for a whole day together, and _he_ was gone

on whom the comfort and cheerfulness of every family meeting and every meal chiefly depended. But this

must be learned to be endured. He would soon be always gone; and she was thankful that she could now sit in

the same room with her uncle, hear his voice, receive his questions, and even answer them, without such

"We miss our two young men," was Sir Thomas's observation on both the first and second day, as they

formed their very reduced circle after dinner; and in consideration of Fanny's swimming eyes, nothing more

was said on the first day than to drink their good health; but on the second it led to something farther.

William was kindly commended and his promotion hoped for. "And there is no reason to suppose," added Sir

Thomas, "but that his visits to us may now be tolerably frequent. As to Edmund, we must learn to do without

"Yes," said Lady Bertram, "but I wish he was not going away. They are all going away, I think. I wish they

This wish was levelled principally at Julia, who had just applied for permission to go to town with Maria; and

as Sir Thomas thought it best for each daughter that the permission should be granted, Lady Bertram, though

in her own goodnature she would not have prevented it, was lamenting the change it made in the prospect of

Julia's return, which would otherwise have taken place about this time. A great deal of good sense followed

on Sir Thomas's side, tending to reconcile his wife to the arrangement. Everything that a considerate parent

_ought_ to feel was advanced for her use; and everything that an affectionate mother _must_ feel in

promoting her children's enjoyment was attributed to her nature. Lady Bertram agreed to it all with a calm

"Yes"; and at the end of a quarter of an hour's silent consideration spontaneously observed, "Sir Thomas, I

have been thinkingand I am very glad we took Fanny as we did, for now the others are away we feel the

Sir Thomas immediately improved this compliment by adding, "Very true. We shew Fanny what a good girl

we think her by praising her to her face, she is now a very valuable companion. If we have been kind to

"Yes," said Lady Bertram presently; "and it is a comfort to think that we shall always have _her_."

Sir Thomas paused, half smiled, glanced at his niece, and then gravely replied, "She will never leave us, I

hope, till invited to some other home that may reasonably promise her greater happiness than she knows

"And _that_ is not very likely to be, Sir Thomas. Who should invite her? Maria might be very glad to see her

at Sotherton now and then, but she would not think of asking her to live there; and I am sure she is better off

The week which passed so quietly and peaceably at the great house in Mansfield had a very different

character at the Parsonage. To the young lady, at least, in each family, it brought very different feelings. What

was tranquillity and comfort to Fanny was tediousness and vexation to Mary. Something arose from

difference of disposition and habit: one so easily satisfied, the other so unused to endure; but still more might

be imputed to difference of circumstances. In some points of interest they were exactly opposed to each other.

To Fanny's mind, Edmund's absence was really, in its cause and its tendency, a relief. To Mary it was every

way painful. She felt the want of his society every day, almost every hour, and was too much in want of it to

derive anything but irritation from considering the object for which he went. He could not have devised

anything more likely to raise his consequence than this week's absence, occurring as it did at the very time of

her brother's going away, of William Price's going too, and completing the sort of general breakup of a party

which had been so animated. She felt it keenly. They were now a miserable trio, confined within doors by a

series of rain and snow, with nothing to do and no variety to hope for. Angry as she was with Edmund for

adhering to his own notions, and acting on them in defiance of her (and she had been so angry that they had

hardly parted friends at the ball), she could not help thinking of him continually when absent, dwelling on his

merit and affection, and longing again for the almost daily meetings they lately had. His absence was

unnecessarily long. He should not have planned such an absencehe should not have left home for a week,

when her own departure from Mansfield was so near. Then she began to blame herself. She wished she had

not spoken so warmly in their last conversation. She was afraid she had used some strong, some

contemptuous expressions in speaking of the clergy, and that should not have been. It was illbred; it was

Her vexation did not end with the week. All this was bad, but she had still more to feel when Friday came

round again and brought no Edmund; when Saturday came and still no Edmund; and when, through the slight

communication with the other family which Sunday produced, she learned that he had actually written home

to defer his return, having promised to remain some days longer with his friend.

If she had felt impatience and regret beforeif she had been sorry for what she said, and feared its too strong

effect on himshe now felt and feared it all tenfold more. She had, moreover, to contend with one

disagreeable emotion entirely new to herjealousy. His friend Mr. Owen had sisters; he might find them

attractive. But, at any rate, his staying away at a time when, according to all preceding plans, she was to

remove to London, meant something that she could not bear. Had Henry returned, as he talked of doing, at

the end of three or four days, she should now have been leaving Mansfield. It became absolutely necessary

for her to get to Fanny and try to learn something more. She could not live any longer in such solitary

wretchedness; and she made her way to the Park, through difficulties of walking which she had deemed

unconquerable a week before, for the chance of hearing a little in addition, for the sake of at least hearing his

The first halfhour was lost, for Fanny and Lady Bertram were together, and unless she had Fanny to herself

she could hope for nothing. But at last Lady Bertram left the room, and then almost immediately Miss

Crawford thus began, with a voice as well regulated as she could"And how do _you_ like your cousin

Edmund's staying away so long? Being the only young person at home, I consider _you_ as the greatest

"I do not know," said Fanny hesitatingly. "Yes; I had not particularly expected it."

"Perhaps he will always stay longer than he talks of. It is the general way all young men do."

"He finds the house more agreeable _now_. He is a very a very pleasing young man himself, and I cannot

help being rather concerned at not seeing him again before I go to London, as will now undoubtedly be the

case. I am looking for Henry every day, and as soon as he comes there will be nothing to detain me at

Mansfield. I should like to have seen him once more, I confess. But you must give my compliments to him.

Yes; I think it must be compliments. Is not there a something wanted, Miss Price, in our languagea

something between compliments and and loveto suit the sort of friendly acquaintance we have had

together? So many months' acquaintance! But compliments may be sufficient here. Was his letter a long one?

Does he give you much account of what he is doing? Is it Christmas gaieties that he is staying for?"

"I only heard a part of the letter; it was to my uncle; but I believe it was very short; indeed I am sure it was

but a few lines. All that I heard was that his friend had pressed him to stay longer, and that he had agreed to

"Oh! if he wrote to his father; but I thought it might have been to Lady Bertram or you. But if he wrote to his

father, no wonder he was concise. Who could write chat to Sir Thomas? If he had written to you, there would

have been more particulars. You would have heard of balls and parties. He would have sent you a description

"That is the first question, you know," said Miss Crawford, trying to appear gay and unconcerned, "which

every woman who plays herself is sure to ask about another. But it is very foolish to ask questions about any

young ladiesabout any three sisters just grown up; for one knows, without being told, exactly what they

are: all very accomplished and pleasing, and one very pretty. There is a beauty in every family; it is a regular

thing. Two play on the pianoforte, and one on the harp; and all sing, or would sing if they were taught, or sing

"You know nothing and you care less, as people say. Never did tone express indifference plainer. Indeed,

how can one care for those one has never seen? Well, when your cousin comes back, he will find Mansfield

very quiet; all the noisy ones gone, your brother and mine and myself I do not like the idea of leaving Mrs.

Fanny felt obliged to speak. "'You cannot doubt your being missed by many," said she. "You will be very

Miss Crawford turned her eye on her, as if wanting to hear or see more, and then laughingly said, "Oh yes!

missed as every noisy evil is missed when it is taken away; that is, there is a great difference felt. But I am

not fishing; don't compliment me. If I _am_ missed, it will appear. I may be discovered by those who want to

Now Fanny could not bring herself to speak, and Miss Crawford was disappointed; for she had hoped to hear

some pleasant assurance of her power from one who she thought must know, and her spirits were clouded

"The Miss Owens," said she, soon afterwards; "suppose you were to have one of the Miss Owens settled at

Thornton Lacey; how should you like it? Stranger things have happened. I dare say they are trying for it. And

they are quite in the light, for it would be a very pretty establishment for them. I do not at all wonder or blame

them. It is everybody's duty to do as well for themselves as they can. Sir Thomas Bertram's son is somebody;

and now he is in their own line. Their father is a clergyman, and their brother is a clergyman, and they are all

clergymen together. He is their lawful property; he fairly belongs to them. You don't speak, Fanny; Miss

Price, you don't speak. But honestly now, do not you rather expect it than otherwise?"

"Not at all!" cried Miss Crawford with alacrity. "I wonder at that. But I dare say you know exactly I

always imagine you areperhaps you do not think him likely to marry at allor not at present."

"No, I do not," said Fanny softly, hoping she did not err either in the belief or the acknowledgment of it.

Her companion looked at her keenly; and gathering greater spirit from the blush soon produced from such a

Miss Crawford's uneasiness was much lightened by this conversation, and she walked home again in spirits

which might have defied almost another week of the same small party in the same bad weather, had they been

put to the proof; but as that very evening brought her brother down from London again in quite, or more than

quite, his usual cheerfulness, she had nothing farther to try her own. His still refusing to tell her what he had

gone for was but the promotion of gaiety; a day before it might have irritated, but now it was a pleasant

joke suspected only of concealing something planned as a pleasant surprise to herself. And the next day

_did_ bring a surprise to her. Henry had said he should just go and ask the Bertrams how they did, and be

back in ten minutes, but he was gone above an hour; and when his sister, who had been waiting for him to

walk with her in the garden, met him at last most impatiently in the sweep, and cried out, "My dear Henry,

where can you have been all this time?" he had only to say that he had been sitting with Lady Bertram and

"Yes, Mary," said he, drawing her arm within his, and walking along the sweep as if not knowing where he

was: "I could not get away sooner; Fanny looked so lovely! I am quite determined, Mary. My mind is entirely

made up. Will it astonish you? No: you must be aware that I am quite determined to marry Fanny Price."

The surprise was now complete; for, in spite of whatever his consciousness might suggest, a suspicion of his

having any such views had never entered his sister's imagination; and she looked so truly the astonishment

she felt, that he was obliged to repeat what he had said, and more fully and more solemnly. The conviction of

his determination once admitted, it was not unwelcome. There was even pleasure with the surprise. Mary was

in a state of mind to rejoice in a connexion with the Bertram family, and to be not displeased with her

"Yes, Mary," was Henry's concluding assurance. "I am fairly caught. You know with what idle designs I

began; but this is the end of them. I have, I flatter myself, made no inconsiderable progress in her affections;

"Lucky, lucky girl!" cried Mary, as soon as she could speak; "what a match for her! My dearest Henry, this

must be my _first_ feeling; but my _second_, which you shall have as sincerely, is, that I approve your choice

from my soul, and foresee your happiness as heartily as I wish and desire it. You will have a sweet little wife;

all gratitude and devotion. Exactly what you deserve. What an amazing match for her! Mrs. Norris often talks

of her luck; what will she say now? The delight of all the family, indeed! And she has some _true_ friends in

it! How _they_ will rejoice! But tell me all about it! Talk to me for ever. When did you begin to think

Nothing could be more impossible than to answer such a question, though nothing could be more agreeable

than to have it asked. "How the pleasing plague had stolen on him" he could not say; and before he had

expressed the same sentiment with a little variation of words three times over, his sister eagerly interrupted

him with, "Ah, my dear Henry, and this is what took you to London! This was your business! You chose to

But this he stoutly denied. He knew his uncle too well to consult him on any matrimonial scheme. The

Admiral hated marriage, and thought it never pardonable in a young man of independent fortune.

"When Fanny is known to him," continued Henry, "he will doat on her. She is exactly the woman to do away

every prejudice of such a man as the Admiral, for she he would describe, if indeed he has now delicacy of

language enough to embody his own ideas. But till it is absolutely settled settled beyond all interference,

he shall know nothing of the matter. No, Mary, you are quite mistaken. You have not discovered my business

"Well, well, I am satisfied. I know now to whom it must relate, and am in no hurry for the rest. Fanny Price!

wonderful, quite wonderful! That Mansfield should have done so much forthat _you_ should have found

your fate in Mansfield! But you are quite right; you could not have chosen better. There is not a better girl in

the world, and you do not want for fortune; and as to her connexions, they are more than good. The Bertrams

are undoubtedly some of the first people in this country. She is niece to Sir Thomas Bertram; that will be

enough for the world. But go on, go on. Tell me more. What are your plans? Does she know her own

"Forfor very little more than opportunity. Mary, she is not like her cousins; but I think I shall not ask in

"Oh no! you cannot. Were you even less pleasing supposing her not to love you already (of which,

however, I can have little doubt)you would be safe. The gentleness and gratitude of her disposition would

secure her all your own immediately. From my soul I do not think she would marry you _without_ love; that

is, if there is a girl in the world capable of being uninfluenced by ambition, I can suppose it her; but ask her to

As soon as her eagerness could rest in silence, he was as happy to tell as she could be to listen; and a

conversation followed almost as deeply interesting to her as to himself, though he had in fact nothing to relate

but his own sensations, nothing to dwell on but Fanny's charms. Fanny's beauty of face and figure, Fanny's

graces of manner and goodness of heart, were the exhaustless theme. The gentleness, modesty, and sweetness

of her character were warmly expatiated on; that sweetness which makes so essential a part of every woman's

worth in the judgment of man, that though he sometimes loves where it is not, he can never believe it absent.

Her temper he had good reason to depend on and to praise. He had often seen it tried. Was there one of the

family, excepting Edmund, who had not in some way or other continually exercised her patience and

forbearance? Her affections were evidently strong. To see her with her brother! What could more delightfully

prove that the warmth of her heart was equal to its gentleness? What could be more encouraging to a man

who had her love in view? Then, her understanding was beyond every suspicion, quick and clear; and her

manners were the mirror of her own modest and elegant mind. Nor was this all. Henry Crawford had too

much sense not to feel the worth of good principles in a wife, though he was too little accustomed to serious

reflection to know them by their proper name; but when he talked of her having such a steadiness and

regularity of conduct, such a high notion of honour, and such an observance of decorum as might warrant any

man in the fullest dependence on her faith and integrity, he expressed what was inspired by the knowledge of

"I could so wholly and absolutely confide in her," said he; "and _that_ is what I want."

Well might his sister, believing as she really did that his opinion of Fanny Price was scarcely beyond her

"The more I think of it," she cried, "the more am I convinced that you are doing quite right; and though I

should never have selected Fanny Price as the girl most likely to attach you, I am now persuaded she is the

very one to make you happy. Your wicked project upon her peace turns out a clever thought indeed. You will

"It was bad, very bad in me against such a creature; but I did not know her then; and she shall have no reason

to lament the hour that first put it into my head. I will make her very happy, Mary; happier than she has ever

yet been herself, or ever seen anybody else. I will not take her from Northamptonshire. I shall let

Everingham, and rent a place in this neighbourhood; perhaps Stanwix Lodge. I shall let a seven years' lease of

Everingham. I am sure of an excellent tenant at half a word. I could name three people now, who would give

"Ha!" cried Mary; "settle in Northamptonshire! That is pleasant! Then we shall be all together."

When she had spoken it, she recollected herself, and wished it unsaid; but there was no need of confusion; for

her brother saw her only as the supposed inmate of Mansfield parsonage, and replied but to invite her in the

"You must give us more than half your time," said he. "I cannot admit Mrs. Grant to have an equal claim with

Fanny and myself, for we shall both have a right in you. Fanny will be so truly your sister!"

Mary had only to be grateful and give general assurances; but she was now very fully purposed to be the

"That's right; and in London, of course, a house of your own: no longer with the Admiral. My dearest Henry,

the advantage to you of getting away from the Admiral before your manners are hurt by the contagion of his,

before you have contracted any of his foolish opinions, or learned to sit over your dinner as if it were the best

blessing of life! _You_ are not sensible of the gain, for your regard for him has blinded you; but, in my

estimation, your marrying early may be the saving of you. To have seen you grow like the Admiral in word

"Well, well, we do not think quite alike here. The Admiral has his faults, but he is a very good man, and has

been more than a father to me. Few fathers would have let me have my own way half so much. You must not

Mary refrained from saying what she felt, that there could not be two persons in existence whose characters

and manners were less accordant: time would discover it to him; but she could not help _this_ reflection on

the Admiral. "Henry, I think so highly of Fanny Price, that if I could suppose the next Mrs. Crawford would

have half the reason which my poor illused aunt had to abhor the very name, I would prevent the marriage,

if possible; but I know you: I know that a wife you _loved_ would be the happiest of women, and that even

when you ceased to love, she would yet find in you the liberality and goodbreeding of a gentleman."

The impossibility of not doing everything in the world to make Fanny Price happy, or of ceasing to love

"Had you seen her this morning, Mary," he continued, "attending with such ineffable sweetness and patience

to all the demands of her aunt's stupidity, working with her, and for her, her colour beautifully heightened as

she leant over the work, then returning to her seat to finish a note which she was previously engaged in

writing for that stupid woman's service, and all this with such unpretending gentleness, so much as if it were

a matter of course that she was not to have a moment at her own command, her hair arranged as neatly as it

always is, and one little curl falling forward as she wrote, which she now and then shook back, and in the

midst of all this, still speaking at intervals to _me_, or listening, and as if she liked to listen, to what I said.

Had you seen her so, Mary, you would not have implied the possibility of her power over my heart ever

"My dearest Henry," cried Mary, stopping short, and smiling in his face, "how glad I am to see you so much

"I care neither what they say nor what they feel. They will now see what sort of woman it is that can attach

me, that can attach a man of sense. I wish the discovery may do them any good. And they will now see their

cousin treated as she ought to be, and I wish they may be heartily ashamed of their own abominable neglect

and unkindness. They will be angry," he added, after a moment's silence, and in a cooler tone; "Mrs.

Rushworth will be very angry. It will be a bitter pill to her; that is, like other bitter pills, it will have two

moments' ill flavour, and then be swallowed and forgotten; for I am not such a coxcomb as to suppose her

feelings more lasting than other women's, though _I_ was the object of them. Yes, Mary, my Fanny will feel

a difference indeed: a daily, hourly difference, in the behaviour of every being who approaches her; and it

will be the completion of my happiness to know that I am the doer of it, that I am the person to give the

consequence so justly her due. Now she is dependent, helpless, friendless, neglected, forgotten."

"Nay, Henry, not by all; not forgotten by all; not friendless or forgotten. Her cousin Edmund never forgets

"Edmund! True, I believe he is, generally speaking, kind to her, and so is Sir Thomas in his way; but it is the

way of a rich, superior, longworded, arbitrary uncle. What can Sir Thomas and Edmund together do, what

do they _do_ for her happiness, comfort, honour, and dignity in the world, to what I _shall_ do?"

Henry Crawford was at Mansfield Park again the next morning, and at an earlier hour than common visiting

warrants. The two ladies were together in the breakfastroom, and, fortunately for him, Lady Bertram was on

the very point of quitting it as he entered. She was almost at the door, and not chusing by any means to take

so much trouble in vain, she still went on, after a civil reception, a short sentence about being waited for, and

Henry, overjoyed to have her go, bowed and watched her off, and without losing another moment, turned

instantly to Fanny, and, taking out some letters, said, with a most animated look, "I must acknowledge myself

infinitely obliged to any creature who gives me such an opportunity of seeing you alone: I have been wishing

it more than you can have any idea. Knowing as I do what your feelings as a sister are, I could hardly have

borne that any one in the house should share with you in the first knowledge of the news I now bring. He is

made. Your brother is a lieutenant. I have the infinite satisfaction of congratulating you on your brother's

promotion. Here are the letters which announce it, this moment come to hand. You will, perhaps, like to see

Fanny could not speak, but he did not want her to speak. To see the expression of her eyes, the change of her

complexion, the progress of her feelings, their doubt, confusion, and felicity, was enough. She took the letters

as he gave them. The first was from the Admiral to inform his nephew, in a few words, of his having

succeeded in the object he had undertaken, the promotion of young Price, and enclosing two more, one from

the Secretary of the First Lord to a friend, whom the Admiral had set to work in the business, the other from

that friend to himself, by which it appeared that his lordship had the very great happiness of attending to the

recommendation of Sir Charles; that Sir Charles was much delighted in having such an opportunity of

proving his regard for Admiral Crawford, and that the circumstance of Mr. William Price's commission as

Second Lieutenant of H.M. Sloop Thrush being made out was spreading general joy through a wide circle of

While her hand was trembling under these letters, her eye running from one to the other, and her heart

swelling with emotion, Crawford thus continued, with unfeigned eagerness, to express his interest in the

"I will not talk of my own happiness," said he, "great as it is, for I think only of yours. Compared with you,

who has a right to be happy? I have almost grudged myself my own prior knowledge of what you ought to

have known before all the world. I have not lost a moment, however. The post was late this morning, but

there has not been since a moment's delay. How impatient, how anxious, how wild I have been on the subject,

I will not attempt to describe; how severely mortified, how cruelly disappointed, in not having it finished

while I was in London! I was kept there from day to day in the hope of it, for nothing less dear to me than

such an object would have detained me half the time from Mansfield. But though my uncle entered into my

wishes with all the warmth I could desire, and exerted himself immediately, there were difficulties from the

absence of one friend, and the engagements of another, which at last I could no longer bear to stay the end of,

and knowing in what good hands I left the cause, I came away on Monday, trusting that many posts would

not pass before I should be followed by such very letters as these. My uncle, who is the very best man in the

world, has exerted himself, as I knew he would, after seeing your brother. He was delighted with him. I

would not allow myself yesterday to say how delighted, or to repeat half that the Admiral said in his praise. I

deferred it all till his praise should be proved the praise of a friend, as this day _does_ prove it. _Now_ I may

say that even I could not require William Price to excite a greater interest, or be followed by warmer wishes

and higher commendation, than were most voluntarily bestowed by my uncle after the evening they had

"Has this been all _your_ doing, then?" cried Fanny. "Good heaven! how very, very kind! Have you really

was it by _your_ desire? I beg your pardon, but I am bewildered. Did Admiral Crawford apply? How was it?

Henry was most happy to make it more intelligible, by beginning at an earlier stage, and explaining very

particularly what he had done. His last journey to London had been undertaken with no other view than that

of introducing her brother in Hill Street, and prevailing on the Admiral to exert whatever interest he might

have for getting him on. This had been his business. He had communicated it to no creature: he had not

breathed a syllable of it even to Mary; while uncertain of the issue, he could not have borne any participation

of his feelings, but this had been his business; and he spoke with such a glow of what his solicitude had been,

and used such strong expressions, was so abounding in the _deepest_ _interest_, in _twofold_ _motives_, in

_views_ _and_ _wishes_ _more_ _than_ _could_ _be_ _told_, that Fanny could not have remained insensible

of his drift, had she been able to attend; but her heart was so full and her senses still so astonished, that she

could listen but imperfectly even to what he told her of William, and saying only when he paused, "How

kind! how very kind! Oh, Mr. Crawford, we are infinitely obliged to you! Dearest, dearest William!" She

jumped up and moved in haste towards the door, crying out, "I will go to my uncle. My uncle ought to know

it as soon as possible." But this could not be suffered. The opportunity was too fair, and his feelings too

impatient. He was after her immediately. "She must not go, she must allow him five minutes longer," and he

took her hand and led her back to her seat, and was in the middle of his farther explanation, before she had

suspected for what she was detained. When she did understand it, however, and found herself expected to

believe that she had created sensations which his heart had never known before, and that everything he had

done for William was to be placed to the account of his excessive and unequalled attachment to her, she was

exceedingly distressed, and for some moments unable to speak. She considered it all as nonsense, as mere

trifling and gallantry, which meant only to deceive for the hour; she could not but feel that it was treating her

improperly and unworthily, and in such a way as she had not deserved; but it was like himself, and entirely of

a piece with what she had seen before; and she would not allow herself to shew half the displeasure she felt,

because he had been conferring an obligation, which no want of delicacy on his part could make a trifle to

her. While her heart was still bounding with joy and gratitude on William's behalf, she could not be severely

resentful of anything that injured only herself; and after having twice drawn back her hand, and twice

attempted in vain to turn away from him, she got up, and said only, with much agitation, "Don't, Mr.

Crawford, pray don't! I beg you would not. This is a sort of talking which is very unpleasant to me. I must go

away. I cannot bear it." But he was still talking on, describing his affection, soliciting a return, and, finally, in

words so plain as to bear but one meaning even to her, offering himself, hand, fortune, everything, to her

acceptance. It was so; he had said it. Her astonishment and confusion increased; and though still not knowing

"No, no, no!" she cried, hiding her face. "This is all nonsense. Do not distress me. I can hear no more of this.

Your kindness to William makes me more obliged to you than words can express; but I do not want, I cannot

bear, I must not listen to suchNo, no, don't think of me. But you are _not_ thinking of me. I know it is all

She had burst away from him, and at that moment Sir Thomas was heard speaking to a servant in his way

towards the room they were in. It was no time for farther assurances or entreaty, though to part with her at a

moment when her modesty alone seemed, to his sanguine and preassured mind, to stand in the way of the

happiness he sought, was a cruel necessity. She rushed out at an opposite door from the one her uncle was

approaching, and was walking up and down the East room ill the utmost confusion of contrary feeling, before

Sir Thomas's politeness or apologies were over, or he had reached the beginning of the joyful intelligence

She was feeling, thinking, trembling about everything; agitated, happy, miserable, infinitely obliged,

absolutely angry. It was all beyond belief! He was inexcusable, incomprehensible! But such were his habits

that he could do nothing without a mixture of evil. He had previously made her the happiest of human beings,

and now he had insultedshe knew not what to say, how to class, or how to regard it. She would not have

him be serious, and yet what could excuse the use of such words and offers, if they meant but to trifle?

But William was a lieutenant. _That_ was a fact beyond a doubt, and without an alloy. She would think of it

for ever and forget all the rest. Mr. Crawford would certainly never address her so again: he must have seen

how unwelcome it was to her; and in that case, how gratefully she could esteem him for his friendship to

She would not stir farther from the East room than the head of the great staircase, till she had satisfied herself

of Mr. Crawford's having left the house; but when convinced of his being gone, she was eager to go down

and be with her uncle, and have all the happiness of his joy as well as her own, and all the benefit of his

information or his conjectures as to what would now be William's destination. Sir Thomas was as joyful as

she could desire, and very kind and communicative; and she had so comfortable a talk with him about

William as to make her feel as if nothing had occurred to vex her, till she found, towards the close, that Mr.

Crawford was engaged to return and dine there that very day. This was a most unwelcome hearing, for

though he might think nothing of what had passed, it would be quite distressing to her to see him again so

She tried to get the better of it; tried very hard, as the dinner hour approached, to feel and appear as usual; but

it was quite impossible for her not to look most shy and uncomfortable when their visitor entered the room.

She could not have supposed it in the power of any concurrence of circumstances to give her so many painful

Mr. Crawford was not only in the roomhe was soon close to her. He had a note to deliver from his sister.

Fanny could not look at him, but there was no consciousness of past folly in his voice. She opened her note

immediately, glad to have anything to do, and happy, as she read it, to feel that the fidgetings of her aunt

"My dear Fanny,for so I may now always call you, to the infinite relief of a tongue that has been stumbling

at _Miss_ _Price_ for at least the last six weeks I cannot let my brother go without sending you a few lines

of general congratulation, and giving my most joyful consent and approval. Go on, my dear Fanny, and

without fear; there can be no difficulties worth naming. I chuse to suppose that the assurance of my consent

will be something; so you may smile upon him with your sweetest smiles this afternoon, and send him back

These were not expressions to do Fanny any good; for though she read in too much haste and confusion to

form the clearest judgment of Miss Crawford's meaning, it was evident that she meant to compliment her on

her brother's attachment, and even to _appear_ to believe it serious. She did not know what to do, or what to

think. There was wretchedness in the idea of its being serious; there was perplexity and agitation every way.

She was distressed whenever Mr. Crawford spoke to her, and he spoke to her much too often; and she was

afraid there was a something in his voice and manner in addressing her very different from what they were

when he talked to the others. Her comfort in that day's dinner was quite destroyed: she could hardly eat

anything; and when Sir Thomas goodhumouredly observed that joy had taken away her appetite, she was

ready to sink with shame, from the dread of Mr. Crawford's interpretation; for though nothing could have

tempted her to turn her eyes to the right hand, where he sat, she felt that _his_ were immediately directed

She was more silent than ever. She would hardly join even when William was the subject, for his commission

She thought Lady Bertram sat longer than ever, and began to be in despair of ever getting away; but at last

they were in the drawingroom, and she was able to think as she would, while her aunts finished the subject

Mrs. Norris seemed as much delighted with the saving it would be to Sir Thomas as with any part of it.

"_Now_ William would be able to keep himself, which would make a vast difference to his uncle, for it was

unknown how much he had cost his uncle; and, indeed, it would make some difference in _her_ presents too.

She was very glad that she had given William what she did at parting, very glad, indeed, that it had been in

her power, without material inconvenience, just at that time to give him something rather considerable; that

is, for_her_, with _her_ limited means, for now it would all be useful in helping to fit up his cabin. She knew

he must be at some expense, that he would have many things to buy, though to be sure his father and mother

would be able to put him in the way of getting everything very cheap; but she was very glad she had

"I am glad you gave him something considerable," said Lady Bertram, with most unsuspicious calmness, "for

"Indeed!" cried Mrs. Norris, reddening. "Upon my word, he must have gone off with his pockets 1 well lined,

Mrs. Norris, being not at all inclined to question its sufficiency, began to take the matter in another point.

"It is amazing," said she, "how much young people cost their friends, what with bringing them up and putting

them out in the world! They little think how much it comes to, or what their parents, or their uncles and aunts,

pay for them in the course of the year. Now, here are my sister Price's children; take them all together, I dare

say nobody would believe what a sum they cost Sir Thomas every year, to say nothing of what _I_ do for

"Very true, sister, as you say. But, poor things! they cannot help it; and you know it makes very little

difference to Sir Thomas. Fanny, William must not forget my shawl if he goes to the East Indies; and I shall

give him a commission for anything else that is worth having. I wish he may go to the East Indies, that I may

Fanny, meanwhile, speaking only when she could not help it, was very earnestly trying to understand what

Mr. and Miss Crawford were at. There was everything in the world _against_ their being serious but his

words and manner. Everything natural, probable, reasonable, was against it; all their habits and ways of

thinking, and all her own demerits. How could _she_ have excited serious attachment in a man who had seen

so many, and been admired by so many, and flirted with so many, infinitely her superiors; who seemed so

little open to serious impressions, even where pains had been taken to please him; who thought so slightly, so

carelessly, so unfeelingly on all such points; who was everything to everybody, and seemed to find no one

essential to him? And farther, how could it be supposed that his sister, with all her high and worldly notions

of matrimony, would be forwarding anything of a serious nature in such a quarter? Nothing could be more

unnatural in either. Fanny was ashamed of her own doubts. Everything might be possible rather than serious

attachment, or serious approbation of it toward her. She had quite convinced herself of this before Sir Thomas

and Mr. Crawford joined them. The difficulty was in maintaining the conviction quite so absolutely after Mr.

Crawford was in the room; for once or twice a look seemed forced on her which she did not know how to

class among the common meaning; in any other man, at least, she would have said that it meant something

very earnest, very pointed. But she still tried to believe it no more than what he might often have expressed

She thought he was wishing to speak to her unheard by the rest. She fancied he was trying for it the whole

evening at intervals, whenever Sir Thomas was out of the room, or at all engaged with Mrs. Norris, and she

At lastit seemed an at last to Fanny's nervousness, though not remarkably latehe began to talk of going

away; but the comfort of the sound was impaired by his turning to her the next moment, and saying, "Have

you nothing to send to Mary? No answer to her note? She will be disappointed if she receives nothing from

"Oh yes! certainly," cried Fanny, rising in haste, the haste of embarrassment and of wanting to get away "I

She went accordingly to the table, where she was in the habit of writing for her aunt, and prepared her

materials without knowing what in the world to say. She had read Miss Crawford's note only once, and how

to reply to anything so imperfectly understood was most distressing. Quite unpractised in such sort of

notewriting, had there been time for scruples and fears as to style she would have felt them in abundance:

but something must be instantly written; and with only one decided feeling, that of wishing not to appear to

think anything really intended, she wrote thus, in great trembling both of spirits and hand

"I am very much obliged to you, my dear Miss Crawford, for your kind congratulations, as far as they relate

to my dearest William. The rest of your note I know means nothing; but I am so unequal to anything of the

sort, that I hope you will excuse my begging you to take no farther notice. I have seen too much of Mr.

Crawford not to understand his manners; if he understood me as well, he would, I dare say, behave

differently. I do not know what I write, but it would be a great favour of you never to mention the subject

again. With thanks for the honour of your note, I remain, dear Miss Crawford, etc., etc."

The conclusion was scarcely intelligible from increasing fright, for she found that Mr. Crawford, under

"You cannot think I mean to hurry you," said he, in an undervoice, perceiving the amazing trepidation with

which she made up the note, "you cannot think I have any such object. Do not hurry yourself, I entreat."

"Oh! I thank you; I have quite done, just done; it will be ready in a moment; I am very much obliged to you;

The note was held out, and must be taken; and as she instantly and with averted eyes walked towards the

fireplace, where sat the others, he had nothing to do but to go in good earnest.

Fanny thought she had never known a day of greater agitation, both of pain and pleasure; but happily the

pleasure was not of a sort to die with the day; for every day would restore the knowledge of William's

advancement, whereas the pain, she hoped, would return no more. She had no doubt that her note must

appear excessively illwritten, that the language would disgrace a child, for her distress had allowed no

arrangement; but at least it would assure them both of her being neither imposed on nor gratified by Mr.

Fanny had by no means forgotten Mr. Crawford when she awoke the next morning; but she remembered the

purport of her note, and was not less sanguine as to its effect than she had been the night before. If Mr.

Crawford would but go away! That was what she most earnestly desired: go and take his sister with him, as

he was to do, and as he returned to Mansfield on purpose to do. And why it was not done already she could

not devise, for Miss Crawford certainly wanted no delay. Fanny had hoped, in the course of his yesterday's

visit, to hear the day named; but he had only spoken of their journey as what would take place ere long.

Having so satisfactorily settled the conviction her note would convey, she could not but be astonished to see

Mr. Crawford, as she accidentally did, coming up to the house again, and at an hour as early as the day

before. His coming might have nothing to do with her, but she must avoid seeing him if possible; and being

then on her way upstairs, she resolved there to remain, during the whole of his visit, unless actually sent for;

and as Mrs. Norris was still in the house, there seemed little danger of her being wanted.

She sat some time in a good deal of agitation, listening, trembling, and fearing to be sent for every moment;

but as no footsteps approached the East room, she grew gradually composed, could sit down, and be able to

employ herself, and able to hope that Mr. Crawford had come and would go without her being obliged to

Nearly half an hour had passed, and she was growing very comfortable, when suddenly the sound of a step in

regular approach was heard; a heavy step, an unusual step in that part of the house: it was her uncle's; she

knew it as well as his voice; she had trembled at it as often, and began to tremble again, at the idea of his

coming up to speak to her, whatever might be the subject. It was indeed Sir Thomas who opened the door and

asked if she were there, and if he might come in. The terror of his former occasional visits to that room

seemed all renewed, and she felt as if he were going to examine her again in French and English.

She was all attention, however, in placing a chair for him, and trying to appear honoured; and, in her

agitation, had quite overlooked the deficiencies of her apartment, till he, stopping short as he entered, said,

"How comes this about? Here must be some mistake. I understood that you had the use of this room by way

of making you perfectly comfortable. In your bedchamber I know you _cannot_ have a fire. Here is some

great misapprehension which must be rectified. It is highly unfit for you to sit, be it only half an hour a day,

without a fire. You are not strong. You are chilly. Your aunt cannot be aware of this."

Fanny would rather have been silent; but being obliged to speak, she could not forbear, in justice to the aunt

she loved best, from saying something in which the words "my aunt Norris" were distinguishable.

"I understand," cried her uncle, recollecting himself, and not wanting to hear more: "I understand. Your aunt

Norris has always been an advocate, and very judiciously, for young people's being brought up without

unnecessary indulgences; but there should be moderation in everything. She is also very hardy herself, which

of course will influence her in her opinion of the wants of others. And on another account, too, I can perfectly

comprehend. I know what her sentiments have always been. The principle was good in itself, but it may have

been, and I believe _has_ _been_, carried too far in your case. I am aware that there has been sometimes, in

some points, a misplaced distinction; but I think too well of you, Fanny, to suppose you will ever harbour

resentment on that account. You have an understanding which will prevent you from receiving things only in

part, and judging partially by the event. You will take in the whole of the past, you will consider times,

persons, and probabilities, and you will feel that _they_ were not least your friends who were educating and

preparing you for that mediocrity of condition which _seemed_ to be your lot. Though their caution may

prove eventually unnecessary, it was kindly meant; and of this you may be assured, that every advantage of

affluence will be doubled by the little privations and restrictions that may have been imposed. I am sure you

will not disappoint my opinion of you, by failing at any time to treat your aunt Norris with the respect and

attention that are due to her. But enough of this. Sit down, my dear. I must speak to you for a few minutes,

Fanny obeyed, with eyes cast down and colour rising. After a moment's pause, Sir Thomas, trying to suppress

"You are not aware, perhaps, that I have had a visitor this morning. I had not been long in my own room,

after breakfast, when Mr. Crawford was shewn in. His errand you may probably conjecture."

Fanny's colour grew deeper and deeper; and her uncle, perceiving that she was embarrassed to a degree that

made either speaking or looking up quite impossible, turned away his own eyes, and without any farther

Mr. Crawford's business had been to declare himself the lover of Fanny, make decided proposals for her, and

entreat the sanction of the uncle, who seemed to stand in the place of her parents; and he had done it all so

well, so openly, so liberally, so properly, that Sir Thomas, feeling, moreover, his own replies, and his own

remarks to have been very much to the purpose, was exceedingly happy to give the particulars of their

conversation; and little aware of what was passing in his niece's mind, conceived that by such details he must

be gratifying her far more than himself. He talked, therefore, for several minutes without Fanny's daring to

interrupt him. She had hardly even attained the wish to do it. Her mind was in too much confusion. She had

changed her position; and, with her eyes fixed intently on one of the windows, was listening to her uncle in

the utmost perturbation and dismay. For a moment he ceased, but she had barely become conscious of it,

when, rising from his chair, he said, "And now, Fanny, having performed one part of my commission, and

shewn you everything placed on a basis the most assured and satisfactory, I may execute the remainder by

prevailing on you to accompany me downstairs, where, though I cannot but presume on having been no

unacceptable companion myself, I must submit to your finding one still better worth listening to. Mr.

Crawford, as you have perhaps foreseen, is yet in the house. He is in my room, and hoping to see you there."

There was a look, a start, an exclamation on hearing this, which astonished Sir Thomas; but what was his

increase of astonishment on hearing her exclaim"Oh! no, sir, I cannot, indeed I cannot go down to him.

Mr. Crawford ought to know he must know that: I told him enough yesterday to convince him; he spoke to

me on this subject yesterday, and I told him without disguise that it was very disagreeable to me, and quite

"I do not catch your meaning," said Sir Thomas, sitting down again. "Out of your power to return his good

opinion? What is all this? I know he spoke to you yesterday, and (as far as I understand) received as much

encouragement to proceed as a welljudging young woman could permit herself to give. I was very much

pleased with what I collected to have been your behaviour on the occasion; it shewed a discretion highly to be

commended. But now, when he has made his overtures so properly, and honourably what are your scruples

"You are mistaken, sir," cried Fanny, forced by the anxiety of the moment even to tell her uncle that he was

wrong; "you are quite mistaken. How could Mr. Crawford say such a thing? I gave him no encouragement

yesterday. On the contrary, I told him, I cannot recollect my exact words, but I am sure I told him that I

would not listen to him, that it was very unpleasant to me in every respect, and that I begged him never to talk

to me in that manner again. I am sure I said as much as that and more; and I should have said still more, if I

had been quite certain of his meaning anything seriously; but I did not like to be, I could not bear to be,

imputing more than might be intended. I thought it might all pass for nothing with _him_."

"Am I to understand," said Sir Thomas, after a few moments' silence, "that you mean to _refuse_ Mr.

"This is very strange!" said Sir Thomas, in a voice of calm displeasure. "There is something in this which my

comprehension does not reach. Here is a young man wishing to pay his addresses to you, with everything to

recommend him: not merely situation in life, fortune, and character, but with more than common

agreeableness, with address and conversation pleasing to everybody. And he is not an acquaintance of

today; you have now known him some time. His sister, moreover, is your intimate friend, and he has been

doing _that_ for your brother, which I should suppose would have been almost sufficient recommendation to

you, had there been no other. It is very uncertain when my interest might have got William on. He has done it

"Yes," said Fanny, in a faint voice, and looking down with fresh shame; and she did feel almost ashamed of

herself, after such a picture as her uncle had drawn, for not liking Mr. Crawford.

"You must have been aware," continued Sir Thomas presently, "you must have been some time aware of a

particularity in Mr. Crawford's manners to you. This cannot have taken you by surprise. You must have

observed his attentions; and though you always received them very properly (I have no accusation to make on

that head), I never perceived them to be unpleasant to you. I am half inclined to think, Fanny, that you do not

Sir Thomas looked at her with deeper surprise. "This is beyond me," said he. "This requires explanation.

Young as you are, and having seen scarcely any one, it is hardly possible that your affections"

He paused and eyed her fixedly. He saw her lips formed into a _no_, though the sound was inarticulate, but

her face was like scarlet. That, however, in so modest a girl, might be very compatible with innocence; and

chusing at least to appear satisfied, he quickly added, "No, no, I know _that_ is quite out of the question;

And for a few minutes he did say nothing. He was deep in thought. His niece was deep in thought likewise,

trying to harden and prepare herself against farther questioning. She would rather die than own the truth; and

"Independently of the interest which Mr. Crawford's _choice_ seemed to justify" said Sir Thomas, beginning

again, and very composedly, "his wishing to marry at all so early is recommendatory to me. I am an advocate

for early marriages, where there are means in proportion, and would have every young man, with a sufficient

income, settle as soon after fourandtwenty as he can. This is so much my opinion, that I am sorry to think

how little likely my own eldest son, your cousin, Mr. Bertram, is to marry early; but at present, as far as I can

judge, matrimony makes no part of his plans or thoughts. I wish he were more likely to fix." Here was a

glance at Fanny. "Edmund, I consider, from his dispositions and habits, as much more likely to marry early

than his brother. _He_, indeed, I have lately thought, has seen the woman he could love, which, I am

It was gently, but it was calmly said, and Sir Thomas was easy on the score of the cousins. But the removal of

his alarm did his niece no service: as her unaccountableness was confirmed his displeasure increased; and

getting up and walking about the room with a frown, which Fanny could picture to herself, though she dared

not lift up her eyes, he shortly afterwards, and in a voice of authority, said, "Have you any reason, child, to

She longed to add, "But of his principles I have"; but her heart sunk under the appalling prospect of

discussion, explanation, and probably nonconviction. Her ill opinion of him was founded chiefly on

observations, which, for her cousins' sake, she could scarcely dare mention to their father. Maria and Julia,

and especially Maria, were so closely implicated in Mr. Crawford's misconduct, that she could not give his

character, such as she believed it, without betraying them. She had hoped that, to a man like her uncle, so

discerning, so honourable, so good, the simple acknowledgment of settled _dislike_ on her side would have

Sir Thomas came towards the table where she sat in trembling wretchedness, and with a good deal of cold

sternness, said, "It is of no use, I perceive, to talk to you. We had better put an end to this most mortifying

conference. Mr. Crawford must not be kept longer waiting. I will, therefore, only add, as thinking it my duty

to mark my opinion of your conduct, that you have disappointed every expectation I had formed, and proved

yourself of a character the very reverse of what I had supposed. For I _had_, Fanny, as I think my behaviour

must have shewn, formed a very favourable opinion of you from the period of my return to England. I had

thought you peculiarly free from wilfulness of temper, selfconceit, and every tendency to that independence

of spirit which prevails so much in modern days, even in young women, and which in young women is

offensive and disgusting beyond all common offence. But you have now shewn me that you can be wilful and

perverse; that you can and will decide for yourself, without any consideration or deference for those who

have surely some right to guide you, without even asking their advice. You have shewn yourself very, very

different from anything that I had imagined. The advantage or disadvantage of your family, of your parents,

your brothers and sisters, never seems to have had a moment's share in your thoughts on this occasion. How

_they_ might be benefited, how _they_ must rejoice in such an establishment for you, is nothing to _you_.

You think only of yourself, and because you do not feel for Mr. Crawford exactly what a young heated fancy

imagines to be necessary for happiness, you resolve to refuse him at once, without wishing even for a little

time to consider of it, a little more time for cool consideration, and for really examining your own

inclinations; and are, in a wild fit of folly, throwing away from you such an opportunity of being settled in

life, eligibly, honourably, nobly settled, as will, probably, never occur to you again. Here is a young man of

sense, of character, of temper, of manners, and of fortune, exceedingly attached to you, and seeking your

hand in the most handsome and disinterested way; and let me tell you, Fanny, that you may live eighteen

years longer in the world without being addressed by a man of half Mr. Crawford's estate, or a tenth part of

his merits. Gladly would I have bestowed either of my own daughters on him. Maria is nobly married; but

had Mr. Crawford sought Julia's hand, I should have given it to him with superior and more heartfelt

satisfaction than I gave Maria's to Mr. Rushworth." After half a moment's pause: "And I should have been

very much surprised had either of my daughters, on receiving a proposal of marriage at any time which might

carry with it only _half_ the eligibility of _this_, immediately and peremptorily, and without paying my

opinion or my regard the compliment of any consultation, put a decided negative on it. I should have been

much surprised and much hurt by such a proceeding. I should have thought it a gross violation of duty and

respect. _You_ are not to be judged by the same rule. You do not owe me the duty of a child. But, Fanny, if

He ceased. Fanny was by this time crying so bitterly that, angry as he was, he would not press that article

farther. Her heart was almost broke by such a picture of what she appeared to him; by such accusations, so

heavy, so multiplied, so rising in dreadful gradation! Selfwilled, obstinate, selfish, and ungrateful. He

thought her all this. She had deceived his expectations; she had lost his good opinion. What was to become of

"I am very sorry," said she inarticulately, through her tears, "I am very sorry indeed."

"Sorry! yes, I hope you are sorry; and you will probably have reason to be long sorry for this day's

"If it were possible for me to do otherwise" said she, with another strong effort; "but I am so perfectly

convinced that I could never make him happy, and that I should be miserable myself."

Another burst of tears; but in spite of that burst, and in spite of that great black word _miserable_, which

served to introduce it, Sir Thomas began to think a little relenting, a little change of inclination, might have

something to do with it; and to augur favourably from the personal entreaty of the young man himself. He

knew her to be very timid, and exceedingly nervous; and thought it not improbable that her mind might be in

such a state as a little time, a little pressing, a little patience, and a little impatience, a judicious mixture of all

on the lover's side, might work their usual effect on. If the gentleman would but persevere, if he had but love

enough to persevere, Sir Thomas began to have hopes; and these reflections having passed across his mind

and cheered it, "Well," said he, in a tone of becoming gravity, but of less anger, "well, child, dry up your

tears. There is no use in these tears; they can do no good. You must now come downstairs with me. Mr.

Crawford has been kept waiting too long already. You must give him your own answer: we cannot expect

him to be satisfied with less; and you only can explain to him the grounds of that misconception of your

sentiments, which, unfortunately for himself, he certainly has imbibed. I am totally unequal to it."

But Fanny shewed such reluctance, such misery, at the idea of going down to him, that Sir Thomas, after a

little consideration, judged it better to indulge her. His hopes from both gentleman and lady suffered a small

depression in consequence; but when he looked at his niece, and saw the state of feature and complexion

which her crying had brought her into, he thought there might be as much lost as gained by an immediate

interview. With a few words, therefore, of no particular meaning, he walked off by himself, leaving his poor

Her mind was all disorder. The past, present, future, everything was terrible. But her uncle's anger gave her

the severest pain of all. Selfish and ungrateful! to have appeared so to him! She was miserable for ever. She

had no one to take her part, to counsel, or speak for her. Her only friend was absent. He might have softened

his father; but all, perhaps all, would think her selfish and ungrateful. She might have to endure the reproach

again and again; she might hear it, or see it, or know it to exist for ever in every connexion about her. She

could not but feel some resentment against Mr. Crawford; yet, if he really loved her, and were unhappy too!

In about a quarter of an hour her uncle returned; she was almost ready to faint at the sight of him. He spoke

calmly, however, without austerity, without reproach, and she revived a little. There was comfort, too, in his

words, as well as his manner, for he began with, "Mr. Crawford is gone: he has just left me. I need not repeat

what has passed. I do not want to add to anything you may now be feeling, by an account of what he has felt.

Suffice it, that he has behaved in the most gentlemanlike and generous manner, and has confirmed me in a

most favourable opinion of his understanding, heart, and temper. Upon my representation of what you were

suffering, he immediately, and with the greatest delicacy, ceased to urge to see you for the present."

Here Fanny, who had looked up, looked down again. "Of course," continued her uncle, "it cannot be

supposed but that he should request to speak with you alone, be it only for five minutes; a request too natural,

a claim too just to be denied. But there is no time fixed; perhaps tomorrow, or whenever your spirits are

composed enough. For the present you have only to tranquillise yourself. Check these tears; they do but

exhaust you. If, as I am willing to suppose, you wish to shew me any observance, you will not give way to

these emotions, but endeavour to reason yourself into a stronger frame of mind. I advise you to go out: the air

will do you good; go out for an hour on the gravel; you will have the shrubbery to yourself, and will be the

better for air and exercise. And, Fanny" (turning back again for a moment), "I shall make no mention below

of what has passed; I shall not even tell your aunt Bertram. There is no occasion for spreading the

This was an order to be most joyfully obeyed; this was an act of kindness which Fanny felt at her heart. To be

spared from her aunt Norris's interminable reproaches! he left her in a glow of gratitude. Anything might be

bearable rather than such reproaches. Even to see Mr. Crawford would be less overpowering.

She walked out directly, as her uncle recommended, and followed his advice throughout, as far as she could;

did check her tears; did earnestly try to compose her spirits and strengthen her mind. She wished to prove to

him that she did desire his comfort, and sought to regain his favour; and he had given her another strong

motive for exertion, in keeping the whole affair from the knowledge of her aunts. Not to excite suspicion by

her look or manner was now an object worth attaining; and she felt equal to almost anything that might save

She was struck, quite struck, when, on returning from her walk and going into the East room again, the first

thing which caught her eye was a fire lighted and burning. A fire! it seemed too much; just at that time to be

giving her such an indulgence was exciting even painful gratitude. She wondered that Sir Thomas could have

leisure to think of such a trifle again; but she soon found, from the voluntary information of the housemaid,

who came in to attend it, that so it was to be every day. Sir Thomas had given orders for it.

"I must be a brute, indeed, if I can be really ungrateful!" said she, in soliloquy. "Heaven defend me from

She saw nothing more of her uncle, nor of her aunt Norris, till they met at dinner. Her uncle's behaviour to

her was then as nearly as possible what it had been before; she was sure he did not mean there should be any

change, and that it was only her own conscience that could fancy any; but her aunt was soon quarrelling with

her; and when she found how much and how unpleasantly her having only walked out without her aunt's

knowledge could be dwelt on, she felt all the reason she had to bless the kindness which saved her from the

"If I had known you were going out, I should have got you just to go as far as my house with some orders for

Nanny," said she, "which I have since, to my very great inconvenience, been obliged to go and carry myself. I

could very ill spare the time, and you might have saved me the trouble, if you would only have been so good

as to let us know you were going out. It would have made no difference to you, I suppose, whether you had

"Oh!" said Mrs. Norris, with a moment's check, "that was very kind of you, Sir Thomas; but you do not know

how dry the path is to my house. Fanny would have had quite as good a walk there, I assure you, with the

advantage of being of some use, and obliging her aunt: it is all her fault. If she would but have let us know

she was going out but there is a something about Fanny, I have often observed it beforeshe likes to go her

own way to work; she does not like to be dictated to; she takes her own independent walk whenever she can;

she certainly has a little spirit of secrecy, and independence, and nonsense, about her, which I would advise

As a general reflection on Fanny, Sir Thomas thought nothing could be more unjust, though he had been so

lately expressing the same sentiments himself, and he tried to turn the conversation: tried repeatedly before he

could succeed; for Mrs. Norris had not discernment enough to perceive, either now, or at any other time, to

what degree he thought well of his niece, or how very far he was from wishing to have his own children's

merits set off by the depreciation of hers. She was talking _at_ Fanny, and resenting this private walk half

It was over, however, at last; and the evening set in with more composure to Fanny, and more cheerfulness of

spirits than she could have hoped for after so stormy a morning; but she trusted, in the first place, that she had

done right: that her judgment had not misled her. For the purity of her intentions she could answer; and she

was willing to hope, secondly, that her uncle's displeasure was abating, and would abate farther as he

considered the matter with more impartiality, and felt, as a good man must feel, how wretched, and how

When the meeting with which she was threatened for the morrow was past, she could not but flatter herself

that the subject would be finally concluded, and Mr. Crawford once gone from Mansfield, that everything

would soon be as if no such subject had existed. She would not, could not believe, that Mr. Crawford's

affection for her could distress him long; his mind was not of that sort. London would soon bring its cure. In

London he would soon learn to wonder at his infatuation, and be thankful for the right reason in her which

While Fanny's mind was engaged in these sort of hopes, her uncle was, soon after tea, called out of the room;

an occurrence too common to strike her, and she thought nothing of it till the butler reappeared ten minutes

afterwards, and advancing decidedly towards herself, said, "Sir Thomas wishes to speak with you, ma'am, in

his own room." Then it occurred to her what might be going on; a suspicion rushed over her mind which

drove the colour from her cheeks; but instantly rising, she was preparing to obey, when Mrs. Norris called

out, "Stay, stay, Fanny! what are you about? where are you going? don't be in such a hurry. Depend upon it, it

is not you who are wanted; depend upon it, it is me" (looking at the butler); "but you are so very eager to put

yourself forward. What should Sir Thomas want you for? It is me, Baddeley, you mean; I am coming this

But Baddeley was stout. "No, ma'am, it is Miss Price; I am certain of its being Miss Price." And there was a

halfsmile with the words, which meant, "I do not think you would answer the purpose at all."

Mrs. Norris, much discontented, was obliged to compose herself to work again; and Fanny, walking off in

agitating consciousness, found herself, as she anticipated, in another minute alone with Mr. Crawford.

The conference was neither so short nor so conclusive as the lady had designed. The gentleman was not so

easily satisfied. He had all the disposition to persevere that Sir Thomas could wish him. He had vanity, which

strongly inclined him in the first place to think she did love him, though she might not know it herself; and

which, secondly, when constrained at last to admit that she did know her own present feelings, convinced him

He was in love, very much in love; and it was a love which, operating on an active, sanguine spirit, of more

warmth than delicacy, made her affection appear of greater consequence because it was withheld, and

determined him to have the glory, as well as the felicity, of forcing her to love him.

He would not despair: he would not desist. He had every wellgrounded reason for solid attachment; he knew

her to have all the worth that could justify the warmest hopes of lasting happiness with her; her conduct at

this very time, by speaking the disinterestedness and delicacy of her character (qualities which he believed

most rare indeed), was of a sort to heighten all his wishes, and confirm all his resolutions. He knew not that

he had a preengaged heart to attack. Of _that_ he had no suspicion. He considered her rather as one who had

never thought on the subject enough to be in danger; who had been guarded by youth, a youth of mind as

lovely as of person; whose modesty had prevented her from understanding his attentions, and who was still

overpowered by the suddenness of addresses so wholly unexpected, and the novelty of a situation which her

Must it not follow of course, that, when he was understood, he should succeed? He believed it fully. Love

such as his, in a man like himself, must with perseverance secure a return, and at no great distance; and he

had so much delight in the idea of obliging her to love him in a very short time, that her not loving him now

was scarcely regretted. A little difficulty to be overcome was no evil to Henry Crawford. He rather derived

spirits from it. He had been apt to gain hearts too easily. His situation was new and animating.

To Fanny, however, who had known too much opposition all her life to find any charm in it, all this was

unintelligible. She found that he did mean to persevere; but how he could, after such language from her as she

felt herself obliged to use, was not to be understood. She told him that she did not love him, could not love

him, was sure she never should love him; that such a change was quite impossible; that the subject was most

painful to her; that she must entreat him never to mention it again, to allow her to leave him at once, and let it

be considered as concluded for ever. And when farther pressed, had added, that in her opinion their

dispositions were so totally dissimilar as to make mutual affection incompatible; and that they were unfitted

for each other by nature, education, and habit. All this she had said, and with the earnestness of sincerity; yet

this was not enough, for he immediately denied there being anything uncongenial in their characters, or

anything unfriendly in their situations; and positively declared, that he would still love, and still hope!

Fanny knew her own meaning, but was no judge of her own manner. Her manner was incurably gentle; and

she was not aware how much it concealed the sternness of her purpose. Her diffidence, gratitude, and softness

made every expression of indifference seem almost an effort of selfdenial; seem, at least, to be giving nearly

as much pain to herself as to him. Mr. Crawford was no longer the Mr. Crawford who, as the clandestine,

insidious, treacherous admirer of Maria Bertram, had been her abhorrence, whom she had hated to see or to

speak to, in whom she could believe no good quality to exist, and whose power, even of being agreeable, she

had barely acknowledged. He was now the Mr. Crawford who was addressing herself with ardent,

disinterested love; whose feelings were apparently become all that was honourable and upright, whose views

of happiness were all fixed on a marriage of attachment; who was pouring out his sense of her merits,

describing and describing again his affection, proving as far as words could prove it, and in the language,

tone, and spirit of a man of talent too, that he sought her for her gentleness and her goodness; and to complete

Here was a change, and here were claims which could not but operate! She might have disdained him in all

the dignity of angry virtue, in the grounds of Sotherton, or the theatre at Mansfield Park; but he approached

her now with rights that demanded different treatment. She must be courteous, and she must be

compassionate. She must have a sensation of being honoured, and whether thinking of herself or her brother,

she must have a strong feeling of gratitude. The effect of the whole was a manner so pitying and agitated, and

words intermingled with her refusal so expressive of obligation and concern, that to a temper of vanity and

hope like Crawford's, the truth, or at least the strength of her indifference, might well be questionable; and he

was not so irrational as Fanny considered him, in the professions of persevering, assiduous, and not

It was with reluctance that he suffered her to go; but there was no look of despair in parting to belie his

words, or give her hopes of his being less unreasonable than he professed himself.

Now she was angry. Some resentment did arise at a perseverance so selfish and ungenerous. Here was again a

want of delicacy and regard for others which had formerly so struck and disgusted her. Here was again a

something of the same Mr. Crawford whom she had so reprobated before. How evidently was there a gross

want of feeling and humanity where his own pleasure was concerned; and alas! how always known no

principle to supply as a duty what the heart was deficient in! Had her own affections been as free as perhaps

So thought Fanny, in good truth and sober sadness, as she sat musing over that too great indulgence and

luxury of a fire upstairs: wondering at the past and present; wondering at what was yet to come, and in a

nervous agitation which made nothing clear to her but the persuasion of her being never under any

circumstances able to love Mr. Crawford, and the felicity of having a fire to sit over and think of it.

Sir Thomas was obliged, or obliged himself, to wait till the morrow for a knowledge of what had passed

between the young people. He then saw Mr. Crawford, and received his account. The first feeling was

disappointment: he had hoped better things; he had thought that an hour's entreaty from a young man like

Crawford could not have worked so little change on a gentletempered girl like Fanny; but there was speedy

comfort in the determined views and sanguine perseverance of the lover; and when seeing such confidence of

Nothing was omitted, on his side, of civility, compliment, or kindness, that might assist the plan. Mr.

Crawford's steadiness was honoured, and Fanny was praised, and the connexion was still the most desirable

in the world. At Mansfield Park Mr. Crawford would always be welcome; he had only to consult his own

judgment and feelings as to the frequency of his visits, at present or in future. In all his niece's family and

friends, there could be but one opinion, one wish on the subject; the influence of all who loved her must

Everything was said that could encourage, every encouragement received with grateful joy, and the

Satisfied that the cause was now on a footing the most proper and hopeful, Sir Thomas resolved to abstain

from all farther importunity with his niece, and to shew no open interference. Upon her disposition he

believed kindness might be the best way of working. Entreaty should be from one quarter only. The

forbearance of her family on a point, respecting which she could be in no doubt of their wishes, might be

their surest means of forwarding it. Accordingly, on this principle, Sir Thomas took the first opportunity of

saying to her, with a mild gravity, intended to be overcoming, "Well, Fanny, I have seen Mr. Crawford again,

and learn from him exactly how matters stand between you. He is a most extraordinary young man, and

whatever be the event, you must feel that you have created an attachment of no common character; though,

young as you are, and little acquainted with the transient, varying, unsteady nature of love, as it generally

exists, you cannot be struck as I am with all that is wonderful in a perseverance of this sort against

discouragement. With him it is entirely a matter of feeling: he claims no merit in it; perhaps is entitled to

none. Yet, having chosen so well, his constancy has a respectable stamp. Had his choice been less

"Indeed, sir," said Fanny, "I am very sorry that Mr. Crawford should continue to know that it is paying me a

very great compliment, and I feel most undeservedly honoured; but I am so perfectly convinced, and I have

"My dear," interrupted Sir Thomas, "there is no occasion for this. Your feelings are as well known to me as

my wishes and regrets must be to you. There is nothing more to be said or done. From this hour the subject is

never to be revived between us. You will have nothing to fear, or to be agitated about. You cannot suppose

me capable of trying to persuade you to marry against your inclinations. Your happiness and advantage are

all that I have in view, and nothing is required of you but to bear with Mr. Crawford's endeavours to convince

you that they may not be incompatible with his. He proceeds at his own risk. You are on safe ground. I have

engaged for your seeing him whenever he calls, as you might have done had nothing of this sort occurred.

You will see him with the rest of us, in the same manner, and, as much as you can, dismissing the

recollection of everything unpleasant. He leaves Northamptonshire so soon, that even this slight sacrifice

cannot be often demanded. The future must be very uncertain. And now, my dear Fanny, this subject is

The promised departure was all that Fanny could think of with much satisfaction. Her uncle's kind

expressions, however, and forbearing manner, were sensibly felt; and when she considered how much of the

truth was unknown to him, she believed she had no right to wonder at the line of conduct he pursued. He,

who had married a daughter to Mr. Rushworth: romantic delicacy was certainly not to be expected from him.

She must do her duty, and trust that time might make her duty easier than it now was.

She could not, though only eighteen, suppose Mr. Crawford's attachment would hold out for ever; she could

not but imagine that steady, unceasing discouragement from herself would put an end to it in time. How

much time she might, in her own fancy, allot for its dominion, is another concern. It would not be fair to

In spite of his intended silence, Sir Thomas found himself once more obliged to mention the subject to his

niece, to prepare her briefly for its being imparted to her aunts; a measure which he would still have avoided,

if possible, but which became necessary from the totally opposite feelings of Mr. Crawford as to any secrecy

of proceeding. He had no idea of concealment. It was all known at the Parsonage, where he loved to talk over

the future with both his sisters, and it would be rather gratifying to him to have enlightened witnesses of the

progress of his success. When Sir Thomas understood this, he felt the necessity of making his own wife and

sisterinlaw acquainted with the business without delay; though, on Fanny's account, he almost dreaded the

effect of the communication to Mrs. Norris as much as Fanny herself. He deprecated her mistaken but

wellmeaning zeal. Sir Thomas, indeed, was, by this time, not very far from classing Mrs. Norris as one of

those wellmeaning people who are always doing mistaken and very disagreeable things.

Mrs. Norris, however, relieved him. He pressed for the strictest forbearance and silence towards their niece;

she not only promised, but did observe it. She only looked her increased illwill. Angry she was: bitterly

angry; but she was more angry with Fanny for having received such an offer than for refusing it. It was an

injury and affront to Julia, who ought to have been Mr. Crawford's choice; and, independently of that, she

disliked Fanny, because she had neglected her; and she would have grudged such an elevation to one whom

Sir Thomas gave her more credit for discretion on the occasion than she deserved; and Fanny could have

Lady Bertram took it differently. She had been a beauty, and a prosperous beauty, all her life; and beauty and

wealth were all that excited her respect. To know Fanny to be sought in marriage by a man of fortune, raised

her, therefore, very much in her opinion. By convincing her that Fanny _was_ very pretty, which she had

been doubting about before, and that she would be advantageously married, it made her feel a sort of credit in

"Well, Fanny," said she, as soon as they were alone together afterwards, and she really had known something

like impatience to be alone with her, and her countenance, as she spoke, had extraordinary animation; "Well,

Fanny, I have had a very agreeable surprise this morning. I must just speak of it _once_, I told Sir Thomas I

must _once_, and then I shall have done. I give you joy, my dear niece." And looking at her complacently,

Fanny coloured, and doubted at first what to say; when, hoping to assail her on her vulnerable side, she

"My dear aunt, _you_ cannot wish me to do differently from what I have done, I am sure. _You_ cannot wish

me to marry; for you would miss me, should not you? Yes, I am sure you would miss me too much for that."

"No, my dear, I should not think of missing you, when such an offer as this comes in your way. I could do

very well without you, if you were married to a man of such good estate as Mr. Crawford. And you must be

aware, Fanny, that it is every young woman's duty to accept such a very unexceptionable offer as this."

This was almost the only rule of conduct, the only piece of advice, which Fanny had ever received from her

aunt in the course of eight years and a half. It silenced her. She felt how unprofitable contention would be. If

her aunt's feelings were against her, nothing could be hoped from attacking her understanding. Lady Bertram

"I will tell you what, Fanny," said she, "I am sure he fell in love with you at the ball; I am sure the mischief

was done that evening. You did look remarkably well. Everybody said so. Sir Thomas said so. And you know

you had Chapman to help you to dress. I am very glad I sent Chapman to you. I shall tell Sir Thomas that I

am sure it was done that evening." And still pursuing the same cheerful thoughts, she soon afterwards added,

"And will tell you what, Fanny, which is more than I did for Maria: the next time Pug has a litter you shall

Edmund had great things to hear on his return. Many surprises were awaiting him. The first that occurred was

not least in interest: the appearance of Henry Crawford and his sister walking together through the village as

he rode into it. He had concludedhe had meant them to be far distant. His absence had been extended

beyond a fortnight purposely to avoid Miss Crawford. He was returning to Mansfield with spirits ready to

feed on melancholy remembrances, and tender associations, when her own fair self was before him, leaning

on her brother's arm, and he found himself receiving a welcome, unquestionably friendly, from the woman

whom, two moments before, he had been thinking of as seventy miles off, and as farther, much farther, from

Her reception of him was of a sort which he could not have hoped for, had he expected to see her. Coming as

he did from such a purport fulfilled as had taken him away, he would have expected anything rather than a

look of satisfaction, and words of simple, pleasant meaning. It was enough to set his heart in a glow, and to

bring him home in the properest state for feeling the full value of the other joyful surprises at hand.

William's promotion, with all its particulars, he was soon master of; and with such a secret provision of

comfort within his own breast to help the joy, he found in it a source of most gratifying sensation and

After dinner, when he and his father were alone, he had Fanny's history; and then all the great events of the

last fortnight, and the present situation of matters at Mansfield were known to him.

Fanny suspected what was going on. They sat so much longer than usual in the diningparlour, that she was

sure they must be talking of her; and when tea at last brought them away, and she was to be seen by Edmund

again, she felt dreadfully guilty. He came to her, sat down by her, took her hand, and pressed it kindly; and at

that moment she thought that, but for the occupation and the scene which the teathings afforded, she must

He was not intending, however, by such action, to be conveying to her that unqualified approbation and

encouragement which her hopes drew from it. It was designed only to express his participation in all that

interested her, and to tell her that he had been hearing what quickened every feeling of affection. He was, in

fact, entirely on his father's side of the question. His surprise was not so great as his father's at her refusing

Crawford, because, so far from supposing her to consider him with anything like a preference, he had always

believed it to be rather the reverse, and could imagine her to be taken perfectly unprepared, but Sir Thomas

could not regard the connexion as more desirable than he did. It had every recommendation to him; and while

honouring her for what she had done under the influence of her present indifference, honouring her in rather

stronger terms than Sir Thomas could quite echo, he was most earnest in hoping, and sanguine in believing,

that it would be a match at last, and that, united by mutual affection, it would appear that their dispositions

were as exactly fitted to make them blessed in each other, as he was now beginning seriously to consider

them. Crawford had been too precipitate. He had not given her time to attach herself. He had begun at the

wrong end. With such powers as his, however, and such a disposition as hers, Edmund trusted that everything

would work out a happy conclusion. Meanwhile, he saw enough of Fanny's embarrassment to make him

scrupulously guard against exciting it a second time, by any word, or look, or movement.

Crawford called the next day, and on the score of Edmund's return, Sir Thomas felt himself more than

licensed to ask him to stay dinner; it was really a necessary compliment. He staid of course, and Edmund had

then ample opportunity for observing how he sped with Fanny, and what degree of immediate encouragement

for him might be extracted from her manners; and it was so little, so very, very little every chance, every

possibility of it, resting upon her embarrassment only; if there was not hope in her confusion, there was hope

in nothing elsethat he was almost ready to wonder at his friend's perseverance. Fanny was worth it all; he

held her to be worth every effort of patience, every exertion of mind, but he did not think he could have gone

on himself with any woman breathing, without something more to warm his courage than his eyes could

discern in hers. He was very willing to hope that Crawford saw clearer, and this was the most comfortable

conclusion for his friend that he could come to from all that he observed to pass before, and at, and after

In the evening a few circumstances occurred which he thought more promising. When he and Crawford

walked into the drawingroom, his mother and Fanny were sitting as intently and silently at work as if there

were nothing else to care for. Edmund could not help noticing their apparently deep tranquillity.

"We have not been so silent all the time," replied his mother. "Fanny has been reading to me, and only put the

book down upon hearing you coming." And sure enough there was a book on the table which had the air of

being very recently closed: a volume of Shakespeare. "She often reads to me out of those books; and she was

in the middle of a very fine speech of that man's what's his name, Fanny?when we heard your

Crawford took the volume. "Let me have the pleasure of finishing that speech to your ladyship," said he. "I

shall find it immediately." And by carefully giving way to the inclination of the leaves, he did find it, or

within a page or two, quite near enough to satisfy Lady Bertram, who assured him, as soon as he mentioned

the name of Cardinal Wolsey, that he had got the very speech. Not a look or an offer of help had Fanny

given; not a syllable for or against. All her attention was for her work. She seemed determined to be

interested by nothing else. But taste was too strong in her. She could not abstract her mind five minutes: she

was forced to listen; his reading was capital, and her pleasure in good reading extreme. To _good_ reading,

however, she had been long used: her uncle read well, her cousins all, Edmund very well, but in Mr.

Crawford's reading there was a variety of excellence beyond what she had ever met with. The King, the

Queen, Buckingham, Wolsey, Cromwell, all were given in turn; for with the happiest knack, the happiest

power of jumping and guessing, he could always alight at will on the best scene, or the best speeches of each;

and whether it were dignity, or pride, or tenderness, or remorse, or whatever were to be expressed, he could

do it with equal beauty. It was truly dramatic. His acting had first taught Fanny what pleasure a play might

give, and his reading brought all his acting before her again; nay, perhaps with greater enjoyment, for it came

unexpectedly, and with no such drawback as she had been used to suffer in seeing him on the stage with Miss

Edmund watched the progress of her attention, and was amused and gratified by seeing how she gradually

slackened in the needlework, which at the beginning seemed to occupy her totally: how it fell from her hand

while she sat motionless over it, and at last, how the eyes which had appeared so studiously to avoid him

throughout the day were turned and fixed on Crawfordfixed on him for minutes, fixed on him, in short, till

the attraction drew Crawford's upon her, and the book was closed, and the charm was broken. Then she was

shrinking again into herself, and blushing and working as hard as ever; but it had been enough to give

Edmund encouragement for his friend, and as he cordially thanked him, he hoped to be expressing Fanny's

"That play must be a favourite with you," said he; "you read as if you knew it well."

"It will be a favourite, I believe, from this hour," replied Crawford; "but I do not think I have had a volume of

Shakespeare in my hand before since I was fifteen. I once saw Henry the Eighth acted, or I have heard of it

from somebody who did, I am not certain which. But Shakespeare one gets acquainted with without knowing

how. It is a part of an Englishman's constitution. His thoughts and beauties are so spread abroad that one

touches them everywhere; one is intimate with him by instinct. No man of any brain can open at a good part

"No doubt one is familiar with Shakespeare in a degree," said Edmund, "from one's earliest years. His

celebrated passages are quoted by everybody; they are in half the books we open, and we all talk

Shakespeare, use his similes, and describe with his descriptions; but this is totally distinct from giving his

sense as you gave it. To know him in bits and scraps is common enough; to know him pretty thoroughly is,

Both gentlemen had a glance at Fanny, to see if a word of accordant praise could be extorted from her; yet

both feeling that it could not be. Her praise had been given in her attention; _that_ must content them.

Lady Bertram's admiration was expressed, and strongly too. "It was really like being at a play," said she. "I

Crawford was excessively pleased. If Lady Bertram, with all her incompetency and languor, could feel this,

the inference of what her niece, alive and enlightened as she was, must feel, was elevating.

"You have a great turn for acting, I am sure, Mr. Crawford," said her ladyship soon afterwards; "and I will

tell you what, I think you will have a theatre, some time or other, at your house in Norfolk. I mean when you

are settled there. I do indeed. I think you will fit up a theatre at your house in Norfolk."

"Do you, ma'am?" cried he, with quickness. "No, no, that will never be. Your ladyship is quite mistaken. No

theatre at Everingham! Oh no!" And he looked at Fanny with an expressive smile, which evidently meant,

Edmund saw it all, and saw Fanny so determined _not_ to see it, as to make it clear that the voice was enough

to convey the full meaning of the protestation; and such a quick consciousness of compliment, such a ready

The subject of reading aloud was farther discussed. The two young men were the only talkers, but they,

standing by the fire, talked over the too common neglect of the qualification, the total inattention to it, in the

ordinary schoolsystem for boys, the consequently natural, yet in some instances almost unnatural, degree of

ignorance and uncouthness of men, of sensible and wellinformed men, when suddenly called to the

necessity of reading aloud, which had fallen within their notice, giving instances of blunders, and failures

with their secondary causes, the want of management of the voice, of proper modulation and emphasis, of

foresight and judgment, all proceeding from the first cause: want of early attention and habit; and Fanny was

"Even in my profession," said Edmund, with a smile, "how little the art of reading has been studied! how

little a clear manner, and good delivery, have been attended to! I speak rather of the past, however, than the

present. There is now a spirit of improvement abroad; but among those who were ordained twenty, thirty,

forty years ago, the larger number, to judge by their performance, must have thought reading was reading,

and preaching was preaching. It is different now. The subject is more justly considered. It is felt that

distinctness and energy may have weight in recommending the most solid truths; and besides, there is more

general observation and taste, a more critical knowledge diffused than formerly; in every congregation there

is a larger proportion who know a little of the matter, and who can judge and criticise."

Edmund had already gone through the service once since his ordination; and upon this being understood, he

had a variety of questions from Crawford as to his feelings and success; questions, which being made, though

with the vivacity of friendly interest and quick taste, without any touch of that spirit of banter or air of levity

which Edmund knew to be most offensive to Fanny, he had true pleasure in satisfying; and when Crawford

proceeded to ask his opinion and give his own as to the properest manner in which particular passages in the

service should be delivered, shewing it to be a subject on which he had thought before, and thought with

judgment, Edmund was still more and more pleased. This would be the way to Fanny's heart. She was not to

be won by all that gallantry and wit and goodnature together could do; or, at least, she would not be won by

them nearly so soon, without the assistance of sentiment and feeling, and seriousness on serious subjects

"Our liturgy," observed Crawford, "has beauties, which not even a careless, slovenly style of reading can

destroy; but it has also redundancies and repetitions which require good reading not to be felt. For myself, at

least, I must confess being not always so attentive as I ought to be" (here was a glance at Fanny); "that

nineteen times out of twenty I am thinking how such a prayer ought to be read, and longing to have it to read

myself. Did you speak?" stepping eagerly to Fanny, and addressing her in a softened voice; and upon her

saying "No," he added, "Are you sure you did not speak? I saw your lips move. I fancied you might be going

to tell me I ought to be more attentive, and not _allow_ my thoughts to wander. Are not you going to tell me

She stopt, felt herself getting into a puzzle, and could not be prevailed on to add another word, not by dint of

several minutes of supplication and waiting. He then returned to his former station, and went on as if there

"A sermon, well delivered, is more uncommon even than prayers well read. A sermon, good in itself, is no

rare thing. It is more difficult to speak well than to compose well; that is, the rules and trick of composition

are oftener an object of study. A thoroughly good sermon, thoroughly well delivered, is a capital gratification.

I can never hear such a one without the greatest admiration and respect, and more than half a mind to take

orders and preach myself. There is something in the eloquence of the pulpit, when it is really eloquence,

which is entitled to the highest praise and honour. The preacher who can touch and affect such an

heterogeneous mass of hearers, on subjects limited, and long worn threadbare in all common hands; who can

say anything new or striking, anything that rouses the attention without offending the taste, or wearing out the

feelings of his hearers, is a man whom one could not, in his public capacity, honour enough. I should like to

"I should indeed. I never listened to a distinguished preacher in my life without a sort of envy. But then, I

must have a London audience. I could not preach but to the educated; to those who were capable of

estimating my composition. And I do not know that I should be fond of preaching often; now and then,

perhaps once or twice in the spring, after being anxiously expected for half a dozen Sundays together; but not

Here Fanny, who could not but listen, involuntarily shook her head, and Crawford was instantly by her side

again, entreating to know her meaning; and as Edmund perceived, by his drawing in a chair, and sitting down

close by her, that it was to be a very thorough attack, that looks and undertones were to be well tried, he sank

as quietly as possible into a corner, turned his back, and took up a newspaper, very sincerely wishing that

dear little Fanny might be persuaded into explaining away that shake of the head to the satisfaction of her

ardent lover; and as earnestly trying to bury every sound of the business from himself in murmurs of his own,

over the various advertisements of "A most desirable Estate in South Wales"; "To Parents and Guardians";

Fanny, meanwhile, vexed with herself for not having been as motionless as she was speechless, and grieved

to the heart to see Edmund's arrangements, was trying by everything in the power of her modest, gentle

nature, to repulse Mr. Crawford, and avoid both his looks and inquiries; and he, unrepulsable, was persisting

"What did that shake of the head mean?" said he. "What was it meant to express? Disapprobation, I fear. But

of what? What had I been saying to displease you? Did you think me speaking improperly, lightly,

irreverently on the subject? Only tell me if I was. Only tell me if I was wrong. I want to be set right. Nay,

nay, I entreat you; for one moment put down your work. What did that shake of the head mean?"

In vain was her "Pray, sir, don't; pray, Mr. Crawford," repeated twice over; and in vain did she try to move

away. In the same low, eager voice, and the same close neighbourhood, he went on, reurging the same

"Do I astonish you?" said he. "Do you wonder? Is there anything in my present entreaty that you do not

understand? I will explain to you instantly all that makes me urge you in this manner, all that gives me an

interest in what you look and do, and excites my present curiosity. I will not leave you to wonder long."

"You shook your head at my acknowledging that I should not like to engage in the duties of a clergyman

always for a constancy. Yes, that was the word. Constancy: I am not afraid of the word. I would spell it, read

it, write it with anybody. I see nothing alarming in the word. Did you think I ought?"

"Perhaps, sir," said Fanny, wearied at last into speaking "perhaps, sir, I thought it was a pity you did not

Crawford, delighted to get her to speak at any rate, was determined to keep it up; and poor Fanny, who had

hoped to silence him by such an extremity of reproof, found herself sadly mistaken, and that it was only a

change from one object of curiosity and one set of words to another. He had always something to entreat the

explanation of. The opportunity was too fair. None such had occurred since his seeing her in her uncle's

room, none such might occur again before his leaving Mansfield. Lady Bertram's being just on the other side

of the table was a trifle, for she might always be considered as only halfawake, and Edmund's

"Well," said Crawford, after a course of rapid questions and reluctant answers; "I am happier than I was,

because I now understand more clearly your opinion of me. You think me unsteady: easily swayed by the

whim of the moment, easily tempted, easily put aside. With such an opinion, no wonder that. But we shall

see. It is not by protestations that I shall endeavour to convince you I am wronged; it is not by telling you that

my affections are steady. My conduct shall speak for me; absence, distance, time shall speak for me. _They_

shall prove that, as far as you can be deserved by anybody, I do deserve you. You are infinitely my superior

in merit; all _that_ I know. You have qualities which I had not before supposed to exist in such a degree in

any human creature. You have some touches of the angel in you beyond what not merely beyond what one

sees, because one never sees anything like itbut beyond what one fancies might be. But still I am not

frightened. It is not by equality of merit that you can be won. That is out of the question. It is he who sees and

worships your merit the strongest, who loves you most devotedly, that has the best right to a return. There I

build my confidence. By that right I do and will deserve you; and when once convinced that my attachment is

what I declare it, I know you too well not to entertain the warmest hopes. Yes, dearest, sweetest Fanny. Nay"

(seeing her draw back displeased), "forgive me. Perhaps I have as yet no right; but by what other name can I

call you? Do you suppose you are ever present to my imagination under any other? No, it is 'Fanny' that I

think of all day, and dream of all night. You have given the name such reality of sweetness, that nothing else

Fanny could hardly have kept her seat any longer, or have refrained from at least trying to get away in spite

of all the too public opposition she foresaw to it, had it not been for the sound of approaching relief, the very

sound which she had been long watching for, and long thinking strangely delayed.

The solemn procession, headed by Baddeley, of teaboard, urn, and cakebearers, made its appearance, and

delivered her from a grievous imprisonment of body and mind. Mr. Crawford was obliged to move. She was

Edmund was not sorry to be admitted again among the number of those who might speak and hear. But

though the conference had seemed full long to him, and though on looking at Fanny he saw rather a flush of

vexation, he inclined to hope that so much could not have been said and listened to without some profit to the

Edmund had determined that it belonged entirely to Fanny to chuse whether her situation with regard to

Crawford should be mentioned between them or not; and that if she did not lead the way, it should never be

touched on by him; but after a day or two of mutual reserve, he was induced by his father to change his mind,

A day, and a very early day, was actually fixed for the Crawfords' departure; and Sir Thomas thought it might

be as well to make one more effort for the young man before he left Mansfield, that all his professions and

vows of unshaken attachment might have as much hope to sustain them as possible.

Sir Thomas was most cordially anxious for the perfection of Mr. Crawford's character in that point. He

wished him to be a model of constancy; and fancied the best means of effecting it would be by not trying him

Edmund was not unwilling to be persuaded to engage in the business; he wanted to know Fanny's feelings.

She had been used to consult him in every difficulty, and he loved her too well to bear to be denied her

confidence now; he hoped to be of service to her, he thought he must be of service to her; whom else had she

to open her heart to? If she did not need counsel, she must need the comfort of communication. Fanny

estranged from him, silent and reserved, was an unnatural state of things; a state which he must break

through, and which he could easily learn to think she was wanting him to break through.

"I will speak to her, sir: I will take the first opportunity of speaking to her alone," was the result of such

thoughts as these; and upon Sir Thomas's information of her being at that very time walking alone in the

"I am come to walk with you, Fanny," said he. "Shall I?" Drawing her arm within his. "It is a long while since

"But, Fanny," he presently added, "in order to have a comfortable walk, something more is necessary than

merely pacing this gravel together. You must talk to me. I know you have something on your mind. I know

what you are thinking of. You cannot suppose me uninformed. Am I to hear of it from everybody but Fanny

Fanny, at once agitated and dejected, replied, "If you hear of it from everybody, cousin, there can be nothing

"Not of facts, perhaps; but of feelings, Fanny. No one but you can tell me them. I do not mean to press you,

however. If it is not what you wish yourself, I have done. I had thought it might be a relief."

"I am afraid we think too differently for me to find any relief in talking of what I feel."

"Do you suppose that we think differently? I have no idea of it. I dare say that, on a comparison of our

opinions, they would be found as much alike as they have been used to be: to the pointI consider

Crawford's proposals as most advantageous and desirable, if you could return his affection. I consider it as

most natural that all your family should wish you could return it; but that, as you cannot, you have done

exactly as you ought in refusing him. Can there be any disagreement between us here?"

"Oh no! But I thought you blamed me. I thought you were against me. This is such a comfort!"

"This comfort you might have had sooner, Fanny, had you sought it. But how could you possibly suppose me

against you? How could you imagine me an advocate for marriage without love? Were I even careless in

general on such matters, how could you imagine me so where your happiness was at stake?"

"As far as you have gone, Fanny, I think you perfectly right. I may be sorry, I may be surprisedthough

hardly _that_, for you had not had time to attach yourselfbut I think you perfectly right. Can it admit of a

question? It is disgraceful to us if it does. You did not love him; nothing could have justified your accepting

"So far your conduct has been faultless, and they were quite mistaken who wished you to do otherwise. But

the matter does not end here. Crawford's is no common attachment; he perseveres, with the hope of creating

that regard which had not been created before. This, we know, must be a work of time. But" (with an

affectionate smile) "let him succeed at last, Fanny, let him succeed at last. You have proved yourself upright

and disinterested, prove yourself grateful and tenderhearted; and then you will be the perfect model of a

"Oh! never, never, never! he never will succeed with me." And she spoke with a warmth which quite

astonished Edmund, and which she blushed at the recollection of herself, when she saw his look, and heard

him reply, "Never! Fanny! so very determined and positive! This is not like yourself, your rational self."

"I mean," she cried, sorrowfully correcting herself, "that I _think_ I never shall, as far as the future can be

"I must hope better things. I am aware, more aware than Crawford can be, that the man who means to make

you love him (you having due notice of his intentions) must have very uphill work, for there are all your early

attachments and habits in battle array; and before he can get your heart for his own use he has to unfasten it

from all the holds upon things animate and inanimate, which so many years' growth have confirmed, and

which are considerably tightened for the moment by the very idea of separation. I know that the apprehension

of being forced to quit Mansfield will for a time be arming you against him. I wish he had not been obliged to

tell you what he was trying for. I wish he had known you as well as I do, Fanny. Between us, I think we

should have won you. My theoretical and his practical knowledge together could not have failed. He should

have worked upon my plans. I must hope, however, that time, proving him (as I firmly believe it will) to

deserve you by his steady affection, will give him his reward. I cannot suppose that you have not the _wish_

to love himthe natural wish of gratitude. You must have some feeling of that sort. You must be sorry for

"We are so totally unlike," said Fanny, avoiding a direct answer, "we are so very, very different in all our

inclinations and ways, that I consider it as quite impossible we should ever be tolerably happy together, even

if I _could_ like him. There never were two people more dissimilar. We have not one taste in common. We

"You are mistaken, Fanny. The dissimilarity is not so strong. You are quite enough alike. You _have_ tastes

in common. You have moral and literary tastes in common. You have both warm hearts and benevolent

feelings; and, Fanny, who that heard him read, and saw you listen to Shakespeare the other night, will think

you unfitted as companions? You forget yourself: there is a decided difference in your tempers, I allow. He is

lively, you are serious; but so much the better: his spirits will support yours. It is your disposition to be easily

dejected and to fancy difficulties greater than they are. His cheerfulness will counteract this. He sees

difficulties nowhere: and his pleasantness and gaiety will be a constant support to you. Your being so far

unlike, Fanny, does not in the smallest degree make against the probability of your happiness together: do not

imagine it. I am myself convinced that it is rather a favourable circumstance. I am perfectly persuaded that

the tempers had better be unlike: I mean unlike in the flow of the spirits, in the manners, in the inclination for

much or little company, in the propensity to talk or to be silent, to be grave or to be gay. Some opposition

here is, I am thoroughly convinced, friendly to matrimonial happiness. I exclude extremes, of course; and a

very close resemblance in all those points would be the likeliest way to produce an extreme. A counteraction,

Full well could Fanny guess where his thoughts were now: Miss Crawford's power was all returning. He had

been speaking of her cheerfully from the hour of his coming home. His avoiding her was quite at an end. He

After leaving him to his happier thoughts for some minutes, Fanny, feeling it due to herself, returned to Mr.

Crawford, and said, "It is not merely in _temper_ that I consider him as totally unsuited to myself; though, in

_that_ respect, I think the difference between us too great, infinitely too great: his spirits often oppress me;

but there is something in him which I object to still more. I must say, cousin, that I cannot approve his

character. I have not thought well of him from the time of the play. I then saw him behaving, as it appeared to

me, so very improperly and unfeelinglyI may speak of it now because it is all overso improperly by

poor Mr. Rushworth, not seeming to care how he exposed or hurt him, and paying attentions to my cousin

Maria, whichin short, at the time of the play, I received an impression which will never be got over."

"My dear Fanny," replied Edmund, scarcely hearing her to the end, "let us not, any of us, be judged by what

we appeared at that period of general folly. The time of the play is a time which I hate to recollect. Maria was

wrong, Crawford was wrong, we were all wrong together; but none so wrong as myself. Compared with me,

"As a bystander," said Fanny, "perhaps I saw more than you did; and I do think that Mr. Rushworth was

"Very possibly. No wonder. Nothing could be more improper than the whole business. I am shocked

whenever I think that Maria could be capable of it; but, if she could undertake the part, we must not be

"Before the play, I am much mistaken if _Julia_ did not think he was paying her attentions.

"Julia! I have heard before from some one of his being in love with Julia; but I could never see anything of it.

And, Fanny, though I hope I do justice to my sisters' good qualities, I think it very possible that they might,

one or both, be more desirous of being admired by Crawford, and might shew that desire rather more

unguardedly than was perfectly prudent. I can remember that they were evidently fond of his society; and

with such encouragement, a man like Crawford, lively, and it may be, a little unthinking, might be led on

tothere could be nothing very striking, because it is clear that he had no pretensions: his heart was reserved

for you. And I must say, that its being for you has raised him inconceivably in my opinion. It does him the

highest honour; it shews his proper estimation of the blessing of domestic happiness and pure attachment. It

proves him unspoilt by his uncle. It proves him, in short, everything that I had been used to wish to believe

"Say, rather, that he has not thought at all upon serious subjects, which I believe to be a good deal the case.

How could it be otherwise, with such an education and adviser? Under the disadvantages, indeed, which both

have had, is it not wonderful that they should be what they are? Crawford's _feelings_, I am ready to

acknowledge, have hitherto been too much his guides. Happily, those feelings have generally been good. You

will supply the rest; and a most fortunate man he is to attach himself to such a creature to a woman who,

firm as a rock in her own principles, has a gentleness of character so well adapted to recommend them. He

has chosen his partner, indeed, with rare felicity. He will make you happy, Fanny; I know he will make you

"I would not engage in such a charge," cried Fanny, in a shrinking accent; "in such an office of high

"As usual, believing yourself unequal to anything! fancying everything too much for you! Well, though I may

not be able to persuade you into different feelings, you will be persuaded into them, I trust. I confess myself

sincerely anxious that you may. I have no common interest in Crawford's welldoing. Next to your

happiness, Fanny, his has the first claim on me. You are aware of my having no common interest in

Fanny was too well aware of it to have anything to say; and they walked on together some fifty yards in

"I was very much pleased by her manner of speaking of it yesterday, particularly pleased, because I had not

depended upon her seeing everything in so just a light. I knew she was very fond of you; but yet I was afraid

of her not estimating your worth to her brother quite as it deserved, and of her regretting that he had not

rather fixed on some woman of distinction or fortune. I was afraid of the bias of those worldly maxims, which

she has been too much used to hear. But it was very different. She spoke of you, Fanny, just as she ought. She

desires the connexion as warmly as your uncle or myself. We had a long talk about it. I should not have

mentioned the subject, though very anxious to know her sentiments; but I had not been in the room five

minutes before she began introducing it with all that openness of heart, and sweet peculiarity of manner, that

spirit and ingenuousness which are so much a part of herself. Mrs. Grant laughed at her for her rapidity."

"Yes, when I reached the house I found the two sisters together by themselves; and when once we had begun,

"Yes, she laments it; yet owns it may have been best. You will see her, however, before she goes. She is very

angry with you, Fanny; you must be prepared for that. She calls herself very angry, but you can imagine her

anger. It is the regret and disappointment of a sister, who thinks her brother has a right to everything he may

wish for, at the first moment. She is hurt, as you would be for William; but she loves and esteems you with

"My dearest Fanny," cried Edmund, pressing her arm closer to him, "do not let the idea of her anger distress

you. It is anger to be talked of rather than felt. Her heart is made for love and kindness, not for resentment. I

wish you could have overheard her tribute of praise; I wish you could have seen her countenance, when she

said that you _should_ be Henry's wife. And I observed that she always spoke of you as 'Fanny,' which she

"Yes, she was agreeing exactly with her sister. The surprise of your refusal, Fanny, seems to have been

unbounded. That you could refuse such a man as Henry Crawford seems more than they can understand. I

said what I could for you; but in good truth, as they stated the caseyou must prove yourself to be in your

senses as soon as you can by a different conduct; nothing else will satisfy them. But this is teasing you. I have

"I _should_ have thought," said Fanny, after a pause of recollection and exertion, "that every woman must

have felt the possibility of a man's not being approved, not being loved by some one of her sex at least, let

him be ever so generally agreeable. Let him have all the perfections in the world, I think it ought not to be set

down as certain that a man must be acceptable to every woman he may happen to like himself. But, even

supposing it is so, allowing Mr. Crawford to have all the claims which his sisters think he has, how was I to

be prepared to meet him with any feeling answerable to his own? He took me wholly by surprise. I had not an

idea that his behaviour to me before had any meaning; and surely I was not to be teaching myself to like him

only because he was taking what seemed very idle notice of me. In my situation, it would have been the

extreme of vanity to be forming expectations on Mr. Crawford. I am sure his sisters, rating him as they do,

must have thought it so, supposing he had meant nothing. How, then, was I to be to be in love with him the

moment he said he was with me? How was I to have an attachment at his service, as soon as it was asked for?

His sisters should consider me as well as him. The higher his deserts, the more improper for me ever to have

thought of him. And, andwe think very differently of the nature of women, if they can imagine a woman so

"My dear, dear Fanny, now I have the truth. I know this to be the truth; and most worthy of you are such

feelings. I had attributed them to you before. I thought I could understand you. You have now given exactly

the explanation which I ventured to make for you to your friend and Mrs. Grant, and they were both better

satisfied, though your warmhearted friend was still run away with a little by the enthusiasm of her fondness

for Henry. I told them that you were of all human creatures the one over whom habit had most power and

novelty least; and that the very circumstance of the novelty of Crawford's addresses was against him. Their

being so new and so recent was all in their disfavour; that you could tolerate nothing that you were not used

to; and a great deal more to the same purpose, to give them a knowledge of your character. Miss Crawford

made us laugh by her plans of encouragement for her brother. She meant to urge him to persevere in the hope

of being loved in time, and of having his addresses most kindly received at the end of about ten years' happy

Fanny could with difficulty give the smile that was here asked for. Her feelings were all in revolt. She feared

she had been doing wrong: saying too much, overacting the caution which she had been fancying necessary;

in guarding against one evil, laying herself open to another; and to have Miss Crawford's liveliness repeated

Edmund saw weariness and distress in her face, and immediately resolved to forbear all farther discussion;

and not even to mention the name of Crawford again, except as it might be connected with what _must_ be

agreeable to her. On this principle, he soon afterwards observed "They go on Monday. You are sure,

therefore, of seeing your friend either tomorrow or Sunday. They really go on Monday; and I was within a

trifle of being persuaded to stay at Lessingby till that very day! I had almost promised it. What a difference it

might have made! Those five or six days more at Lessingby might have been felt all my life."

"Very. I was most kindly pressed, and had nearly consented. Had I received any letter from Mansfield, to tell

me how you were all going on, I believe I should certainly have staid; but I knew nothing that had happened

"Yes; that is, it was the fault of my own mind if I did not. They were all very pleasant. I doubt their finding

me so. I took uneasiness with me, and there was no getting rid of it till I was in Mansfield again."

"Yes, very well. Pleasant, goodhumoured, unaffected girls. But I am spoilt, Fanny, for common female

society. Goodhumoured, unaffected girls will not do for a man who has been used to sensible women. They

Still, however, Fanny was oppressed and wearied; he saw it in her looks, it could not be talked away; and

attempting it no more, he led her directly, with the kind authority of a privileged guardian, into the house.

Edmund now believed himself perfectly acquainted with all that Fanny could tell, or could leave to be

conjectured of her sentiments, and he was satisfied. It had been, as he before presumed, too hasty a measure

on Crawford's side, and time must be given to make the idea first familiar, and then agreeable to her. She

must be used to the consideration of his being in love with her, and then a return of affection might not be

He gave this opinion as the result of the conversation to his father; and recommended there being nothing

more said to her: no farther attempts to influence or persuade; but that everything should be left to Crawford's

Sir Thomas promised that it should be so. Edmund's account of Fanny's disposition he could believe to be

just; he supposed she had all those feelings, but he must consider it as very unfortunate that she _had_; for,

less willing than his son to trust to the future, he could not help fearing that if such very long allowances of

time and habit were necessary for her, she might not have persuaded herself into receiving his addresses

properly before the young man's inclination for paying them were over. There was nothing to be done,

The promised visit from "her friend," as Edmund called Miss Crawford, was a formidable threat to Fanny,

and she lived in continual terror of it. As a sister, so partial and so angry, and so little scrupulous of what she

said, and in another light so triumphant and secure, she was in every way an object of painful alarm. Her

displeasure, her penetration, and her happiness were all fearful to encounter; and the dependence of having

others present when they met was Fanny's only support in looking forward to it. She absented herself as little

as possible from Lady Bertram, kept away from the East room, and took no solitary walk in the shrubbery, in

She succeeded. She was safe in the breakfastroom, with her aunt, when Miss Crawford did come; and the

first misery over, and Miss Crawford looking and speaking with much less particularity of expression than

she had anticipated, Fanny began to hope there would be nothing worse to be endured than a halfhour of

moderate agitation. But here she hoped too much; Miss Crawford was not the slave of opportunity. She was

determined to see Fanny alone, and therefore said to her tolerably soon, in a low voice, "I must speak to you

for a few minutes somewhere"; words that Fanny felt all over her, in all her pulses and all her nerves. Denial

was impossible. Her habits of ready submission, on the contrary, made her almost instantly rise and lead the

They were no sooner in the hall than all restraint of countenance was over on Miss Crawford's side. She

immediately shook her head at Fanny with arch, yet affectionate reproach, and taking her hand, seemed

hardly able to help beginning directly. She said nothing, however, but, "Sad, sad girl! I do not know when I

shall have done scolding you," and had discretion enough to reserve the rest till they might be secure of

having four walls to themselves. Fanny naturally turned upstairs, and took her guest to the apartment which

was now always fit for comfortable use; opening the door, however, with a most aching heart, and feeling

that she had a more distressing scene before her than ever that spot had yet witnessed. But the evil ready to

burst on her was at least delayed by the sudden change in Miss Crawford's ideas; by the strong effect on her

"Ha!" she cried, with instant animation, "am I here again? The East room! Once only was I in this room

before"; and after stopping to look about her, and seemingly to retrace all that had then passed, she added,

"Once only before. Do you remember it? I came to rehearse. Your cousin came too; and we had a rehearsal.

You were our audience and prompter. A delightful rehearsal. I shall never forget it. Here we were, just in this

part of the room: here was your cousin, here was I, here were the chairs. Oh! why will such things ever pass

Happily for her companion, she wanted no answer. Her mind was entirely selfengrossed. She was in a

"The scene we were rehearsing was so very remarkable! The subject of it so veryverywhat shall I say?

He was to be describing and recommending matrimony to me. I think I see him now, trying to be as demure

and composed as Anhalt ought, through the two long speeches. 'When two sympathetic hearts meet in the

marriage state, matrimony may be called a happy life.' I suppose no time can ever wear out the impression I

have of his looks and voice as he said those words. It was curious, very curious, that we should have such a

scene to play! If I had the power of recalling any one week of my existence, it should be that weekthat

acting week. Say what you would, Fanny, it should be _that_; for I never knew such exquisite happiness in

any other. His sturdy spirit to bend as it did! Oh! it was sweet beyond expression. But alas, that very evening

destroyed it all. That very evening brought your most unwelcome uncle. Poor Sir Thomas, who was glad to

see you? Yet, Fanny, do not imagine I would now speak disrespectfully of Sir Thomas, though I certainly did

hate him for many a week. No, I do him justice now. He is just what the head of such a family should be.

Nay, in sober sadness, I believe I now love you all." And having said so, with a degree of tenderness and

consciousness which Fanny had never seen in her before, and now thought only too becoming, she turned

away for a moment to recover herself. "I have had a little fit since I came into this room, as you may

perceive," said she presently, with a playful smile, "but it is over now; so let us sit down and be comfortable;

for as to scolding you, Fanny, which I came fully intending to do, I have not the heart for it when it comes to

the point." And embracing her very affectionately, "Good, gentle Fanny! when I think of this being the last

time of seeing you for I do not know how long, I feel it quite impossible to do anything but love you."

Fanny was affected. She had not foreseen anything of this, and her feelings could seldom withstand the

melancholy influence of the word "last." She cried as if she had loved Miss Crawford more than she possibly

could; and Miss Crawford, yet farther softened by the sight of such emotion, hung about her with fondness,

and said, "I hate to leave you. I shall see no one half so amiable where I am going. Who says we shall not be

sisters? I know we shall. I feel that we are born to be connected; and those tears convince me that you feel it

Fanny roused herself, and replying only in part, said, "But you are only going from one set of friends to

"Yes, very true. Mrs. Fraser has been my intimate friend for years. But I have not the least inclination to go

near her. I can think only of the friends I am leaving: my excellent sister, yourself, and the Bertrams in

general. You have all so much more _heart_ among you than one finds in the world at large. You all give me

a feeling of being able to trust and confide in you, which in common intercourse one knows nothing of. I

wish I had settled with Mrs. Fraser not to go to her till after Easter, a much better time for the visit, but now I

cannot put her off. And when I have done with her I must go to her sister, Lady Stornaway, because _she_

was rather my most particular friend of the two, but I have not cared much for _her_ these three years."

After this speech the two girls sat many minutes silent, each thoughtful: Fanny meditating on the different

sorts of friendship in the world, Mary on something of less philosophic tendency. _She_ first spoke again.

"How perfectly I remember my resolving to look for you upstairs, and setting off to find my way to the East

room, without having an idea whereabouts it was! How well I remember what I was thinking of as I came

along, and my looking in and seeing you here sitting at this table at work; and then your cousin's

astonishment, when he opened the door, at seeing me here! To be sure, your uncle's returning that very

Another short fit of abstraction followed, when, shaking it off, she thus attacked her companion.

"Why, Fanny, you are absolutely in a reverie. Thinking, I hope, of one who is always thinking of you. Oh!

that I could transport you for a short time into our circle in town, that you might understand how your power

over Henry is thought of there! Oh! the envyings and heartburnings of dozens and dozens; the wonder, the

incredulity that will be felt at hearing what you have done! For as to secrecy, Henry is quite the hero of an old

romance, and glories in his chains. You should come to London to know how to estimate your conquest. If

you were to see how he is courted, and how I am courted for his sake! Now, I am well aware that I shall not

be half so welcome to Mrs. Fraser in consequence of his situation with you. When she comes to know the

truth she will, very likely, wish me in Northamptonshire again; for there is a daughter of Mr. Fraser, by a first

wife, whom she is wild to get married, and wants Henry to take. Oh! she has been trying for him to such a

degree. Innocent and quiet as you sit here, you cannot have an idea of the _sensation_ that you will be

occasioning, of the curiosity there will be to see you, of the endless questions I shall have to answer! Poor

Margaret Fraser will be at me for ever about your eyes and your teeth, and how you do your hair, and who

makes your shoes. I wish Margaret were married, for my poor friend's sake, for I look upon the Frasers to be

about as unhappy as most other married people. And yet it was a most desirable match for Janet at the time.

We were all delighted. She could not do otherwise than accept him, for he was rich, and she had nothing; but

he turns out illtempered and _exigeant_, and wants a young woman, a beautiful young woman of

fiveandtwenty, to be as steady as himself. And my friend does not manage him well; she does not seem to

know how to make the best of it. There is a spirit of irritation which, to say nothing worse, is certainly very

illbred. In their house I shall call to mind the conjugal manners of Mansfield Parsonage with respect. Even

Dr. Grant does shew a thorough confidence in my sister, and a certain consideration for her judgment, which

makes one feel there _is_ attachment; but of that I shall see nothing with the Frasers. I shall be at Mansfield

for ever, Fanny. My own sister as a wife, Sir Thomas Bertram as a husband, are my standards of perfection.

Poor Janet has been sadly taken in, and yet there was nothing improper on her side: she did not run into the

match inconsiderately; there was no want of foresight. She took three days to consider of his proposals, and

during those three days asked the advice of everybody connected with her whose opinion was worth having,

and especially applied to my late dear aunt, whose knowledge of the world made her judgment very generally

and deservedly looked up to by all the young people of her acquaintance, and she was decidedly in favour of

Mr. Fraser. This seems as if nothing were a security for matrimonial comfort. I have not so much to say for

my friend Flora, who jilted a very nice young man in the Blues for the sake of that horrid Lord Stornaway,

who has about as much sense, Fanny, as Mr. Rushworth, but much worselooking, and with a blackguard

character. I _had_ my doubts at the time about her being right, for he has not even the air of a gentleman, and

now I am sure she was wrong. By the bye, Flora Ross was dying for Henry the first winter she came out. But

were I to attempt to tell you of all the women whom I have known to be in love with him, I should never have

done. It is you, only you, insensible Fanny, who can think of him with anything like indifference. But are you

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

"Excellent creature! I will not tease you. Everything shall take its course. But, dear Fanny, you must allow

that you were not so absolutely unprepared to have the question asked as your cousin fancies. It is not

possible but that you must have had some thoughts on the subject, some surmises as to what might be. You

must have seen that he was trying to please you by every attention in his power. Was not he devoted to you at

the ball? And then before the ball, the necklace! Oh! you received it just as it was meant. You were as

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

"Knew of it! It was his own doing entirely, his own thought. I am ashamed to say that it had never entered my

"I will not say," replied Fanny, "that I was not half afraid at the time of its being so, for there was something

in your look that frightened me, but not at first; I was as unsuspicious of it at firstindeed, indeed I was. It is

as true as that I sit here. And had I had an idea of it, nothing should have induced me to accept the necklace.

As to your brother's behaviour, certainly I was sensible of a particularity: I had been sensible of it some little

time, perhaps two or three weeks; but then I considered it as meaning nothing: I put it down as simply being

his way, and was as far from supposing as from wishing him to have any serious thoughts of me. I had not,

Miss Crawford, been an inattentive observer of what was passing between him and some part of this family in

the summer and autumn. I was quiet, but I was not blind. I could not but see that Mr. Crawford allowed

"Ah! I cannot deny it. He has now and then been a sad flirt, and cared very little for the havoc he might be

making in young ladies' affections. I have often scolded him for it, but it is his only fault; and there is this to

be said, that very few young ladies have any affections worth caring for. And then, Fanny, the glory of fixing

one who has been shot at by so many; of having it in one's power to pay off the debts of one's sex! Oh! I am

Fanny shook her head. "I cannot think well of a man who sports with any woman's feelings; and there may

"I do not defend him. I leave him entirely to your mercy, and when he has got you at Everingham, I do not

care how much you lecture him. But this I will say, that his fault, the liking to make girls a little in love with

him, is not half so dangerous to a wife's happiness as a tendency to fall in love himself, which he has never

been addicted to. And I do seriously and truly believe that he is attached to you in a way that he never was to

any woman before; that he loves you with all his heart, and will love you as nearly for ever as possible. If any

"I cannot imagine Henry ever to have been happier," continued Mary presently, "than when he had succeeded

"I know he must have exerted himself very much, for I know the parties he had to move. The Admiral hates

trouble, and scorns asking favours; and there are so many young men's claims to be attended to in the same

way, that a friendship and energy, not very determined, is easily put by. What a happy creature William must

Poor Fanny's mind was thrown into the most distressing of all its varieties. The recollection of what had been

done for William was always the most powerful disturber of every decision against Mr. Crawford; and she sat

thinking deeply of it till Mary, who had been first watching her complacently, and then musing on something

else, suddenly called her attention by saying: "I should like to sit talking with you here all day, but we must

not forget the ladies below, and so goodbye, my dear, my amiable, my excellent Fanny, for though we shall

nominally part in the breakfastparlour, I must take leave of you here. And I do take leave, longing for a

happy reunion, and trusting that when we meet again, it will be under circumstances which may open our

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

"I shall see your cousin in town soon: he talks of being there tolerably soon; and Sir Thomas, I dare say, in

the course of the spring; and your eldest cousin, and the Rushworths, and Julia, I am sure of meeting again

and again, and all but you. I have two favours to ask, Fanny: one is your correspondence. You must write to

me. And the other, that you will often call on Mrs. Grant, and make her amends for my being gone."

The first, at least, of these favours Fanny would rather not have been asked; but it was impossible for her to

refuse the correspondence; it was impossible for her even not to accede to it more readily than her own

judgment authorised. There was no resisting so much apparent affection. Her disposition was peculiarly

calculated to value a fond treatment, and from having hitherto known so little of it, she was the more

overcome by Miss Crawford's. Besides, there was gratitude towards her, for having made their _teteatete_

It was over, and she had escaped without reproaches and without detection. Her secret was still her own; and

while that was the case, she thought she could resign herself to almost everything.

In the evening there was another parting. Henry Crawford came and sat some time with them; and her spirits

not being previously in the strongest state, her heart was softened for a while towards him, because he really

seemed to feel. Quite unlike his usual self, he scarcely said anything. He was evidently oppressed, and Fanny

must grieve for him, though hoping she might never see him again till he were the husband of some other

When it came to the moment of parting, he would take her hand, he would not be denied it; he said nothing,

however, or nothing that she heard, and when he had left the room, she was better pleased that such a token

Mr. Crawford gone, Sir Thomas's next object was that he should be missed; and he entertained great hope

that his niece would find a blank in the loss of those attentions which at the time she had felt, or fancied, an

evil. She had tasted of consequence in its most flattering form; and he did hope that the loss of it, the sinking

again into nothing, would awaken very wholesome regrets in her mind. He watched her with this idea; but he

could hardly tell with what success. He hardly knew whether there were any difference in her spirits or not.

She was always so gentle and retiring that her emotions were beyond his discrimination. He did not

understand her: he felt that he did not; and therefore applied to Edmund to tell him how she stood affected on

the present occasion, and whether she were more or less happy than she had been.

Edmund did not discern any symptoms of regret, and thought his father a little unreasonable in supposing the

What chiefly surprised Edmund was, that Crawford's sister, the friend and companion who had been so much

to her, should not be more visibly regretted. He wondered that Fanny spoke so seldom of _her_, and had so

Alas! it was this sister, this friend and companion, who was now the chief bane of Fanny's comfort. If she

could have believed Mary's future fate as unconnected with Mansfield as she was determined the brother's

should be, if she could have hoped her return thither to be as distant as she was much inclined to think his,

she would have been light of heart indeed; but the more she recollected and observed, the more deeply was

she convinced that everything was now in a fairer train for Miss Crawford's marrying Edmund than it had

ever been before. On his side the inclination was stronger, on hers less equivocal. His objections, the scruples

of his integrity, seemed all done away, nobody could tell how; and the doubts and hesitations of her ambition

were equally got overand equally without apparent reason. It could only be imputed to increasing

attachment. His good and her bad feelings yielded to love, and such love must unite them. He was to go to

town as soon as some business relative to Thornton Lacey were completed perhaps within a fortnight; he

talked of going, he loved to talk of it; and when once with her again, Fanny could not doubt the rest. Her

acceptance must be as certain as his offer; and yet there were bad feelings still remaining which made the

prospect of it most sorrowful to her, independently, she believed, independently of self.

In their very last conversation, Miss Crawford, in spite of some amiable sensations, and much personal

kindness, had still been Miss Crawford; still shewn a mind led astray and bewildered, and without any

suspicion of being so; darkened, yet fancying itself light. She might love, but she did not deserve Edmund by

any other sentiment. Fanny believed there was scarcely a second feeling in common between them; and she

may be forgiven by older sages for looking on the chance of Miss Crawford's future improvement as nearly

desperate, for thinking that if Edmund's influence in this season of love had already done so little in clearing

her judgment, and regulating her notions, his worth would be finally wasted on her even in years of

Experience might have hoped more for any young people so circumstanced, and impartiality would not have

denied to Miss Crawford's nature that participation of the general nature of women which would lead her to

adopt the opinions of the man she loved and respected as her own. But as such were Fanny's persuasions, she

suffered very much from them, and could never speak of Miss Crawford without pain.

Sir Thomas, meanwhile, went on with his own hopes and his own observations, still feeling a right, by all his

knowledge of human nature, to expect to see the effect of the loss of power and consequence on his niece's

spirits, and the past attentions of the lover producing a craving for their return; and he was soon afterwards

able to account for his not yet completely and indubitably seeing all this, by the prospect of another visitor,

whose approach he could allow to be quite enough to support the spirits he was watching. William had

obtained a ten days' leave of absence, to be given to Northamptonshire, and was coming, the happiest of

lieutenants, because the latest made, to shew his happiness and describe his uniform.

He came; and he would have been delighted to shew his uniform there too, had not cruel custom prohibited

its appearance except on duty. So the uniform remained at Portsmouth, and Edmund conjectured that before

Fanny had any chance of seeing it, all its own freshness and all the freshness of its wearer's feelings must be

worn away. It would be sunk into a badge of disgrace; for what can be more unbecoming, or more worthless,

than the uniform of a lieutenant, who has been a lieutenant a year or two, and sees others made commanders

before him? So reasoned Edmund, till his father made him the confidant of a scheme which placed Fanny's

chance of seeing the second lieutenant of H.M.S. Thrush in all his glory in another light.

This scheme was that she should accompany her brother back to Portsmouth, and spend a little time with her

own family. It had occurred to Sir Thomas, in one of his dignified musings, as a right and desirable measure;

but before he absolutely made up his mind, he consulted his son. Edmund considered it every way, and saw

nothing but what was right. The thing was good in itself, and could not be done at a better time; and he had

no doubt of it being highly agreeable to Fanny. This was enough to determine Sir Thomas; and a decisive

"then so it shall be" closed that stage of the business; Sir Thomas retiring from it with some feelings of

satisfaction, and views of good over and above what he had communicated to his son; for his prime motive in

sending her away had very little to do with the propriety of her seeing her parents again, and nothing at all

with any idea of making her happy. He certainly wished her to go willingly, but he as certainly wished her to

be heartily sick of home before her visit ended; and that a little abstinence from the elegancies and luxuries of

Mansfield Park would bring her mind into a sober state, and incline her to a juster estimate of the value of

It was a medicinal project upon his niece's understanding, which he must consider as at present diseased. A

residence of eight or nine years in the abode of wealth and plenty had a little disordered her powers of

comparing and judging. Her father's house would, in all probability, teach her the value of a good income;

and he trusted that she would be the wiser and happier woman, all her life, for the experiment he had devised.

Had Fanny been at all addicted to raptures, she must have had a strong attack of them when she first

understood what was intended, when her uncle first made her the offer of visiting the parents, and brothers,

and sisters, from whom she had been divided almost half her life; of returning for a couple of months to the

scenes of her infancy, with William for the protector and companion of her journey, and the certainty of

continuing to see William to the last hour of his remaining on land. Had she ever given way to bursts of

delight, it must have been then, for she was delighted, but her happiness was of a quiet, deep, heartswelling

sort; and though never a great talker, she was always more inclined to silence when feeling most strongly. At

the moment she could only thank and accept. Afterwards, when familiarised with the visions of enjoyment so

suddenly opened, she could speak more largely to William and Edmund of what she felt; but still there were

emotions of tenderness that could not be clothed in words. The remembrance of all her earliest pleasures, and

of what she had suffered in being torn from them, came over her with renewed strength, and it seemed as if to

be at home again would heal every pain that had since grown out of the separation. To be in the centre of

such a circle, loved by so many, and more loved by all than she had ever been before; to feel affection

without fear or restraint; to feel herself the equal of those who surrounded her; to be at peace from all

mention of the Crawfords, safe from every look which could be fancied a reproach on their account. This was

Edmund, tooto be two months from _him_ (and perhaps she might be allowed to make her absence three)

must do her good. At a distance, unassailed by his looks or his kindness, and safe from the perpetual irritation

of knowing his heart, and striving to avoid his confidence, she should be able to reason herself into a properer

state; she should be able to think of him as in London, and arranging everything there, without wretchedness.

What might have been hard to bear at Mansfield was to become a slight evil at Portsmouth.

The only drawback was the doubt of her aunt Bertram's being comfortable without her. She was of use to no

one else; but _there_ she might be missed to a degree that she did not like to think of; and that part of the

arrangement was, indeed, the hardest for Sir Thomas to accomplish, and what only _he_ could have

But he was master at Mansfield Park. When he had really resolved on any measure, he could always carry it

through; and now by dint of long talking on the subject, explaining and dwelling on the duty of Fanny's

sometimes seeing her family, he did induce his wife to let her go; obtaining it rather from submission,

however, than conviction, for Lady Bertram was convinced of very little more than that Sir Thomas thought

Fanny ought to go, and therefore that she must. In the calmness of her own dressingroom, in the impartial

flow of her own meditations, unbiassed by his bewildering statements, she could not acknowledge any

necessity for Fanny's ever going near a father and mother who had done without her so long, while she was

so useful to herself And as to the not missing her, which under Mrs. Norris's discussion was the point

attempted to be proved, she set herself very steadily against admitting any such thing.

Sir Thomas had appealed to her reason, conscience, and dignity. He called it a sacrifice, and demanded it of

her goodness and selfcommand as such. But Mrs. Norris wanted to persuade her that Fanny could be very

well spared_she_ being ready to give up all her own time to her as requested and, in short, could not

"That may be, sister," was all Lady Bertram's reply. "I dare say you are very right; but I am sure I shall miss

The next step was to communicate with Portsmouth. Fanny wrote to offer herself; and her mother's answer,

though short, was so kinda few simple lines expressed so natural and motherly a joy in the prospect of

seeing her child again, as to confirm all the daughter's views of happiness in being with herconvincing her

that she should now find a warm and affectionate friend in the "mama" who had certainly shewn no

remarkable fondness for her formerly; but this she could easily suppose to have been her own fault or her

own fancy. She had probably alienated love by the helplessness and fretfulness of a fearful temper, or been

unreasonable in wanting a larger share than any one among so many could deserve. Now, when she knew

better how to be useful, and how to forbear, and when her mother could be no longer occupied by the

incessant demands of a house full of little children, there would be leisure and inclination for every comfort,

William was almost as happy in the plan as his sister. It would be the greatest pleasure to him to have her

there to the last moment before he sailed, and perhaps find her there still when he came in from his first

cruise. And besides, he wanted her so very much to see the Thrush before she went out of harbourthe

Thrush was certainly the finest sloop in the serviceand there were several improvements in the dockyard,

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

"I do not know how it is," said he; "but we seem to want some of your nice ways and orderliness at my

father's. The house is always in confusion. You will set things going in a better way, I am sure. You will tell

my mother how it all ought to be, and you will be so useful to Susan, and you will teach Betsey, and make the

By the time Mrs. Price's answer arrived, there remained but a very few days more to be spent at Mansfield;

and for part of one of those days the young travellers were in a good deal of alarm on the subject of their

journey, for when the mode of it came to be talked of, and Mrs. Norris found that all her anxiety to save her

brotherinlaw's money was vain, and that in spite of her wishes and hints for a less expensive conveyance

of Fanny, they were to travel post; when she saw Sir Thomas actually give William notes for the purpose, she

was struck with the idea of there being room for a third in the carriage, and suddenly seized with a strong

inclination to go with them, to go and see her poor dear sister Price. She proclaimed her thoughts. She must

say that she had more than half a mind to go with the young people; it would be such an indulgence to her;

she had not seen her poor dear sister Price for more than twenty years; and it would be a help to the young

people in their journey to have her older head to manage for them; and she could not help thinking her poor

dear sister Price would feel it very unkind of her not to come by such an opportunity.

All the comfort of their comfortable journey would be destroyed at once. With woeful countenances they

looked at each other. Their suspense lasted an hour or two. No one interfered to encourage or dissuade. Mrs.

Norris was left to settle the matter by herself; and it ended, to the infinite joy of her nephew and niece, in the

recollection that she could not possibly be spared from Mansfield Park at present; that she was a great deal

too necessary to Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram for her to be able to answer it to herself to leave them even

for a week, and therefore must certainly sacrifice every other pleasure to that of being useful to them.

It had, in fact, occurred to her, that though taken to Portsmouth for nothing, it would be hardly possible for

her to avoid paying her own expenses back again. So her poor dear sister Price was left to all the

disappointment of her missing such an opportunity, and another twenty years' absence, perhaps, begun.

Edmund's plans were affected by this Portsmouth journey, this absence of Fanny's. He too had a sacrifice to

make to Mansfield Park as well as his aunt. He had intended, about this time, to be going to London; but he

could not leave his father and mother just when everybody else of most importance to their comfort was

leaving them; and with an effort, felt but not boasted of, he delayed for a week or two longer a journey which

He told Fanny of it. She knew so much already, that she must know everything. It made the substance of one

other confidential discourse about Miss Crawford; and Fanny was the more affected from feeling it to be the

last time in which Miss Crawford's name would ever be mentioned between them with any remains of liberty.

Once afterwards she was alluded to by him. Lady Bertram had been telling her niece in the evening to write

to her soon and often, and promising to be a good correspondent herself; and Edmund, at a convenient

moment, then added in a whisper, "And _I_ shall write to you, Fanny, when I have anything worth writing

about, anything to say that I think you will like to hear, and that you will not hear so soon from any other

quarter." Had she doubted his meaning while she listened, the glow in his face, when she looked up at him,

For this letter she must try to arm herself. That a letter from Edmund should be a subject of terror! She began

to feel that she had not yet gone through all the changes of opinion and sentiment which the progress of time

and variation of circumstances occasion in this world of changes. The vicissitudes of the human mind had not

Poor Fanny! though going as she did willingly and eagerly, the last evening at Mansfield Park must still be

wretchedness. Her heart was completely sad at parting. She had tears for every room in the house, much more

for every beloved inhabitant. She clung to her aunt, because she would miss her; she kissed the hand of her

uncle with struggling sobs, because she had displeased him; and as for Edmund, she could neither speak, nor

look, nor think, when the last moment came with _him_; and it was not till it was over that she knew he was

All this passed overnight, for the journey was to begin very early in the morning; and when the small,

diminished party met at breakfast, William and Fanny were talked of as already advanced one stage.

The novelty of travelling, and the happiness of being with William, soon produced their natural effect on

Fanny's spirits, when Mansfield Park was fairly left behind; and by the time their first stage was ended, and

they were to quit Sir Thomas's carriage, she was able to take leave of the old coachman, and send back proper

Of pleasant talk between the brother and sister there was no end. Everything supplied an amusement to the

high glee of William's mind, and he was full of frolic and joke in the intervals of their highertoned subjects,

all of which ended, if they did not begin, in praise of the Thrush, conjectures how she would be employed,

schemes for an action with some superior force, which (supposing the first lieutenant out of the way, and

William was not very merciful to the first lieutenant) was to give himself the next step as soon as possible, or

speculations upon prizemoney, which was to be generously distributed at home, with only the reservation of

enough to make the little cottage comfortable, in which he and Fanny were to pass all their middle and later

Fanny's immediate concerns, as far as they involved Mr. Crawford, made no part of their conversation.

William knew what had passed, and from his heart lamented that his sister's feelings should be so cold

towards a man whom he must consider as the first of human characters; but he was of an age to be all for

love, and therefore unable to blame; and knowing her wish on the subject, he would not distress her by the

She had reason to suppose herself not yet forgotten by Mr. Crawford. She had heard repeatedly from his

sister within the three weeks which had passed since their leaving Mansfield, and in each letter there had been

a few lines from himself, warm and determined like his speeches. It was a correspondence which Fanny

found quite as unpleasant as she had feared. Miss Crawford's style of writing, lively and affectionate, was

itself an evil, independent of what she was thus forced into reading from the brother's pen, for Edmund would

never rest till she had read the chief of the letter to him; and then she had to listen to his admiration of her

language, and the warmth of her attachments. There had, in fact, been so much of message, of allusion, of

recollection, so much of Mansfield in every letter, that Fanny could not but suppose it meant for him to hear;

and to find herself forced into a purpose of that kind, compelled into a correspondence which was bringing

her the addresses of the man she did not love, and obliging her to administer to the adverse passion of the

man she did, was cruelly mortifying. Here, too, her present removal promised advantage. When no longer

under the same roof with Edmund, she trusted that Miss Crawford would have no motive for writing strong

enough to overcome the trouble, and that at Portsmouth their correspondence would dwindle into nothing.

With such thoughts as these, among ten hundred others, Fanny proceeded in her journey safely and

cheerfully, and as expeditiously as could rationally be hoped in the dirty month of February. They entered

Oxford, but she could take only a hasty glimpse of Edmund's college as they passed along, and made no stop

anywhere till they reached Newbury, where a comfortable meal, uniting dinner and supper, wound up the

The next morning saw them off again at an early hour; and with no events, and no delays, they regularly

advanced, and were in the environs of Portsmouth while there was yet daylight for Fanny to look around her,

and wonder at the new buildings. They passed the drawbridge, and entered the town; and the light was only

beginning to fail as, guided by William's powerful voice, they were rattled into a narrow street, leading from

the High Street, and drawn up before the door of a small house now inhabited by Mr. Price.

Fanny was all agitation and flutter; all hope and apprehension. The moment they stopped, a trollopylooking

maidservant, seemingly in waiting for them at the door, stepped forward, and more intent on telling the news

than giving them any help, immediately began with, "The Thrush is gone out of harbour, please sir, and one

of the officers has been here to " She was interrupted by a fine tall boy of eleven years old, who, rushing

out of the house, pushed the maid aside, and while William was opening the chaisedoor himself, called out,

"You are just in time. We have been looking for you this halfhour. The Thrush went out of harbour this

morning. I saw her. It was a beautiful sight. And they think she will have her orders in a day or two. And Mr.

Campbell was here at four o'clock to ask for you: he has got one of the Thrush's boats, and is going off to her

A stare or two at Fanny, as William helped her out of the carriage, was all the voluntary notice which this

brother bestowed; but he made no objection to her kissing him, though still entirely engaged in detailing

farther particulars of the Thrush's going out of harbour, in which he had a strong right of interest, being to

Another moment and Fanny was in the narrow entrancepassage of the house, and in her mother's arms, who

met her there with looks of true kindness, and with features which Fanny loved the more, because they

brought her aunt Bertram's before her, and there were her two sisters: Susan, a wellgrown fine girl of

fourteen, and Betsey, the youngest of the family, about fiveboth glad to see her in their way, though with

no advantage of manner in receiving her. But manner Fanny did not want. Would they but love her, she

She was then taken into a parlour, so small that her first conviction was of its being only a passageroom to

something better, and she stood for a moment expecting to be invited on; but when she saw there was no

other door, and that there were signs of habitation before her, she called back her thoughts, reproved herself,

and grieved lest they should have been suspected. Her mother, however, could not stay long enough to

suspect anything. She was gone again to the streetdoor, to welcome William. "Oh! my dear William, how

glad I am to see you. But have you heard about the Thrush? She is gone out of harbour already; three days

before we had any thought of it; and I do not know what I am to do about Sam's things, they will never be

ready in time; for she may have her orders tomorrow, perhaps. It takes me quite unawares. And now you

must be off for Spithead too. Campbell has been here, quite in a worry about you; and now what shall we do?

I thought to have had such a comfortable evening with you, and here everything comes upon me at once."

Her son answered cheerfully, telling her that everything was always for the best; and making light of his own

"To be sure, I had much rather she had stayed in harbour, that I might have sat a few hours with you in

comfort; but as there is a boat ashore, I had better go off at once, and there is no help for it. Whereabouts does

the Thrush lay at Spithead? Near the Canopus? But no matter; here's Fanny in the parlour, and why should we

stay in the passage? Come, mother, you have hardly looked at your own dear Fanny yet."

In they both came, and Mrs. Price having kindly kissed her daughter again, and commented a little on her

growth, began with very natural solicitude to feel for their fatigues and wants as travellers.

"Poor dears! how tired you must both be! and now, what will you have? I began to think you would never

come. Betsey and I have been watching for you this halfhour. And when did you get anything to eat? And

what would you like to have now? I could not tell whether you would be for some meat, or only a dish of tea,

after your journey, or else I would have got something ready. And now I am afraid Campbell will be here

before there is time to dress a steak, and we have no butcher at hand. It is very inconvenient to have no

butcher in the street. We were better off in our last house. Perhaps you would like some tea as soon as it can

They both declared they should prefer it to anything. "Then, Betsey, my dear, run into the kitchen and see if

Rebecca has put the water on; and tell her to bring in the teathings as soon as she can. I wish we could get

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

"Dear me!" continued the anxious mother, "what a sad fire we have got, and I dare say you are both starved

with cold. Draw your chair nearer, my dear. I cannot think what Rebecca has been about. I am sure I told her

to bring some coals half an hour ago. Susan, you should have taken care of the fire."

"I was upstairs, mama, moving my things," said Susan, in a fearless, selfdefending tone, which startled

Fanny. "You know you had but just settled that my sister Fanny and I should have the other room; and I could

Farther discussion was prevented by various bustles: first, the driver came to be paid; then there was a

squabble between Sam and Rebecca about the manner of carrying up his sister's trunk, which he would

manage all his own way; and lastly, in walked Mr. Price himself, his own loud voice preceding him, as with

something of the oath kind he kicked away his son's portmanteau and his daughter's bandbox in the passage,

and called out for a candle; no candle was brought, however, and he walked into the room.

Fanny with doubting feelings had risen to meet him, but sank down again on finding herself undistinguished

in the dusk, and unthought of. With a friendly shake of his son's hand, and an eager voice, he instantly

began "Ha! welcome back, my boy. Glad to see you. Have you heard the news? The Thrush went out of

harbour this morning. Sharp is the word, you see! By G, you are just in time! The doctor has been here

inquiring for you: he has got one of the boats, and is to be off for Spithead by six, so you had better go with

him. I have been to Turner's about your mess; it is all in a way to be done. I should not wonder if you had

your orders tomorrow: but you cannot sail with this wind, if you are to cruise to the westward; and Captain

Walsh thinks you will certainly have a cruise to the westward, with the Elephant. By G, I wish you may!

But old Scholey was saying, just now, that he thought you would be sent first to the Texel. Well, well, we are

ready, whatever happens. But by G, you lost a fine sight by not being here in the morning to see the

Thrush go out of harbour! I would not have been out of the way for a thousand pounds. Old Scholey ran in at

breakfasttime, to say she had slipped her moorings and was coming out, I jumped up, and made but two

steps to the platform. If ever there was a perfect beauty afloat, she is one; and there she lays at Spithead, and

anybody in England would take her for an eightandtwenty. I was upon the platform two hours this

afternoon looking at her. She lays close to the Endymion, between her and the Cleopatra, just to the eastward

"Ha!" cried William, "_that's_ just where I should have put her myself. It's the best berth at Spithead. But

here is my sister, sir; here is Fanny," turning and leading her forward; "it is so dark you do not see her."

With an acknowledgment that he had quite forgot her, Mr. Price now received his daughter; and having given

her a cordial hug, and observed that she was grown into a woman, and he supposed would be wanting a

husband soon, seemed very much inclined to forget her again. Fanny shrunk back to her seat, with feelings

sadly pained by his language and his smell of spirits; and he talked on only to his son, and only of the Thrush,

though William, warmly interested as he was in that subject, more than once tried to make his father think of

After sitting some time longer, a candle was obtained; but as there was still no appearance of tea, nor, from

Betsey's reports from the kitchen, much hope of any under a considerable period, William determined to go

and change his dress, and make the necessary preparations for his removal on board directly, that he might

As he left the room, two rosyfaced boys, ragged and dirty, about eight and nine years old, rushed into it just

released from school, and coming eagerly to see their sister, and tell that the Thrush was gone out of harbour;

Tom and Charles. Charles had been born since Fanny's going away, but Tom she had often helped to nurse,

and now felt a particular pleasure in seeing again. Both were kissed very tenderly, but Tom she wanted to

keep by her, to try to trace the features of the baby she had loved, and talked to, of his infant preference of

herself. Tom, however, had no mind for such treatment: he came home not to stand and be talked to, but to

run about and make a noise; and both boys had soon burst from her, and slammed the parlourdoor till her

She had now seen all that were at home; there remained only two brothers between herself and Susan, one of

whom was a clerk in a public office in London, and the other midshipman on board an Indiaman. But though

she had _seen_ all the members of the family, she had not yet _heard_ all the noise they could make. Another

quarter of an hour brought her a great deal more. William was soon calling out from the landingplace of the

second story for his mother and for Rebecca. He was in distress for something that he had left there, and did

not find again. A key was mislaid, Betsey accused of having got at his new hat, and some slight, but essential

alteration of his uniform waistcoat, which he had been promised to have done for him, entirely neglected.

Mrs. Price, Rebecca, and Betsey all went up to defend themselves, all talking together, but Rebecca loudest,

and the job was to be done as well as it could in a great hurry; William trying in vain to send Betsey down

again, or keep her from being troublesome where she was; the whole of which, as almost every door in the

house was open, could be plainly distinguished in the parlour, except when drowned at intervals by the

superior noise of Sam, Tom, and Charles chasing each other up and down stairs, and tumbling about and

Fanny was almost stunned. The smallness of the house and thinness of the walls brought everything so close

to her, that, added to the fatigue of her journey, and all her recent agitation, she hardly knew how to bear it.

_Within_ the room all was tranquil enough, for Susan having disappeared with the others, there were soon

only her father and herself remaining; and he, taking out a newspaper, the accustomary loan of a neighbour,

applied himself to studying it, without seeming to recollect her existence. The solitary candle was held

between himself and the paper, without any reference to her possible convenience; but she had nothing to do,

and was glad to have the light screened from her aching head, as she sat in bewildered, broken, sorrowful

She was at home. But, alas! it was not such a home, she had not such a welcome, asshe checked herself;

she was unreasonable. What right had she to be of importance to her family? She could have none, so long

lost sight of! William's concerns must be dearest, they always had been, and he had every right. Yet to have

so little said or asked about herself, to have scarcely an inquiry made after Mansfield! It did pain her to have

Mansfield forgotten; the friends who had done so muchthe dear, dear friends! But here, one subject

swallowed up all the rest. Perhaps it must be so. The destination of the Thrush must be now preeminently

interesting. A day or two might shew the difference. _She_ only was to blame. Yet she thought it would not

have been so at Mansfield. No, in her uncle's house there would have been a consideration of times and

seasons, a regulation of subject, a propriety, an attention towards everybody which there was not here.

The only interruption which thoughts like these received for nearly half an hour was from a sudden burst of

her father's, not at all calculated to compose them. At a more than ordinary pitch of thumping and hallooing

in the passage, he exclaimed, "Devil take those young dogs! How they are singing out! Ay, Sam's voice

louder than all the rest! That boy is fit for a boatswain. Holla, you there! Sam, stop your confounded pipe, or I

This threat was so palpably disregarded, that though within five minutes afterwards the three boys all burst

into the room together and sat down, Fanny could not consider it as a proof of anything more than their being

for the time thoroughly fagged, which their hot faces and panting breaths seemed to prove, especially as they

were still kicking each other's shins, and hallooing out at sudden starts immediately under their father's eye.

The next opening of the door brought something more welcome: it was for the teathings, which she had

begun almost to despair of seeing that evening. Susan and an attendant girl, whose inferior appearance

informed Fanny, to her great surprise, that she had previously seen the upper servant, brought in everything

necessary for the meal; Susan looking, as she put the kettle on the fire and glanced at her sister, as if divided

between the agreeable triumph of shewing her activity and usefulness, and the dread of being thought to

demean herself by such an office. "She had been into the kitchen," she said, "to hurry Sally and help make the

toast, and spread the bread and butter, or she did not know when they should have got tea, and she was sure

Fanny was very thankful. She could not but own that she should be very glad of a little tea, and Susan

immediately set about making it, as if pleased to have the employment all to herself; and with only a little

unnecessary bustle, and some few injudicious attempts at keeping her brothers in better order than she could,

acquitted herself very well. Fanny's spirit was as much refreshed as her body; her head and heart were soon

the better for such welltimed kindness. Susan had an open, sensible countenance; she was like William, and

In this more placid state of things William reentered, followed not far behind by his mother and Betsey. He,

complete in his lieutenant's uniform, looking and moving all the taller, firmer, and more graceful for it, and

with the happiest smile over his face, walked up directly to Fanny, who, rising from her seat, looked at him

for a moment in speechless admiration, and then threw her arms round his neck to sob out her various

Anxious not to appear unhappy, she soon recovered herself; and wiping away her tears, was able to notice

and admire all the striking parts of his dress; listening with reviving spirits to his cheerful hopes of being on

shore some part of every day before they sailed, and even of getting her to Spithead to see the sloop.

The next bustle brought in Mr. Campbell, the surgeon of the Thrush, a very wellbehaved young man, who

came to call for his friend, and for whom there was with some contrivance found a chair, and with some hasty

washing of the young teamaker's, a cup and saucer; and after another quarter of an hour of earnest talk

between the gentlemen, noise rising upon noise, and bustle upon bustle, men and boys at last all in motion

together, the moment came for setting off; everything was ready, William took leave, and all of them were

gone; for the three boys, in spite of their mother's entreaty, determined to see their brother and Mr. Campbell

to the sallyport; and Mr. Price walked off at the same time to carry back his neighbour's newspaper.

Something like tranquillity might now be hoped for; and accordingly, when Rebecca had been prevailed on to

carry away the teathings, and Mrs. Price had walked about the room some time looking for a shirtsleeve,

which Betsey at last hunted out from a drawer in the kitchen, the small party of females were pretty well

composed, and the mother having lamented again over the impossibility of getting Sam ready in time, was at

A few inquiries began: but one of the earliest"How did sister Bertram manage about her servants? "Was

she as much plagued as herself to get tolerable servants?" soon led her mind away from Northamptonshire,

and fixed it on her own domestic grievances, and the shocking character of all the Portsmouth servants, of

whom she believed her own two were the very worst, engrossed her completely. The Bertrams were all

forgotten in detailing the faults of Rebecca, against whom Susan had also much to depose, and little Betsey a

great deal more, and who did seem so thoroughly without a single recommendation, that Fanny could not

help modestly presuming that her mother meant to part with her when her year was up.

"Her year!" cried Mrs. Price; "I am sure I hope I shall be rid of her before she has staid a year, for that will

not be up till November. Servants are come to such a pass, my dear, in Portsmouth, that it is quite a miracle if

one keeps them more than half a year. I have no hope of ever being settled; and if I was to part with Rebecca,

I should only get something worse. And yet I do not think I am a very difficult mistress to please; and I am

sure the place is easy enough, for there is always a girl under her, and I often do half the work myself."

Fanny was silent; but not from being convinced that there might not be a remedy found for some of these

evils. As she now sat looking at Betsey, she could not but think particularly of another sister, a very pretty

little girl, whom she had left there not much younger when she went into Northamptonshire, who had died a

few years afterwards. There had been something remarkably amiable about her. Fanny in those early days

had preferred her to Susan; and when the news of her death had at last reached Mansfield, had for a short

time been quite afflicted. The sight of Betsey brought the image of little Mary back again, but she would not

have pained her mother by alluding to her for the world. While considering her with these ideas, Betsey, at a

small distance, was holding out something to catch her eyes, meaning to screen it at the same time from

It was a silver knife. Up jumped Susan, claiming it as her own, and trying to get it away; but the child ran to

her mother's protection, and Susan could only reproach, which she did very warmly, and evidently hoping to

interest Fanny on her side. "It was very hard that she was not to have her _own_ knife; it was her own knife;

little sister Mary had left it to her upon her deathbed, and she ought to have had it to keep herself long ago.

But mama kept it from her, and was always letting Betsey get hold of it; and the end of it would be that

Betsey would spoil it, and get it for her own, though mama had _promised_ her that Betsey should not have it

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

"Now, Susan," cried Mrs. Price, in a complaining voice, "now, how can you be so cross? You are always

quarrelling about that knife. I wish you would not be so quarrelsome. Poor little Betsey; how cross Susan is

to you! But you should not have taken it out, my dear, when I sent you to the drawer. You know I told you

not to touch it, because Susan is so cross about it. I must hide it another time, Betsey. Poor Mary little

thought it would be such a bone of contention when she gave it me to keep, only two hours before she died.

Poor little soul! she could but just speak to be heard, and she said so prettily, "Let sister Susan have my knife,

mama, when I am dead and buried." Poor little dear! she was so fond of it, Fanny, that she would have it lay

by her in bed, all through her illness. It was the gift of her good godmother, old Mrs. Admiral Maxwell, only

six weeks before she was taken for death. Poor little sweet creature! Well, she was taken away from evil to

come. My own Betsey" (fondling her), "_you_ have not the luck of such a good godmother. Aunt Norris lives

Fanny had indeed nothing to convey from aunt Norris, but a message to say she hoped that her goddaughter

was a good girl, and learnt her book. There had been at one moment a slight murmur in the drawingroom at

Mansfield Park about sending her a prayerbook; but no second sound had been heard of such a purpose.

Mrs. Norris, however, had gone home and taken down two old prayerbooks of her husband with that idea;

but, upon examination, the ardour of generosity went off. One was found to have too small a print for a

Fanny, fatigued and fatigued again, was thankful to accept the first invitation of going to bed; and before

Betsey had finished her cry at being allowed to sit up only one hour extraordinary in honour of sister, she was

off, leaving all below in confusion and noise again; the boys begging for toasted cheese, her father calling out

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

with Susan. The smallness of the rooms above and below, indeed, and the narrowness of the passage and

staircase, struck her beyond her imagination. She soon learned to think with respect of her own little attic at

Could Sir Thomas have seen all his niece's feelings, when she wrote her first letter to her aunt, he would not

have despaired; for though a good night's rest, a pleasant morning, the hope of soon seeing William again,

and the comparatively quiet state of the house, from Tom and Charles being gone to school, Sam on some

project of his own, and her father on his usual lounges, enabled her to express herself cheerfully on the

subject of home, there were still, to her own perfect consciousness, many drawbacks suppressed. Could he

have seen only half that she felt before the end of a week, he would have thought Mr. Crawford sure of her,

Before the week ended, it was all disappointment. In the first place, William was gone. The Thrush had had

her orders, the wind had changed, and he was sailed within four days from their reaching Portsmouth; and

during those days she had seen him only twice, in a short and hurried way, when he had come ashore on duty.

There had been no free conversation, no walk on the ramparts, no visit to the dockyard, no acquaintance with

the Thrush, nothing of all that they had planned and depended on. Everything in that quarter failed her, except

William's affection. His last thought on leaving home was for her. He stepped back again to the door to say,

"Take care of Fanny, mother. She is tender, and not used to rough it like the rest of us. I charge you, take care

William was gone: and the home he had left her in was, Fanny could not conceal it from herself, in almost

every respect the very reverse of what she could have wished. It was the abode of noise, disorder, and

impropriety. Nobody was in their right place, nothing was done as it ought to be. She could not respect her

parents as she had hoped. On her father, her confidence had not been sanguine, but he was more negligent of

his family, his habits were worse, and his manners coarser, than she had been prepared for. He did not want

abilities but he had no curiosity, and no information beyond his profession; he read only the newspaper and

the navylist; he talked only of the dockyard, the harbour, Spithead, and the Motherbank; he swore and he

drank, he was dirty and gross. She had never been able to recall anything approaching to tenderness in his

former treatment of herself. There had remained only a general impression of roughness and loudness; and

Her disappointment in her mother was greater: _there_ she had hoped much, and found almost nothing. Every

flattering scheme of being of consequence to her soon fell to the ground. Mrs. Price was not unkind; but,

instead of gaining on her affection and confidence, and becoming more and more dear, her daughter never

met with greater kindness from her than on the first day of her arrival. The instinct of nature was soon

satisfied, and Mrs. Price's attachment had no other source. Her heart and her time were already quite full; she

had neither leisure nor affection to bestow on Fanny. Her daughters never had been much to her. She was

fond of her sons, especially of William, but Betsey was the first of her girls whom she had ever much

regarded. To her she was most injudiciously indulgent. William was her pride; Betsey her darling; and John,

Richard, Sam, Tom, and Charles occupied all the rest of her maternal solicitude, alternately her worries and

her comforts. These shared her heart: her time was given chiefly to her house and her servants. Her days were

spent in a kind of slow bustle; all was busy without getting on, always behindhand and lamenting it, without

altering her ways; wishing to be an economist, without contrivance or regularity; dissatisfied with her

servants, without skill to make them better, and whether helping, or reprimanding, or indulging them, without

Of her two sisters, Mrs. Price very much more resembled Lady Bertram than Mrs. Norris. She was a manager

by necessity, without any of Mrs. Norris's inclination for it, or any of her activity. Her disposition was

naturally easy and indolent, like Lady Bertram's; and a situation of similar affluence and donothingness

would have been much more suited to her capacity than the exertions and selfdenials of the one which her

imprudent marriage had placed her in. She might have made just as good a woman of consequence as Lady

Bertram, but Mrs. Norris would have been a more respectable mother of nine children on a small income.

Much of all this Fanny could not but be sensible of. She might scruple to make use of the words, but she must

and did feel that her mother was a partial, illjudging parent, a dawdle, a slattern, who neither taught nor

restrained her children, whose house was the scene of mismanagement and discomfort from beginning to end,

and who had no talent, no conversation, no affection towards herself; no curiosity to know her better, no

desire of her friendship, and no inclination for her company that could lessen her sense of such feelings.

Fanny was very anxious to be useful, and not to appear above her home, or in any way disqualified or

disinclined, by her foreign education, from contributing her help to its comforts, and therefore set about

working for Sam immediately; and by working early and late, with perseverance and great despatch, did so

much that the boy was shipped off at last, with more than half his linen ready. She had great pleasure in

feeling her usefulness, but could not conceive how they would have managed without her.

Sam, loud and overbearing as he was, she rather regretted when he went, for he was clever and intelligent,

and glad to be employed in any errand in the town; and though spurning the remonstrances of Susan, given as

they were, though very reasonable in themselves, with illtimed and powerless warmth, was beginning to be

influenced by Fanny's services and gentle persuasions; and she found that the best of the three younger ones

was gone in him: Tom and Charles being at least as many years as they were his juniors distant from that age

of feeling and reason, which might suggest the expediency of making friends, and of endeavouring to be less

disagreeable. Their sister soon despaired of making the smallest impression on _them_; they were quite

untameable by any means of address which she had spirits or time to attempt. Every afternoon brought a

return of their riotous games all over the house; and she very early learned to sigh at the approach of

Betsey, too, a spoiled child, trained up to think the alphabet her greatest enemy, left to be with the servants at

her pleasure, and then encouraged to report any evil of them, she was almost as ready to despair of being able

to love or assist; and of Susan's temper she had many doubts. Her continual disagreements with her mother,

her rash squabbles with Tom and Charles, and petulance with Betsey, were at least so distressing to Fanny

that, though admitting they were by no means without provocation, she feared the disposition that could push

them to such length must be far from amiable, and from affording any repose to herself.

Such was the home which was to put Mansfield out of her head, and teach her to think of her cousin Edmund

with moderated feelings. On the contrary, she could think of nothing but Mansfield, its beloved inmates, its

happy ways. Everything where she now was in full contrast to it. The elegance, propriety, regularity,

harmony, and perhaps, above all, the peace and tranquillity of Mansfield, were brought to her remembrance

The living in incessant noise was, to a frame and temper delicate and nervous like Fanny's, an evil which no

superadded elegance or harmony could have entirely atoned for. It was the greatest misery of all. At

Mansfield, no sounds of contention, no raised voice, no abrupt bursts, no tread of violence, was ever heard;

all proceeded in a regular course of cheerful orderliness; everybody had their due importance; everybody's

feelings were consulted. If tenderness could be ever supposed wanting, good sense and good breeding

supplied its place; and as to the little irritations sometimes introduced by aunt Norris, they were short, they

were trifling, they were as a drop of water to the ocean, compared with the ceaseless tumult of her present

abode. Here everybody was noisy, every voice was loud (excepting, perhaps, her mother's, which resembled

the soft monotony of Lady Bertram's, only worn into fretfulness). Whatever was wanted was hallooed for,

and the servants hallooed out their excuses from the kitchen. The doors were in constant banging, the stairs

were never at rest, nothing was done without a clatter, nobody sat still, and nobody could command attention

In a review of the two houses, as they appeared to her before the end of a week, Fanny was tempted to apply

to them Dr. Johnson's celebrated judgment as to matrimony and celibacy, and say, that though Mansfield

Fanny was right enough in not expecting to hear from Miss Crawford now at the rapid rate in which their

correspondence had begun; Mary's next letter was after a decidedly longer interval than the last, but she was

not right in supposing that such an interval would be felt a great relief to herself. Here was another strange

revolution of mind! She was really glad to receive the letter when it did come. In her present exile from good

society, and distance from everything that had been wont to interest her, a letter from one belonging to the set

where her heart lived, written with affection, and some degree of elegance, was thoroughly acceptable. The

usual plea of increasing engagements was made in excuse for not having written to her earlier; "And now that

I have begun," she continued, "my letter will not be worth your reading, for there will be no little offering of

love at the end, no three or four lines _passionnees_ from the most devoted H. C. in the world, for Henry is in

Norfolk; business called him to Everingham ten days ago, or perhaps he only pretended to call, for the sake of

being travelling at the same time that you were. But there he is, and, by the bye, his absence may sufficiently

account for any remissness of his sister's in writing, for there has been no 'Well, Mary, when do you write to

Fanny? Is not it time for you to write to Fanny?' to spur me on. At last, after various attempts at meeting, I

have seen your cousins, 'dear Julia and dearest Mrs. Rushworth'; they found me at home yesterday, and we

were glad to see each other again. We _seemed_ _very_ glad to see each other, and I do really think we were

a little. We had a vast deal to say. Shall I tell you how Mrs. Rushworth looked when your name was

mentioned? I did not use to think her wanting in selfpossession, but she had not quite enough for the

demands of yesterday. Upon the whole, Julia was in the best looks of the two, at least after you were spoken

of. There was no recovering the complexion from the moment that I spoke of 'Fanny,' and spoke of her as a

sister should. But Mrs. Rushworth's day of good looks will come; we have cards for her first party on the

28th. Then she will be in beauty, for she will open one of the best houses in Wimpole Street. I was in it two

years ago, when it was Lady Lascelle's, and prefer it to almost any I know in London, and certainly she will

then feel, to use a vulgar phrase, that she has got her pennyworth for her penny. Henry could not have

afforded her such a house. I hope she will recollect it, and be satisfied, as well as she may, with moving the

queen of a palace, though the king may appear best in the background; and as I have no desire to tease her, I

shall never _force_ your name upon her again. She will grow sober by degrees. From all that I hear and

guess, Baron Wildenheim's attentions to Julia continue, but I do not know that he has any serious

encouragement. She ought to do better. A poor honourable is no catch, and I cannot imagine any liking in the

case, for take away his rants, and the poor baron has nothing. What a difference a vowel makes! If his rents

were but equal to his rants! Your cousin Edmund moves slowly; detained, perchance, by parish duties. There

may be some old woman at Thornton Lacey to be converted. 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

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,

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

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

illchosen and illtimed, 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

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 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

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 becamenot 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

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

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

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 letterwriting!

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

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

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

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 gratitudeartless, 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

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 portadmiral, 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

twentyfour 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 lastmentioned 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

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 distressingfound herself and Susan, within ten minutes, walking towards the High

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 fatherinlaw 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

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 threedeckers now in commission,

They were then to set forward for the dockyard at once, and the walk would have been

conductedaccording to Mr. Crawford's opinionin 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 neverfailing 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 quicklooking 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 betterinformed 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 andhe 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

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

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

"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 huntingbox in the vicinity of everything so

dear; for as to any partnership in Thornton Lacey, as Edmund Bertram once goodhumouredly 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

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 agreeableso _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

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 partedFanny in a state of

To have had him join their family dinnerparty, 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

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

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 cheerfullooking 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

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 dinnertime. 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

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

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

evervarying 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

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

"I do not know. I have heard nothing about it yet from my aunt. Perhaps I may be to stay longer. It may not

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.

"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

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,

"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 hardhearted, 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

"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

"My love to your sister, if you please; and when you see my cousin, my cousin Edmund, I wish you would be

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

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 halfcleaned plates, and not halfcleaned

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

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 halfpast 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

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 goodhumoured and pleasant in his own family, and I do not think him so very illlooking as I

didat least, one sees many worse. He will not do by the side of your cousin Edmund. Of the

lastmentioned 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

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 myselfI mean about our taking you back into Northamptonshire. My

dear little creature, do not stay at Portsmouth to lose your pretty looks. Those vile seabreezes 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 l4th, 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 forhaving a little curiosity, and so I think has hethough he will

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 townthat, 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 illjudged; 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

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

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

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 wellappointed, 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,

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 goodtempered, and could fancy his entering into a plan of that sort most

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

"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 that 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 coldhearted, 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. Even now, she speaks with pleasure of being in Mansfield in

June; but June is at a great distance, and I believe I shall write to her. I have nearly determined on explaining

myself by letter. To be at an early certainty is a material object. My present state is miserably irksome.

Considering everything, I think a letter will be decidedly the best method of explanation. I shall be able to

write much that I could not say, and shall be giving her time for reflection before she resolves on her answer,

and I am less afraid of the result of reflection than of an immediate hasty impulse; I think I am. My greatest

danger would lie in her consulting Mrs. Fraser, and I at a distance unable to help my own cause. A letter

exposes to all the evil of consultation, and where the mind is anything short of perfect decision, an adviser

may, in an unlucky moment, lead it to do what it may afterwards regret. I must think this matter over a little.

This long letter, full of my own concerns alone, will be enough to tire even the friendship of a Fanny. The last

time I saw Crawford was at Mrs. Fraser's party. I am more and more satisfied with all that I see and hear of

him. There is not a shadow of wavering. He thoroughly knows his own mind, and acts up to his resolutions:

an inestimable quality. I could not see him and my eldest sister in the same room without recollecting what

you once told me, and I acknowledge that they did not meet as friends. There was marked coolness on her

side. They scarcely spoke. I saw him draw back surprised, and I was sorry that Mrs. Rushworth should resent

any former supposed slight to Miss Bertram. You will wish to hear my opinion of Maria's degree of comfort

as a wife. There is no appearance of unhappiness. I hope they get on pretty well together. I dined twice in

Wimpole Street, and might have been there oftener, but it is mortifying to be with Rushworth as a brother.

Julia seems to enjoy London exceedingly. I had little enjoyment there, but have less here. We are not a lively

party. You are very much wanted. I miss you more than I can express. My mother desires her best love, and

hopes to hear from you soon. She talks of you almost every hour, and I am sorry to find how many weeks

more she is likely to be without you. My father means to fetch you himself, but it will not be till after Easter,

when he has business in town. You are happy at Portsmouth, I hope, but this must not be a yearly visit. I want

you at home, that I may have your opinion about Thornton Lacey. I have little heart for extensive

improvements till I know that it will ever have a mistress. I think I shall certainly write. It is quite settled that

the Grants go to Bath; they leave Mansfield on Monday. I am glad of it. I am not comfortable enough to be fit

for anybody; but your aunt seems to feel out of luck that such an article of Mansfield news should fall to my

"I never will, no, I certainly never will wish for a letter again," was Fanny's secret declaration as she finished

this. "What do they bring but disappointment and sorrow? Not till after Easter! How shall I bear it? And my

Fanny checked the tendency of these thoughts as well as she could, but she was within half a minute of

starting the idea that Sir Thomas was quite unkind, both to her aunt and to herself. As for the main subject of

the letter, there was nothing in that to soothe irritation. She was almost vexed into displeasure and anger

against Edmund. "There is no good in this delay," said she. "Why is not it settled? He is blinded, and nothing

will open his eyes; nothing can, after having had truths before him so long in vain. He will marry her, and be

poor and miserable. God grant that her influence do not make him cease to be respectable!" She looked over

the letter again. "'So very fond of me!' 'tis nonsense all. She loves nobody but herself and her brother. Her

friends leading her astray for years! She is quite as likely to have led _them_ astray. They have all, perhaps,

been corrupting one another; but if they are so much fonder of her than she is of them, she is the less likely to

have been hurt, except by their flattery. 'The only woman in the world whom he could ever think of as a wife.'

I firmly believe it. It is an attachment to govern his whole life. Accepted or refused, his heart is wedded to her

for ever. 'The loss of Mary I must consider as comprehending the loss of Crawford and Fanny.' Edmund, you

do not know me. The families would never be connected if you did not connect them! Oh! write, write. Finish

it at once. Let there be an end of this suspense. Fix, commit, condemn yourself."

Such sensations, however, were too near akin to resentment to be long guiding Fanny's soliloquies. She was

soon more softened and sorrowful. His warm regard, his kind expressions, his confidential treatment, touched

her strongly. He was only too good to everybody. It was a letter, in short, which she would not but have had

Everybody at all addicted to letterwriting, without having much to say, which will include a large proportion

of the female world at least, must feel with Lady Bertram that she was out of luck in having such a capital

piece of Mansfield news as the certainty of the Grants going to Bath, occur at a time when she could make no

advantage of it, and will admit that it must have been very mortifying to her to see it fall to the share of her

thankless son, and treated as concisely as possible at the end of a long letter, instead of having it to spread

over the largest part of a page of her own. For though Lady Bertram rather shone in the epistolary line,

having early in her marriage, from the want of other employment, and the circumstance of Sir Thomas's

being in Parliament, got into the way of making and keeping correspondents, and formed for herself a very

creditable, commonplace, amplifying style, so that a very little matter was enough for her: she could not do

entirely without any; she must have something to write about, even to her niece; and being so soon to lose all

the benefit of Dr. Grant's gouty symptoms and Mrs. Grant's morning calls, it was very hard upon her to be

There was a rich amends, however, preparing for her. Lady Bertram's hour of good luck came. Within a few

days from the receipt of Edmund's letter, Fanny had one from her aunt, beginning thus

"My Dear Fanny,I take up my pen to communicate some very alarming intelligence, which I make no

This was a great deal better than to have to take up the pen to acquaint her with all the particulars of the

Grants' intended journey, for the present intelligence was of a nature to promise occupation for the pen for

many days to come, being no less than the dangerous illness of her eldest son, of which they had received

Tom had gone from London with a party of young men to Newmarket, where a neglected fall and a good deal

of drinking had brought on a fever; and when the party broke up, being unable to move, had been left by

himself at the house of one of these young men to the comforts of sickness and solitude, and the attendance

only of servants. Instead of being soon well enough to follow his friends, as he had then hoped, his disorder

increased considerably, and it was not long before he thought so ill of himself as to be as ready as his

"This distressing intelligence, as you may suppose," observed her ladyship, after giving the substance of it,

"has agitated us exceedingly, and we cannot prevent ourselves from being greatly alarmed and apprehensive

for the poor invalid, whose state Sir Thomas fears may be very critical; and Edmund kindly proposes

attending his brother immediately, but I am happy to add that Sir Thomas will not leave me on this

distressing occasion, as it would be too trying for me. We shall greatly miss Edmund in our small circle, but I

trust and hope he will find the poor invalid in a less alarming state than might be apprehended, and that he

will be able to bring him to Mansfield shortly, which Sir Thomas proposes should be done, and thinks best on

every account, and I flatter myself the poor sufferer will soon be able to bear the removal without material

inconvenience or injury. As I have little doubt of your feeling for us, my dear Fanny, under these distressing

Fanny's feelings on the occasion were indeed considerably more warm and genuine than her aunt's style of

writing. She felt truly for them all. Tom dangerously ill, Edmund gone to attend him, and the sadly small

party remaining at Mansfield, were cares to shut out every other care, or almost every other. She could just

find selfishness enough to wonder whether Edmund _had_ written to Miss Crawford before this summons

came, but no sentiment dwelt long with her that was not purely affectionate and disinterestedly anxious. Her

aunt did not neglect her: she wrote again and again; they were receiving frequent accounts from Edmund, and

these accounts were as regularly transmitted to Fanny, in the same diffuse style, and the same medley of

trusts, hopes, and fears, all following and producing each other at haphazard. It was a sort of playing at being

frightened. The sufferings which Lady Bertram did not see had little power over her fancy; and she wrote

very comfortably about agitation, and anxiety, and poor invalids, till Tom was actually conveyed to

Mansfield, and her own eyes had beheld his altered appearance. Then a letter which she had been previously

preparing for Fanny was finished in a different style, in the language of real feeling and alarm; then she wrote

as she might have spoken. "He is just come, my dear Fanny, and is taken upstairs; and I am so shocked to see

him, that I do not know what to do. I am sure he has been very ill. Poor Tom! I am quite grieved for him, and

very much frightened, and so is Sir Thomas; and how glad I should be if you were here to comfort me. But

Sir Thomas hopes he will be better tomorrow, and says we must consider his journey."

The real solicitude now awakened in the maternal bosom was not soon over. Tom's extreme impatience to be

removed to Mansfield, and experience those comforts of home and family which had been little thought of in

uninterrupted health, had probably induced his being conveyed thither too early, as a return of fever came on,

and for a week he was in a more alarming state than ever. They were all very seriously frightened. Lady

Bertram wrote her daily terrors to her niece, who might now be said to live upon letters, and pass all her time

between suffering from that of today and looking forward to tomorrow's. Without any particular affection

for her eldest cousin, her tenderness of heart made her feel that she could not spare him, and the purity of her

principles added yet a keener solicitude, when she considered how little useful, how little selfdenying his

Susan was her only companion and listener on this, as on more common occasions. Susan was always ready

to hear and to sympathise. Nobody else could be interested in so remote an evil as illness in a family above an

hundred miles off; not even Mrs. Price, beyond a brief question or two, if she saw her daughter with a letter

in her hand, and now and then the quiet observation of, "My poor sister Bertram must be in a great deal of

So long divided and so differently situated, the ties of blood were little more than nothing. An attachment,

originally as tranquil as their tempers, was now become a mere name. Mrs. Price did quite as much for Lady

Bertram as Lady Bertram would have done for Mrs. Price. Three or four Prices might have been swept away,

any or all except Fanny and William, and Lady Bertram would have thought little about it; or perhaps might

have caught from Mrs. Norris's lips the cant of its being a very happy thing and a great blessing to their poor

At about the week's end from his return to Mansfield, Tom's immediate danger was over, and he was so far

pronounced safe as to make his mother perfectly easy; for being now used to the sight of him in his suffering,

helpless state, and hearing only the best, and never thinking beyond what she heard, with no disposition for

alarm and no aptitude at a hint, Lady Bertram was the happiest subject in the world for a little medical

imposition. The fever was subdued; the fever had been his complaint; of course he would soon be well again.

Lady Bertram could think nothing less, and Fanny shared her aunt's security, till she received a few lines

from Edmund, written purposely to give her a clearer idea of his brother's situation, and acquaint her with the

apprehensions which he and his father had imbibed from the physician with respect to some strong hectic

symptoms, which seemed to seize the frame on the departure of the fever. They judged it best that Lady

Bertram should not be harassed by alarms which, it was to be hoped, would prove unfounded; but there was

no reason why Fanny should not know the truth. They were apprehensive for his lungs.

A very few lines from Edmund shewed her the patient and the sickroom in a juster and stronger light than all

Lady Bertram's sheets of paper could do. There was hardly any one in the house who might not have

described, from personal observation, better than herself; not one who was not more useful at times to her

son. She could do nothing but glide in quietly and look at him; but when able to talk or be talked to, or read

to, Edmund was the companion he preferred. His aunt worried him by her cares, and Sir Thomas knew not

how to bring down his conversation or his voice to the level of irritation and feebleness. Edmund was all in

all. Fanny would certainly believe him so at least, and must find that her estimation of him was higher than

ever when he appeared as the attendant, supporter, cheerer of a suffering brother. There was not only the

debility of recent illness to assist: there was also, as she now learnt, nerves much affected, spirits much

depressed to calm and raise, and her own imagination added that there must be a mind to be properly guided.

The family were not consumptive, and she was more inclined to hope than fear for her cousin, except when

she thought of Miss Crawford; but Miss Crawford gave her the idea of being the child of good luck, and to

Even in the sick chamber the fortunate Mary was not forgotten. Edmund's letter had this postscript. "On the

subject of my last, I had actually begun a letter when called away by Tom's illness, but I have now changed

my mind, and fear to trust the influence of friends. When Tom is better, I shall go."

Such was the state of Mansfield, and so it continued, with scarcely any change, till Easter. A line occasionally

added by Edmund to his mother's letter was enough for Fanny's information. Tom's amendment was

Easter came particularly late this year, as Fanny had most sorrowfully considered, on first learning that she

had no chance of leaving Portsmouth till after it. It came, and she had yet heard nothing of her

returnnothing even of the going to London, which was to precede her return. Her aunt often expressed a

wish for her, but there was no notice, no message from the uncle on whom all depended. She supposed he

could not yet leave his son, but it was a cruel, a terrible delay to her. The end of April was coming on; it

would soon be almost three months, instead of two, that she had been absent from them all, and that her days

had been passing in a state of penance, which she loved them too well to hope they would thoroughly

understand; and who could yet say when there might be leisure to think of or fetch her?

Her eagerness, her impatience, her longings to be with them, were such as to bring a line or two of Cowper's

Tirocinium for ever before her. "With what intense desire she wants her home," was continually on her

tongue, as the truest description of a yearning which she could not suppose any schoolboy's bosom to feel

When she had been coming to Portsmouth, she had loved to call it her home, had been fond of saying that she

was going home; the word had been very dear to her, and so it still was, but it must be applied to Mansfield.

_That_ was now the home. Portsmouth was Portsmouth; Mansfield was home. They had been long so

arranged in the indulgence of her secret meditations, and nothing was more consolatory to her than to find her

aunt using the same language: "I cannot but say I much regret your being from home at this distressing time,

so very trying to my spirits. I trust and hope, and sincerely wish you may never be absent from home so long

again," were most delightful sentences to her. Still, however, it was her private regale. Delicacy to her parents

made her careful not to betray such a preference of her uncle's house. It was always: "When I go back into

Northamptonshire, or when I return to Mansfield, I shall do so and so." For a great while it was so, but at last

the longing grew stronger, it overthrew caution, and she found herself talking of what she should do when she

went home before she was aware. She reproached herself, coloured, and looked fearfully towards her father

and mother. She need not have been uneasy. There was no sign of displeasure, or even of hearing her. They

were perfectly free from any jealousy of Mansfield. She was as welcome to wish herself there as to be there.

It was sad to Fanny to lose all the pleasures of spring. She had not known before what pleasures she _had_ to

lose in passing March and April in a town. She had not known before how much the beginnings and progress

of vegetation had delighted her. What animation, both of body and mind, she had derived from watching the

advance of that season which cannot, in spite of its capriciousness, be unlovely, and seeing its increasing

beauties from the earliest flowers in the warmest divisions of her aunt's garden, to the opening of leaves of

her uncle's plantations, and the glory of his woods. To be losing such pleasures was no trifle; to be losing

them, because she was in the midst of closeness and noise, to have confinement, bad air, bad smells,

substituted for liberty, freshness, fragrance, and verdure, was infinitely worse: but even these incitements to

regret were feeble, compared with what arose from the conviction of being missed by her best friends, and

Could she have been at home, she might have been of service to every creature in the house. She felt that she

must have been of use to all. To all she must have saved some trouble of head or hand; and were it only in

supporting the spirits of her aunt Bertram, keeping her from the evil of solitude, or the still greater evil of a

restless, officious companion, too apt to be heightening danger in order to enhance her own importance, her

being there would have been a general good. She loved to fancy how she could have read to her aunt, how

she could have talked to her, and tried at once to make her feel the blessing of what was, and prepare her

mind for what might be; and how many walks up and down stairs she might have saved her, and how many

It astonished her that Tom's sisters could be satisfied with remaining in London at such a time, through an

illness which had now, under different degrees of danger, lasted several weeks. _They_ might return to

Mansfield when they chose; travelling could be no difficulty to _them_, and she could not comprehend how

both could still keep away. If Mrs. Rushworth could imagine any interfering obligations, Julia was certainly

able to quit London whenever she chose. It appeared from one of her aunt's letters that Julia had offered to

return if wanted, but this was all. It was evident that she would rather remain where she was.

Fanny was disposed to think the influence of London very much at war with all respectable attachments. She

saw the proof of it in Miss Crawford, as well as in her cousins; _her_ attachment to Edmund had been

respectable, the most respectable part of her character; her friendship for herself had at least been blameless.

Where was either sentiment now? It was so long since Fanny had had any letter from her, that she had some

reason to think lightly of the friendship which had been so dwelt on. It was weeks since she had heard

anything of Miss Crawford or of her other connexions in town, except through Mansfield, and she was

beginning to suppose that she might never know whether Mr. Crawford had gone into Norfolk again or not

till they met, and might never hear from his sister any more this spring, when the following letter was

"Forgive me, my dear Fanny, as soon as you can, for my long silence, and behave as if you could forgive me

directly. This is my modest request and expectation, for you are so good, that I depend upon being treated

better than I deserve, and I write now to beg an immediate answer. I want to know the state of things at

Mansfield Park, and you, no doubt, are perfectly able to give it. One should be a brute not to feel for the

distress they are in; and from what I hear, poor Mr. Bertram has a bad chance of ultimate recovery. I thought

little of his illness at first. I looked upon him as the sort of person to be made a fuss with, and to make a fuss

himself in any trifling disorder, and was chiefly concerned for those who had to nurse him; but now it is

confidently asserted that he is really in a decline, that the symptoms are most alarming, and that part of the

family, at least, are aware of it. If it be so, I am sure you must be included in that part, that discerning part,

and therefore entreat you to let me know how far I have been rightly informed. I need not say how rejoiced I

shall be to hear there has been any mistake, but the report is so prevalent that I confess I cannot help

trembling. To have such a fine young man cut off in the flower of his days is most melancholy. Poor Sir

Thomas will feel it dreadfully. I really am quite agitated on the subject. Fanny, Fanny, I see you smile and

look cunning, but, upon my honour, I never bribed a physician in my life. Poor young man! If he is to die,

there will be _two_ poor young men less in the world; and with a fearless face and bold voice would I say to

any one, that wealth and consequence could fall into no hands more deserving of them. It was a foolish

precipitation last Christmas, but the evil of a few days may be blotted out in part. Varnish and gilding hide

many stains. It will be but the loss of the Esquire after his name. With real affection, Fanny, like mine, more

might be overlooked. Write to me by return of post, judge of my anxiety, and do not trifle with it. Tell me the

real truth, as you have it from the fountainhead. And now, do not trouble yourself to be ashamed of either my

feelings or your own. Believe me, they are not only natural, they are philanthropic and virtuous. I put it to

your conscience, whether 'Sir Edmund' would not do more good with all the Bertram property than any other

possible 'Sir.' Had the Grants been at home I would not have troubled you, but you are now the only one I can

apply to for the truth, his sisters not being within my reach. Mrs. R. has been spending the Easter with the

Aylmers at Twickenham (as to be sure you know), and is not yet returned; and Julia is with the cousins who

live near Bedford Square, but I forget their name and street. Could I immediately apply to either, however, I

should still prefer you, because it strikes me that they have all along been so unwilling to have their own

amusements cut up, as to shut their eyes to the truth. I suppose Mrs. R.'s Easter holidays will not last much

longer; no doubt they are thorough holidays to her. The Aylmers are pleasant people; and her husband away,

she can have nothing but enjoyment. I give her credit for promoting his going dutifully down to Bath, to fetch

his mother; but how will she and the dowager agree in one house? Henry is not at hand, so I have nothing to

say from him. Do not you think Edmund would have been in town again long ago, but for this illness?

"I had actually begun folding my letter when Henry walked in, but he brings no intelligence to prevent my

sending it. Mrs. R. knows a decline is apprehended; he saw her this morning: she returns to Wimpole Street

today; the old lady is come. Now do not make yourself uneasy with any queer fancies because he has been

spending a few days at Richmond. He does it every spring. Be assured he cares for nobody but you. At this

very moment he is wild to see you, and occupied only in contriving the means for doing so, and for making

his pleasure conduce to yours. In proof, he repeats, and more eagerly, what he said at Portsmouth about our

conveying you home, and I join him in it with all my soul. Dear Fanny, write directly, and tell us to come. It

will do us all good. He and I can go to the Parsonage, you know, and be no trouble to our friends at Mansfield

Park. It would really be gratifying to see them all again, and a little addition of society might be of infinite

use to them; and as to yourself, you must feel yourself to be so wanted there, that you cannot in

conscienceconscientious as you are keep away, when you have the means of returning. I have not time

or patience to give half Henry's messages; be satisfied that the spirit of each and every one is unalterable

Fanny's disgust at the greater part of this letter, with her extreme reluctance to bring the writer of it and her

cousin Edmund together, would have made her (as she felt) incapable of judging impartially whether the

concluding offer might be accepted or not. To herself, individually, it was most tempting. To be finding

herself, perhaps within three days, transported to Mansfield, was an image of the greatest felicity, but it

would have been a material drawback to be owing such felicity to persons in whose feelings and conduct, at

the present moment, she saw so much to condemn: the sister's feelings, the brother's conduct, _her_

coldhearted ambition, _his_ thoughtless vanity. To have him still the acquaintance, the flirt perhaps, of Mrs.

Rushworth! She was mortified. She had thought better of him. Happily, however, she was not left to weigh

and decide between opposite inclinations and doubtful notions of right; there was no occasion to determine

whether she ought to keep Edmund and Mary asunder or not. She had a rule to apply to, which settled

everything. Her awe of her uncle, and her dread of taking a liberty with him, made it instantly plain to her

what she had to do. She must absolutely decline the proposal. If he wanted, he would send for her; and even

to offer an early return was a presumption which hardly anything would have seemed to justify. She thanked

Miss Crawford, but gave a decided negative. "Her uncle, she understood, meant to fetch her; and as her

cousin's illness had continued so many weeks without her being thought at all necessary, she must suppose

her return would be unwelcome at present, and that she should be felt an encumbrance."

Her representation of her cousin's state at this time was exactly according to her own belief of it, and such as

she supposed would convey to the sanguine mind of her correspondent the hope of everything she was

wishing for. Edmund would be forgiven for being a clergyman, it seemed, under certain conditions of wealth;

and this, she suspected, was all the conquest of prejudice which he was so ready to congratulate himself upon.

As Fanny could not doubt that her answer was conveying a real disappointment, she was rather in

expectation, from her knowledge of Miss Crawford's temper, of being urged again; and though no second

letter arrived for the space of a week, she had still the same feeling when it did come.

On receiving it, she could instantly decide on its containing little writing, and was persuaded of its having the

air of a letter of haste and business. Its object was unquestionable; and two moments were enough to start the

probability of its being merely to give her notice that they should be in Portsmouth that very day, and to

throw her into all the agitation of doubting what she ought to do in such a case. If two moments, however,

can surround with difficulties, a third can disperse them; and before she had opened the letter, the possibility

of Mr. and Miss Crawford's having applied to her uncle and obtained his permission was giving her ease.

"A most scandalous, illnatured rumour has just reached me, and I write, dear Fanny, to warn you against

giving the least credit to it, should it spread into the country. Depend upon it, there is some mistake, and that

a day or two will clear it up; at any rate, that Henry is blameless, and in spite of a moment's _etourderie_,

thinks of nobody but you. Say not a word of it; hear nothing, surmise nothing, whisper nothing till I write

again. I am sure it will be all hushed up, and nothing proved but Rushworth's folly. If they are gone, I would

lay my life they are only gone to Mansfield Park, and Julia with them. But why would not you let us come for

Fanny stood aghast. As no scandalous, illnatured rumour had reached her, it was impossible for her to

understand much of this strange letter. She could only perceive that it must relate to Wimpole Street and Mr.

Crawford, and only conjecture that something very imprudent had just occurred in that quarter to draw the

notice of the world, and to excite her jealousy, in Miss Crawford's apprehension, if she heard it. Miss

Crawford need not be alarmed for her. She was only sorry for the parties concerned and for Mansfield, if the

report should spread so far; but she hoped it might not. If the Rushworths were gone themselves to Mansfield,

as was to be inferred from what Miss Crawford said, it was not likely that anything unpleasant should have

As to Mr. Crawford, she hoped it might give him a knowledge of his own disposition, convince him that he

was not capable of being steadily attached to any one woman in the world, and shame him from persisting

It was very strange! She had begun to think he really loved her, and to fancy his affection for her something

more than common; and his sister still said that he cared for nobody else. Yet there must have been some

marked display of attentions to her cousin, there must have been some strong indiscretion, since her

Very uncomfortable she was, and must continue, till she heard from Miss Crawford again. It was impossible

to banish the letter from her thoughts, and she could not relieve herself by speaking of it to any human being.

Miss Crawford need not have urged secrecy with so much warmth; she might have trusted to her sense of

The next day came and brought no second letter. Fanny was disappointed. She could still think of little else

all the morning; but, when her father came back in the afternoon with the daily newspaper as usual, she was

so far from expecting any elucidation through such a channel that the subject was for a moment out of her

She was deep in other musing. The remembrance of her first evening in that room, of her father and his

newspaper, came across her. No candle was now wanted. The sun was yet an hour and half above the

horizon. She felt that she had, indeed, been three months there; and the sun's rays falling strongly into the

parlour, instead of cheering, made her still more melancholy, for sunshine appeared to her a totally different

thing in a town and in the country. Here, its power was only a glare: a stifling, sickly glare, serving but to

bring forward stains and dirt that might otherwise have slept. There was neither health nor gaiety in sunshine

in a town. She sat in a blaze of oppressive heat, in a cloud of moving dust, and her eyes could only wander

from the walls, marked by her father's head, to the table cut and notched by her brothers, where stood the

teaboard never thoroughly cleaned, the cups and saucers wiped in streaks, the milk a mixture of motes

floating in thin blue, and the bread and butter growing every minute more greasy than even Rebecca's hands

had first produced it. Her father read his newspaper, and her mother lamented over the ragged carpet as usual,

while the tea was in preparation, and wished Rebecca would mend it; and Fanny was first roused by his

calling out to her, after humphing and considering over a particular paragraph: "What's the name of your

"Then, there's the devil to pay among them, that's all! There" (holding out the paper to her); "much good may

such fine relations do you. I don't know what Sir Thomas may think of such matters; he may be too much of

the courtier and fine gentleman to like his daughter the less. But, by G ! if she belonged to _me_, I'd give

her the rope's end as long as I could stand over her. A little flogging for man and woman too would be the

Fanny read to herself that "it was with infinite concern the newspaper had to announce to the world a

matrimonial _fracas_ in the family of Mr. R. of Wimpole Street; the beautiful Mrs. R., whose name had not

long been enrolled in the lists of Hymen, and who had promised to become so brilliant a leader in the

fashionable world, having quitted her husband's roof in company with the wellknown and captivating Mr.

C., the intimate friend and associate of Mr. R., and it was not known even to the editor of the newspaper

"It is a mistake, sir," said Fanny instantly; "it must be a mistake, it cannot be true; it must mean some other

She spoke from the instinctive wish of delaying shame; she spoke with a resolution which sprung from

despair, for she spoke what she did not, could not believe herself. It had been the shock of conviction as she

read. The truth rushed on her; and how she could have spoken at all, how she could even have breathed, was

Mr. Price cared too little about the report to make her much answer. "It might be all a lie," he acknowledged;

"but so many fine ladies were going to the devil nowadays that way, that there was no answering for

"Indeed, I hope it is not true," said Mrs. Price plaintively; "it would be so very shocking! If I have spoken

once to Rebecca about that carpet, I am sure I have spoke at least a dozen times; have not I, Betsey? And it

The horror of a mind like Fanny's, as it received the conviction of such guilt, and began to take in some part

of the misery that must ensue, can hardly be described. At first, it was a sort of stupefaction; but every

moment was quickening her perception of the horrible evil. She could not doubt, she dared not indulge a

hope, of the paragraph being false. Miss Crawford's letter, which she had read so often as to make every line

her own, was in frightful conformity with it. Her eager defence of her brother, her hope of its being _hushed_

_up_, her evident agitation, were all of a piece with something very bad; and if there was a woman of

character in existence, who could treat as a trifle this sin of the first magnitude, who would try to gloss it

over, and desire to have it unpunished, she could believe Miss Crawford to be the woman! Now she could see

her own mistake as to _who_ were gone, or _said_ to be gone. It was not Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth; it was

Fanny seemed to herself never to have been shocked before. There was no possibility of rest. The evening

passed without a pause of misery, the night was totally sleepless. She passed only from feelings of sickness to

shudderings of horror; and from hot fits of fever to cold. The event was so shocking, that there were moments

even when her heart revolted from it as impossible: when she thought it could not be. A woman married only

six months ago; a man professing himself devoted, even _engaged_ to another; that other her near relation;

the whole family, both families connected as they were by tie upon tie; all friends, all intimate together! It

was too horrible a confusion of guilt, too gross a complication of evil, for human nature, not in a state of utter

barbarism, to be capable of! yet her judgment told her it was so. _His_ unsettled affections, wavering with his

vanity, _Maria's_ decided attachment, and no sufficient principle on either side, gave it possibility: Miss

What would be the consequence? Whom would it not injure? Whose views might it not affect? Whose peace

would it not cut up for ever? Miss Crawford, herself, Edmund; but it was dangerous, perhaps, to tread such

ground. 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

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

"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

Never had Fanny more wanted a cordial. Never had she felt such a one as this letter contained. Tomorrow!

to leave Portsmouth tomorrow! 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

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. Rushworthnow fixed to the last point of certainty could affect her as it had done

before. She had not time to be miserable. Within twentyfour 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 itthe joyful consent of her father and mother to Susan's going

with herthe general satisfaction with which the going of both seemed regarded, and the ecstasy of Susan

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 sorrowingif she

could help rejoicing from beginning to end, it was as much as ought to be expected from human virtue at

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 spiritsone all happiness, the other all varying and indescribable

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

He turned away to recover himself, and when he spoke again, though his voice still faltered, his manner

shewed the wish of selfcommand, 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

He looked very ill; evidently suffering under violent emotions, which he was determined to suppress. She

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 witnessbut 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 breakfasttable, 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

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,

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 neverfailing 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 ityou must suffer. How a man who had once loved, could desert you! But

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

dinnertime, 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 fingerglasses. 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

It made her melancholy again; and the knowledge of what must be enduring there, invested even the house,

By one of the suffering party within they were expected with such impatience as she had never known before.

Fanny had scarcely passed the solemnlooking servants, when Lady Bertram came from the drawingroom

to meet her; came with no indolent step; and falling on her neck, said, "Dear Fanny! now I shall be

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

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 illhumour 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

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

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,

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

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

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

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 daughterinlaw might perhaps arise almost as much from the personal disrespect with

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

Sir Thomas, however, remained yet a little longer in town, in the hope of discovering and snatching her from

_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

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

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

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

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 eveninga wet Sunday eveningthe 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

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 seriouscertainly 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

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 shortoh, Fanny! it was the detection, not

the offence, which she reprobated. It was the imprudence which had brought things to extremity, and obliged

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 beenbut 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."

"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

"Cruel!" said Fanny, "quite cruel. At such a moment to give way to gaiety, to speak with lightness, and to

"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

"Fiveandtwenty 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

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 astonishedmore 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 illsuited

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

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

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

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

selfreproach 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

sixandtwenty, 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

selfdenial 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

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

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

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

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

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 overrated 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. To be relieved from her, therefore, was so great a felicity that, had she not left bitter

remembrances behind her, there might have been danger of his learning almost to approve the evil which

She was regretted by no one at Mansfield. She had never been able to attach even those she loved best; and

since Mrs. Rushworth's elopement, her temper had been in a state of such irritation as to make her

everywhere tormenting. Not even Fanny had tears for aunt Norris, not even when she was gone for ever.

That Julia escaped better than Maria was owing, in some measure, to a favourable difference of disposition

and circumstance, but in a greater to her having been less the darling of that very aunt, less flattered and less

spoilt. Her beauty and acquirements had held but a second place. She had been always used to think herself a

little inferior to Maria. Her temper was naturally the easiest of the two; her feelings, though quick, were more

controllable, and education had not given her so very hurtful a degree of selfconsequence.

She had submitted the best to the disappointment in Henry Crawford. After the first bitterness of the

conviction of being slighted was over, she had been tolerably soon in a fair way of not thinking of him again;

and when the acquaintance was renewed in town, and Mr. Rushworth's house became Crawford's object, she

had had the merit of withdrawing herself from it, and of chusing that time to pay a visit to her other friends,

in order to secure herself from being again too much attracted. This had been her motive in going to her

cousin's. Mr. Yates's convenience had had nothing to do with it. She had been allowing his attentions some

time, but with very little idea of ever accepting him; and had not her sister's conduct burst forth as it did, and

her increased dread of her father and of home, on that event, imagining its certain consequence to herself

would be greater severity and restraint, made her hastily resolve on avoiding such immediate horrors at all

risks, it is probable that Mr. Yates would never have succeeded. She had not eloped with any worse feelings

than those of selfish alarm. It had appeared to her the only thing to be done. Maria's guilt had induced Julia's

Henry Crawford, ruined by early independence and bad domestic example, indulged in the freaks of a

coldblooded vanity a little too long. Once it had, by an opening undesigned and unmerited, led him into the

way of happiness. Could he have been satisfied with the conquest of one amiable woman's affections, could

he have found sufficient exultation in overcoming the reluctance, in working himself into the esteem and

tenderness of Fanny Price, there would have been every probability of success and felicity for him. His

affection had already done something. Her influence over him had already given him some influence over

her. Would he have deserved more, there can be no doubt that more would have been obtained, especially

when that marriage had taken place, which would have given him the assistance of her conscience in

subduing her first inclination, and brought them very often together. Would he have persevered, and

uprightly, Fanny must have been his reward, and a reward very voluntarily bestowed, within a reasonable

Had he done as he intended, and as he knew he ought, by going down to Everingham after his return from

Portsmouth, he might have been deciding his own happy destiny. But he was pressed to stay for Mrs. Fraser's

party; his staying was made of flattering consequence, and he was to meet Mrs. Rushworth there. Curiosity

and vanity were both engaged, and the temptation of immediate pleasure was too strong for a mind unused to

make any sacrifice to right: he resolved to defer his Norfolk journey, resolved that writing should answer the

purpose of it, or that its purpose was unimportant, and staid. He saw Mrs. Rushworth, was received by her

with a coldness which ought to have been repulsive, and have established apparent indifference between them

for ever; but he was mortified, he could not bear to be thrown off by the woman whose smiles had been so

wholly at his command: he must exert himself to subdue so proud a display of resentment; it was anger on

Fanny's account; he must get the better of it, and make Mrs. Rushworth Maria Bertram again in her treatment

In this spirit he began the attack, and by animated perseverance had soon reestablished the sort of familiar

intercourse, of gallantry, of flirtation, which bounded his views; but in triumphing over the discretion which,

though beginning in anger, might have saved them both, he had put himself in the power of feelings on her

side more strong than he had supposed. She loved him; there was no withdrawing attentions avowedly dear to

her. He was entangled by his own vanity, with as little excuse of love as possible, and without the smallest

inconstancy of mind towards her cousin. To keep Fanny and the Bertrams from a knowledge of what was

passing became his first object. Secrecy could not have been more desirable for Mrs. Rushworth's credit than

he felt it for his own. When he returned from Richmond, he would have been glad to see Mrs. Rushworth no

more. All that followed was the result of her imprudence; and he went off with her at last, because he could

not help it, regretting Fanny even at the moment, but regretting her infinitely more when all the bustle of the

intrigue was over, and a very few months had taught him, by the force of contrast, to place a yet higher value

on the sweetness of her temper, the purity of her mind, and the excellence of her principles.

That punishment, the public punishment of disgrace, should in a just measure attend _his_ share of the

offence is, we know, not one of the barriers which society gives to virtue. In this world the penalty is less

equal than could be wished; but without presuming to look forward to a juster appointment hereafter, we may

fairly consider a man of sense, like Henry Crawford, to be providing for himself no small portion of vexation

and regret: vexation that must rise sometimes to selfreproach, and regret to wretchedness, in having so

requited hospitality, so injured family peace, so forfeited his best, most estimable, and endeared acquaintance,

After what had passed to wound and alienate the two families, the continuance of the Bertrams and Grants in

such close neighbourhood would have been most distressing; but the absence of the latter, for some months

purposely lengthened, ended very fortunately in the necessity, or at least the practicability, of a permanent

removal. Dr. Grant, through an interest on which he had almost ceased to form hopes, succeeded to a stall in

Westminster, which, as affording an occasion for leaving Mansfield, an excuse for residence in London, and

an increase of income to answer the expenses of the change, was highly acceptable to those who went and

Mrs. Grant, with a temper to love and be loved, must have gone with some regret from the scenes and people

she had been used to; but the same happiness of disposition must in any place, and any society, secure her a

great deal to enjoy, and she had again a home to offer Mary; and Mary had had enough of her own friends,

enough of vanity, ambition, love, and disappointment in the course of the last halfyear, to be in need of the

true kindness of her sister's heart, and the rational tranquillity of her ways. They lived together; and when Dr.

Grant had brought on apoplexy and death, by three great institutionary dinners in one week, they still lived

together; for Mary, though perfectly resolved against ever attaching herself to a younger brother again, was

long in finding among the dashing representatives, or idle heirapparents, who were at the command of her

beauty, and her 20,000, any one who could satisfy the better taste she had acquired at Mansfield, whose

character and manners could authorise a hope of the domestic happiness she had there learned to estimate, or

Edmund had greatly the advantage of her in this respect. He had not to wait and wish with vacant affections

for an object worthy to succeed her in them. Scarcely had he done regretting Mary Crawford, and observing

to Fanny how impossible it was that he should ever meet with such another woman, before it began to strike

him whether a very different kind of woman might not do just as well, or a great deal better: whether Fanny

herself were not growing as dear, as important to him in all her smiles and all her ways, as Mary Crawford

had ever been; and whether it might not be a possible, an hopeful undertaking to persuade her that her warm

I purposely abstain from dates on this occasion, that every one may be at liberty to fix their own, aware that

the cure of unconquerable passions, and the transfer of unchanging attachments, must vary much as to time in

different people. I only entreat everybody to believe that exactly at the time when it was quite natural that it

should be so, and not a week earlier, Edmund did cease to care about Miss Crawford, and became as anxious

With such a regard for her, indeed, as his had long been, a regard founded on the most endearing claims of

innocence and helplessness, and completed by every recommendation of growing worth, what could be more

natural than the change? Loving, guiding, protecting her, as he had been doing ever since her being ten years

old, her mind in so great a degree formed by his care, and her comfort depending on his kindness, an object to

him of such close and peculiar interest, dearer by all his own importance with her than any one else at

Mansfield, what was there now to add, but that he should learn to prefer soft light eyes to sparkling dark ones.

And being always with her, and always talking confidentially, and his feelings exactly in that favourable state

which a recent disappointment gives, those soft light eyes could not be very long in obtaining the

Having once set out, and felt that he had done so on this road to happiness, there was nothing on the side of

prudence to stop him or make his progress slow; no doubts of her deserving, no fears of opposition of taste,

no need of drawing new hopes of happiness from dissimilarity of temper. Her mind, disposition, opinions,

and habits wanted no halfconcealment, no selfdeception on the present, no reliance on future

improvement. Even in the midst of his late infatuation, he had acknowledged Fanny's mental superiority.

What must be his sense of it now, therefore? She was of course only too good for him; but as nobody minds

having what is too good for them, he was very steadily earnest in the pursuit of the blessing, and it was not

possible that encouragement from her should be long wanting. Timid, anxious, doubting as she was, it was

still impossible that such tenderness as hers should not, at times, hold out the strongest hope of success,

though it remained for a later period to tell him the whole delightful and astonishing truth. His happiness in

knowing himself to have been so long the beloved of such a heart, must have been great enough to warrant

any strength of language in which he could clothe it to her or to himself; it must have been a delightful

happiness. But there was happiness elsewhere which no description can reach. Let no one presume to give the

feelings of a young woman on receiving the assurance of that affection of which she has scarcely allowed

Their own inclinations ascertained, there were no difficulties behind, no drawback of poverty or parent. It

was a match which Sir Thomas's wishes had even forestalled. Sick of ambitious and mercenary connexions,

prizing more and more the sterling good of principle and temper, and chiefly anxious to bind by the strongest

securities all that remained to him of domestic felicity, he had pondered with genuine satisfaction on the more

than possibility of the two young friends finding their natural consolation in each other for all that had

occurred of disappointment to either; and the joyful consent which met Edmund's application, the high sense

of having realised a great acquisition in the promise of Fanny for a daughter, formed just such a contrast with

his early opinion on the subject when the poor little girl's coming had been first agitated, as time is for ever

producing between the plans and decisions of mortals, for their own instruction, and their neighbours'

Fanny was indeed the daughter that he wanted. His charitable kindness had been rearing a prime comfort for

himself. His liberality had a rich repayment, and the general goodness of his intentions by her deserved it. He

might have made her childhood happier; but it had been an error of judgment only which had given him the

appearance of harshness, and deprived him of her early love; and now, on really knowing each other, their

mutual attachment became very strong. After settling her at Thornton Lacey with every kind attention to her

comfort, the object of almost every day was to see her there, or to get her away from it.

Selfishly dear as she had long been to Lady Bertram, she could not be parted with willingly by _her_. No

happiness of son or niece could make her wish the marriage. But it was possible to part with her, because

Susan remained to supply her place. Susan became the stationary niece, delighted to be so; and equally well

adapted for it by a readiness of mind, and an inclination for usefulness, as Fanny had been by sweetness of

temper, and strong feelings of gratitude. Susan could never be spared. First as a comfort to Fanny, then as an

auxiliary, and last as her substitute, she was established at Mansfield, with every appearance of equal

permanency. Her more fearless disposition and happier nerves made everything easy to her there. With

quickness in understanding the tempers of those she had to deal with, and no natural timidity to restrain any

consequent wishes, she was soon welcome and useful to all; and after Fanny's removal succeeded so naturally

to her influence over the hourly comfort of her aunt, as gradually to become, perhaps, the most beloved of the

two. In _her_ usefulness, in Fanny's excellence, in William's continued good conduct and rising fame, and in

the general welldoing and success of the other members of the family, all assisting to advance each other,

and doing credit to his countenance and aid, Sir Thomas saw repeated, and for ever repeated, reason to rejoice

in what he had done for them all, and acknowledge the advantages of early hardship and discipline, and the

With so much true merit and true love, and no want of fortune and friends, the happiness of the married

cousins must appear as secure as earthly happiness can be. Equally formed for domestic life, and attached to

country pleasures, their home was the home of affection and comfort; and to complete the picture of good,

the acquisition of Mansfield living, by the death of Dr. Grant, occurred just after they had been married long

enough to begin to want an increase of income, and feel their distance from the paternal abode an

On that event they removed to Mansfield; and the Parsonage there, which, under each of its two former

owners, Fanny had never been able to approach but with some painful sensation of restraint or alarm, soon

grew as dear to her heart, and as thoroughly perfect in her eyes, as everything else within the view and