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The Complete Works of Jane Austen - Part 3
MANSFIELD PARK
(First Published 1814)
MANSFIELD PARK
Chapter i
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, N 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 acquaintances as thought Miss Ward and Miss Frances
quite as handsome as Miss Maria, did not scruple to predict their marry-
ing 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 brother-in-law, 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 ot
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 connections, did it very thor-
oughly. She could hardly have made a more untoward choice. Sir Thomas
Bertram had interest which, from principle as well as pride from a gen-
eral 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 profes-
sion 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 ;
469
470 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 end to all inter-
course between them for a considerable period.
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 con-
nection 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 ad-
dressed 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 lying-in ; 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 to the East?
The letter was not unproductive. It re-established peace and kindness.
Sir Thomas sent friendly advice and professions, Lady Bertram dis-
patched money and baby -linen, 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 child."
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
MANSFIELDPARK 47i
kindness in taking her from her family. He thought of his own four chil-
dren, of his two sons, of cousins in love, etc. ; but no sooner had he delib-
erately begun to state his objections, than Mrs. Norris interrupted him
with a reply to them all, whether stated or not.
"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 pro-
viding 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 just but 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
further 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 prob-
ability, 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 connection.
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, sweet-tempered
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 either than a sister."
"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 gentle-
woman, if no such establishment should offer as you are so sanguine in
expecting."
"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
472 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 to-morrow,
and make the proposal ; and, as soon as matters are settled, / will engage
to get th'e 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 pur-
pose, 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 tradesman's
wife or other going up."
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 being the most liberal-
minded sister and aunt in the world.
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 particular!}' welcome addition at the Parsonage, as a desirable com-
MANSFIELDPARK -
panion to an aunt who had no children of her own ; but he found hirnseh
wholly mistaken. Mrs. Norris was sorry to say, that the little girl's staying
with them, at least as things were then, 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 incon-
venience; but just now poor Mr. Norris took up every moment of her
time, and the very mention of such a thing she was sure would distract him.
"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 con-
siderations ; and it will be just the same to Miss Lee, whether she has three
girls to teach or only two there 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 any-
where else."
Lady Bertram made no opposition.
"I hope she will prove a well-disposed girl," continued Mrs. Norris,
"and be sensible of her uncommon good fortune in having such friends."
"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 asso-
ciates. Had my daughters been younger than herself, I should have con-
sidered 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, and
everything to hope for her, from the association."
"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 learn to be good and clever from them."
"I hope she will not tease my poor pug," said Lady Bertram; "I hav
but just got Julia to leave it alone."
474 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
"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 differ-
ent. It is a point of great delicacy, and you must assist us in our endeavours
to choose exactly the right line of conduct."
Mrs. Norris was quite at his service ; and though she perfectly agreed
with him as to its being a most difficult thing, encouraged him to hope
that between them it would be easily managed.
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 well-disposed, good-
humoured girl, and trusting they would never have cause to throw her
off. She spoke of her further 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 change of air might agree with many
of her children.
Chapter 2
THE little girl performed her long journey in safety ; and at Northamp-
ton was met by Mrs. Norris, who thus regaled in the credit of being
foremost to welcome her, and in the importance of leading her into the
others, and recommending her to their kindness.
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 for her age, with no glow of com-
plexion, 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 good-
humoured 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 for
MANSFIELD PARK 475
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 in-
judicious particularity. But they were too much used to company and
praise to have anything like natural shyness; and their confidence in-
creasing from their cousin's total want of it, they were soon able to take
a full survey of her face and her frock in easy indifference.
They were a remarkably fine family, the sons very well-looking, the
daughters decidedly handsome, and all of them well grown and forward
for 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 was 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 well-meant condescensions of Sir Thomas, and all the offi-
cious 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 inter-
rupted her, and sleep seeming to be her likeliest friend, she was taken to
finish her sorrows in bed.
"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 temper her poor mother had a good deal ; but we must make allow-
ances for such a child and 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 sepa-
ration 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 out of their way to secure her comfort.'*
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
476 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 holiday sport of the
moment, making artificial flowers or wasting gold paper.
Fanny, whether near or from her cousins, whether in the schoolroom,
the drawing-room, or the shrubbery, was equally forlorn, finding some-
thing 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 reflec-
tions on her size, and abashed her by noticing her shyness ; Miss Lee won-
dered 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, instructress,
and nurse, the despondence that sunk her little heart was severe.
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 drawing-room 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 youngest of the sons,
sitting crying on the attic stairs.
"My dear little cousin," said he, with all the gentleness of an excellent
nature, "what can be the matter?" And sitting down by her, 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, no not at all no, 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 mamma, 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
M A N S F I E L D P A R K 477
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 and answered, hesitatingly, "She did not know; she had not any
paper."
"If that will be all your difficulty, I will furnish you with paper and
every other material, and you may write your letter whenever you choose.
W T ould it make you happy to write to William?"
"Yes, very."
"Then let it be done now. Come with me into the breakfast-room, we
shall find everything there, and be sure of having the room to ourselves."
"But, cousin, will it go to the post?"
"Yes, depend upon me it shall; it shdl go with the other letters; and,
as your uncle will frank it, it will cost William nothing."
"My uncle! " repeated Fanny, with a frightened look.
"Yes, when you have written the letter, I will take it to my father to
frank."
Fanny thought it a bold measure, but offered no further resistance ; and
they went together into the breakfast-room, where Edmund prepared her
paper and ruled her lines with all the good-will that her brother could
himself have felt, and probably with somewhat more exactness. He con-
tinued with her the whole time of her writing, to assist her with his pen-
knife 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 in-
teresting 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 further entitled to attention, by
great sensibility of her situation, and great timidity. He had never know-
ingly given her pain, but he now felt that she required more positive kind-
ness 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 Julia, and being as merry as possible.
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 formid-
able ; 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
478 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 good natured 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 some very pretty presents, and laughed at 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, or 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 drawing-room. "Dear mamma, 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 Minor or she does not know the
difference between water-colours 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 forward and quick at learning as
yourself."
"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 the principal events of their reigns!"
"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, serti-
metals, planets, and distinguished philosophers."
MANSFIELDPARK 479
"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 a great
deal more for you to learn."
"Yes, I know there is, till I am seventeen. But I must tell you another
thing of Fanny, so odd and so stupid. Do you know, she says she does
not want to learn either music or drawing."
"To be sure, my dear, that is very stupid indeed, and shows a great
want of genius and emulation. Buc, 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 mamma 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 self-knowledge, 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 very handy, and quick in carrying messages,
and fetching what she wanted."
Fanny, with all her faults of ignorance and timidity, was fixed at
Mansfield Park, and learning to transfer in its favour much of her attach-
ment to her former home, grew up there not unhappily among her cousins.
There was no positive ill-nature in Maria or Julia ; and though Fanny was
often mortified by their treatment of her, she thought too lowly of her
own claims to feel injured by it.
4 So THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
From about the time of her entering the family, Lady Bertram, in
consequence of a little ill-health, and a greater 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 con-
tinued 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 uneasi-
ness; but his other children promised him nothing but good. His daugh-
ters, 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 up-
rightness of mind, bid most fairly for utility, honour and happiness to
himself and all his connections. He was to be a clergyman.
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 satis-
faction 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
cf 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 and 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 disposition, 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 im-
portance in assisting the improvement of her mind, and extending its
MANSFIELDPARK 481
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 anybody in the world except William ; her heart
was divided between the two.
Chapter 3
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 Par-
sonage, 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 income by the evident necessity of stricter economy.
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 presenta-
tion 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 say or do.
"I blush for you, Tom," said he, in his most dignified manner; "1 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
irill) 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 he might be, would, in all
probability, die very soon.
482 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 forty-five, seemed likely to disappoint Mr. Bertram's
calculations. But "no, he was a short-necked, apoplectic sort of fellow,
and, plied well with good things, would seen pop off."
He had a wife about fifteen years his junior, but no children ; and they
entered the neighbourhood with the usual fair report of being very re-
spectable, agreeable people.
The time was now come when Sir Thomas expected his sister-in-law
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, and live
with my sister. How shall you like it?"
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 Aunt Norris, and could not
love her.
"I shall be very sorry to go away," said she, with a faltering voice.
"Yes, I dare say you will ; that's natural enough. I suppose you have
had as little to vex you since you came into this house as any creature in
the world."
"I hope I am not ungrateful, aunt," said Fanny, modestly.
"No, my dear; I hope not. I have always found you a very good girl."
"And I am never to live here again?"
"Never, my dear ; but you are sure of a comfortable home. It can make
very little difference to you, whether you are in one house or the other."
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 him
her distress.
"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 going
to live entirely with my Aunt Norris."
MANSFIELD PARK 483
"Indeed!"
"Yes: my Aunt Bertram has just told me so. It is quite settled. I am to
leave Mansfield Park, and go to the White House, I suppose, as soon as
she is removed there."
"Well, Fanny, and if the plan were not unpleasant to you, I should call
it an excellent one."
"Oh, cousin!"
"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 how uncomfortable I feel
with her."
"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 impor-
tant to her."
"I can never be important to anyone."
"What is to prevent you?"
"Everything. My situation, my foolishness, and awkwardness."
"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 wish-
ing to return it. I do not know any better qualification for a friend and
companion."
"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 dis-
tance 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
you can hide behind; but with her you will be forced to speak for
yourself."
"Oh! do not say so."
"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
484 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
to do a great deal for anybody she really interests herself about, and she
will force you to do justice to your natural powers."
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 conse-
quence to anybody. Here, I know, I am of none, and yet I love the place
so well."
"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 same horse to ride."
"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 open-
ing 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 inclined to hope you may always prophesy as well."
"And I am quite convinced that your being with Mrs. Norris will be
as good for your mind as riding has been for your health, and as much
for your ultimate happiness, too."
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 to a certainty, by carelessly
observing to Mrs. Norris:
"I think, sister, we need not keep Miss Lee any longer, when Fann^
goes to live with you."
Mrs. Norris almost started. "Live with me, dear Lady Bertram] What
do you mean?"
"Is she not to live with you? I thought you had settled it with Sir
Thomas."
"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,
MANSFIELDPARK 485
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 broken 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 Thomas to speak to you about it?"
"Indeed, I do not know. I suppose he thought it best."
"But what did he say? He could not say he wished me to take Fanny.
I am sure in his heart he could not wish me to do it."
"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 incumbrance 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 difficulties as I can."
"Then you will not mind living by yourself quite alone?"
"Dear Lady Bertram, what am I fit for but solitude? Now and then
I shall hope to have a friend in my little cottage (I shall always have a
bed for a friend) ; but the most part of my future days will be spent in
utter seclusion. If I can but make both ends meet, that's all I ask for."
"I hope, sister, things are not so very bad with you neither, considering
Sir Thomas says you will have six hundred a year."
"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 wa
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
able to do rather more, to lay by a little at the end of the year."
"I dare say you will. You always do, don't you?"
"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
among them worth their having."
486 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
"You are very good, but do not trouble yourself about them. They are
sure of being well provided for. Sir Thomas will take care of that."
"Why, you know, Sir Thomas's means will be rather straitened if the
Antigua estate is to make such poor returns."
"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 her, for I must keep a spare room
for a friend."
Lady Bertram repeated enough of this conversation to her husband to
convince him how much he had mistaken his sister-in-law'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 advan-
tageous and complimentary to them, would enable him better to pro-
vide for Fanny himself.
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 acquaintances. 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 griev-
ances, nor of the quantity of butter and eggs that were regularly con-
sumed 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 store-room, she thought, might have been good enough for Mrs.
Grant to go into. Enquire where she would, she could not find out that
Mrs. Grant had ever had more than five thousand pounds."
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
MANSFIELDPARK 487
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. Norris discussed the other.
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 expe-
dient 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 connections at home. They left England with the probability
of being nearly a twelvemonth absent.
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 com-
fort, being one of those persons who think nothing can be dangerous or
difficult, or fatiguing, to anybody but themselves.
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
kt their own disposal, and to have every indulgence within their reach.
Fanny's relief, and her consciousness of it, was quite equal to her cou-
sins' ; but a more tender nature suggested that her feelings were ungrate-
ful, 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 per-
haps 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,
488 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 eyes, set her down as a hypocrite.
Chapter 4
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 pos-
sible 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 par-
ticipate 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 nec-
essary to lay by her agitation and affectionate preparatory speeches for
a while.
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 look-
ing 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 occasion to
be occupied in fears for the absent.
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 praise 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
MANSFIELDPARK 489
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 tete-a-tete from any sound of un-
kindness, 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 never-failing hope of his arrival was worth much.
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
cousins' 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 pleas-
ure, 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
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 un-
justifiable. "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
490 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 road-horse. 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
respectful, grateful, confiding and tender.
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 Ber-
tram ever thought about her own objection again, he might have been
excused in her eyes for not waiting till Sir Thomas' 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 every-
thing 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 dining-room of the Park. The return of winter engagements, how-
ever, was not without its effects ; 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
MANSFIELDPARK 491
the company of men of fortune, and particularly on the introduction of
a young man who had recently succeeded to one of the largest estates and
finest places in the country.
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 twenty-first 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. Rush-
worth 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 all perfectly 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 her.
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 lookers-on of the neighbour-
hood, who had, for many weeks past, felt the expediency of Mr. Rush-
worth's marrying Miss Bertram.
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 connection, the intercourse of the two families was carried on with-
out restraint, and no other attempt made at secrecy, than Mrs. Norris's
talking of it everywhere as a matter not to be talked of at present.
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
492 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
to himself, in Mr. Rushworth's company, "If this man had not twelve
thousand a year, he would be a very stupid fellow."
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 connection exactly of the right
sort in the same county, and the same interest and 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, and leaving Antigua before
the end of the summer.
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 further 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
children having more than filled her favourite sitting-room with pretty
furniture, and made a choice collection of plants and poultry was 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 perma-
nence of abode, or limitation of society, Henry Crawford had, unluckily,
MANSFIELDPARK 493
a great dislike ; he could not accommodate his sister in an article of such
importance; but he escorted her, with the utmost kindness, into North-
amptonshire and as readily engaged to fetch her away again, at half an
hour's notice, whenever she were weary of the place.
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 counte-
nance; 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 for 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 there
three hours in the house before she told her what she had planned.
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 objec-
tion 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
seriously. The scheme was soon repeated to Henry.
"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,
handsome, good-humoured, accomplished girl, who will make you very
happy."
Henry bowed and thanked her.
"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 Henry."
"My dear brother, I will not believe this of you."
"No, I am sure you are too good. You will be kinder than Mary. You
494 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 those discreet lines of the poet
'Heaven's last best gift.' ' :
"There, Mrs. Grant, you see how he dwells on one word, and only look
at his smile. I assure you he is very detestable; the Admiral's lessons have
quite spoiled him."
"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 dis-
inclination 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 advan-
tage."
Chapter 5
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 eyes, 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 they
were the finest young women in the country.
Her brother was not handsome; no, when they first saw him he wa?
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 Par-
sonage, 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 week, she was quite ready to be fallen in love
with.
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 situation Mr. Crawford must
take care of himself." Mr. Crawford did not mean to be in any danger!
MANSFIELDPARK 495
the Miss Bertrams were worth pleasing, and were ready to be pleased;
and he began with no object 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 allowed himself great latitude on such points.
"I like your Miss Bertrams exceedingly, sister," said he, as he returned
from attending them to their carriage after the said dinner visit; "they
are very elegant, agreeable girls."
"So they are, indeed, and I am delighted to hear you say it. But you
like Julia best."
"Oh yes! I like Julia best."
"But do you really? for Miss Bertram is in general thought the hand-
somest."
"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 like Julia best, because you order me."
"I shall not talk to you, Henry, but I know you will like her best at
last."
"Do not I tell you that I like her best at first?"
"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
suspicion. All is safe with a lady engaged; no harm can be done."
"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. 7 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 her heart."
"Mary, how shall we manage him?"
"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 honourable."
"Oh dear! let him stand his chance and be taken in. It will do just as
well. Everybody is taken in at some period or other."
"Not always in marriage, dear Mary."
"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 in which people expect most from others,
and are least honest themselves."
496 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
"Ah! You have been in a bad school for matrimony, in Hill Street."
"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 connection, 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 somewhere and those evil-minded observers, dearest Mary, who
make much of a little, are more taken in and deceived than the parties
themselves."
"Well done, sister! I honour your esprit de 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 heart-ache."
"You are as bad as your brother, Mary; but we will cure you both,
Mansfield shall cure you both, and without any taking in. Stay with us,
and we will cure you.' ;
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
& few days with them ; but Mansfield promised well, and there was noth-
ing 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, stay-at-home 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 bar-
MANSFIELDPARK 497
onetcy, 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 modern-built 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 furnished pleasant
sisters, a quiet mother, and an agreeable man himself with the advan-
tage 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
herself a little about the horse which he had to run at the B races.
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 new-comers? 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 Craw-
ford, 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 not outs are beyond me."
"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 pos-
sible 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 opposite to 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
everything and perhaps when one has seen her hardly able to speak the
498 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
year before. Mr. Bertram, I dare say you have sometimes met with such
changes."
"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 you with a great deal of pleasure, if
you will tell me what about."
"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 cir-
cumstance 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 morn-
ing 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 answer she 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 daugh-
ters. 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 doing a great deal to set them right."
"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
modesty in their behaviour before they appear in public than afterwards."
"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 anything quite 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 described 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,
MANSFIELDPARK 49*
just after my return from the West Indies. My friend Sneyd you 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 acquaintances. 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 well dressed, 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 for the next six months; and Miss Sneyd, I believe, has never
forgiven me."
"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 her mother's fault. Miss Augusta should
have been with her governess. Such half and half doings never prosper.
But now I must be satisfied about Miss Price. Does she go to balls? Does
she dine out everywhere, 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."
"Oh! then the point is clear. Miss Price is not out."
Chapter 6
MR. BERTRAM set off for B , and Miss Crawford was prepared to
find a great chasm in their society, and to miss him decidedly in the meet-
ings which were now becoming almost daily between the families; and
on their all dining together at the Park soon after his going, she re-took
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 appear-
ance 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
ioo THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
his own place in the same way; and though not saying much to the pur-
pose, could talk of nothing else. The subject had been already handled in
the drawing-room; it was revived in the dining-parlour. Miss Bertram's
attention and opinion was evidently his chief aim ; and though her deport-
ment 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 being very un-
gracious.
"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 like a prison quite a dismal
old prison."
"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 my life: and it is so forlorn, that I
do not know what can be done with it."
"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 good friend to help me."
"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 terms are five guineas a day."
"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 de-
serves 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 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
MANSFIELDPARK 501
Chat, 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," ad-
dressing 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 us
that is, it was a present from Sir Thomas, but I saw the bill and 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 from my garden are."
"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 tarts and preserves, my cook con-
trives to get them all."
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
begun in dilapidations, and their habits were totally dissimilar.
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 out into a shrubbery in fine
weather."
Mr. Rushworth was eager to assure her ladyship of his acquiescence,
and tried to make out something complimentary; but, between his sub-
mission to her taste, and his having always intended the same himself,
with 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 usu-
ally 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
502 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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
most becoming to reply:
"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 attentively listening, now looked at
him, and said, in a low voice:
"Cut down an avenue! What a pity! Does it not make you think of
Cowper? 'Ye fallen avenues, once more I mourn your fate unmerited.' "
He smiled as he answered, "I am afraid the avenue stands a bad chance,
Fanny."
"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 suppose I shall."
"Have you never been there? No, you never can; and, unluckily, it is
out of distance for a ride. I wish we could contrive it."
"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 particular style of building?"
"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 I have no
doubt that it will be all done extremely well."
Miss Crawford listened with submission, and said to herself, "He is a
well-bred man; he makes the best of it."
"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 of 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 thank-
ful to any Mr. Repton who would undertake it, and give me as much
beauty as he could for my money ; and I should never look at it till it was
complete."
"It would be delightful to me to see the progress of it all," said Fanny.
"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
MANSFIELD PARK 503
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 flower-gardens, and rustic seats innumerable: but it must
all be done without my care. Henry is different, he loves to be doing."
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 pro-
priety, and he was silenced, till induced by further smiles and liveliness,
to put the matter by for the present.
"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 butcher's son-in-law left word at the
shop."
"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 to-morrow; 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 hand-barrow."
"You would find it difficult, I dare say, just now, in the middle of a very
late hay harvest, to hire a horse and cart?"
"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 dressing-closet
without seeing one farm-yard, 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 brother-in-law himself, who is all kindness in general, looked
rather black upon me, when he found what I had been at."
"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 a horse."
"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
504 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
embarrassed at first by the sturdy independence of your country customs.
However, I am to have my harp fetched to-morrow. Henry, who is good
nature itself, has offered to fetch it in his barouche. Will it not be honour-
ably conveyed?"
Edmund spoke of the harp as his favourite instrument, and hoped to be
soon allowed to hear her. Fanny had never heard the harp at all, and
wished for it very much.
"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
J.ove music myself, and where the natural taste is equal the player must
'ilways 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 know his horse will lose."
"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, not 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 a 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 long letters."
"Miss Price has a brother at sea," said Edmund, "whose excellence as
a correspondent makes her think you too severe upon us."
"At sea, has she? In the king's service, of course?"
Fanny would rather have had Edmund tell the story, but his deter-
mined 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 Crawford civilly wished him an
early promotion.
"Do you know anything of my cousin's captain?" said Edmund;
"Captain Marshall? You have a large acquaintance in the navy, I con-
dude?"
"Among admirals, large enough; but," with an air of grandeur, "we
know very little of the inferior ranks. Post-captains may be very good sort
of men, but they do not belong to us. Of various admirals I could tell you
MANSFIELDPARK 505
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 be suspecting me of a pun, I entreat."
Edmund again felt grave, and only replied, "It is a noble profession."
"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, ana was again very happy in the prospect
of hearing her play.
The subject of improving grounds, meanwhile, was still under con-
sHeration 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 give to see it again."
"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 improve-
ment, there was very little for me to do too little ; I should like to have
been busy much longer."
"You are fond of the sort of thing?" said Julia.
"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 one-and-
twenty executed. I am inclined to envy Mr. Rushworth for having so
much happiness yet before him. I have been a devourer of my own."
"Those who see quickly, will resolve quickly, and act quickly," said
Julia. "You can never want employment. Instead of envying Mr. Rush-
worth, 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
So6 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 ap
probation of a plan which was to take Mr. Crawford away, interposed
with an amendment.
"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 ready concurrence, excepting Edmund,
who heard it all and said nothing.
Chapter 7
"WELL, Fanny, and how do you like Miss Crawford now?" said Ed-
mund the next day, after thinking some time on the subject himself.
"How did you like her yesterday?"
"Very well very much. I like to hear her talk. She entertains me; and
she is so extremely pretty, that I have great pleasure in looking at her,"
"It is her countenance that is so attractive. She has a wonderful play of
feature! But was there nothing in her conversation that struck you,
Fanny, as not quite right?"
"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,
treating him, they say, quite like a son. I could not have believed it! "
"I thought you would be struck. It was very wrong ; very indecorous."
"And very ungrateful, I think."
"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
MANSFIELDPARK 50?
night 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 there certainly is impropriety in making them public."
"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
what was due to the Admiral."
"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 dis-
advantages 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 affection."
"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 good nature 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 absent?"
"The right of a lively mind, Fanny, seizing whatever may contribute to
its own amusement or that of others; perfectly allowable, when un-
tinctured by ill humour 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 in 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 good humour; 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 be unwilling to have a listener, and every-
thing was soon in a fair train.
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 be-
508 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
ginning, 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 ; she liked to have him near her ; it was
enough.
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 sur-
prised 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 ill nature. 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 rides were to begin ;
and Fanny on its being first proposed, so far from feeling slighted, was
almost overpowered with gratitude that he should be asking her leave
for it.
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 days'
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
MANSFIELD PARR 509
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 wait-
ing and Mrs. Norris was beginning to scold her for not being gone, and
still no horse was announced, no Edmund appeared. To avoid her aunt,
and look for him, she went out.
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 group : Edmund and Miss Crawford both on horse-
back, 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 ap-
peared 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 could not
reach. She must not wonder at all this ; what could be more natural than
that Edmund should be making himself useful, and proving his good
nature 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 par-
ticularly proper and becoming in a brother to have done it himself ; but
Mr. Crawford, with all his boasted good-nature, 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
remembered.
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 horse-
back, 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 myself. I knew it was
very late, and that I was behaving extremely ill; and therefore, if you
Sio THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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, a 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 so
much exercise. I wish you had saved yourself this walk home."
"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 hear of this dear, delightful,
beautiful animal."
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 see-
ing, 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 watching with an interest almost equal to her own.
"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 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
:iirst had you put on! "
In the drawing-room 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 prais-
mg 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 that good horsemanship has a
great deal to do with the mind."
When they parted at night, Edmund asked Fanny whether she meant
to ride the next day.
"No, I do not know not if you want the mare," was her answer. "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
MANSFIELD PARK Six
you. It would be very wrong if she did. She rides only for pleasure; you
for health."
"I shall not ride to-morrow, certainly," said Fanny; "I have been out
very often lately, and would rather stay at home. You know I am strong
enough now to walk very well."
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 shown; 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 showing the Crawfords the country, and doing
the honours of its finest spots. Everything answered ; it was all gaiety and
good humour, 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 good humour, on Mr. Rush-
worth'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 showing 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 dessert.
Between ten and eleven, Edmund and Julia walked into the drawing-
I'oom, 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 half asleep ; and even
Mrs. Norris discomposed by her niece's ill humour, 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? la
she gone to bed?"
"No, not that I know of," replied Mrs. Norris; "she was here a moment
ago."
Her own gentle voice speaking from the other end of the room, which
was a very long one, told them that she was on the sofa. Mrs. Norris
began scolding.
"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
5i2 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 trick for
a young person to be always lolling upon a sofa."
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 good
humour, from the pleasures of the day, did her the justice of exclaiming,
"I must say, ma'am, that Fanny is as little upon the sofa as anybody in
the house."
"Fanny," said Edmund, after looking at her attentively, "I am sure you
have the headache."
She could not deny it, but said it was not very bad.
"I can hardly believe you," he replied; "I know your looks too well.
How long have you had it?"
"Since a little before dinner. It is nothing but the heat."
"Did you go out in the heat?"
"Go out! to be sure she did," said Mrs. Norris: "would you have her
stay within such a fine day as this? Were not we all out? Even your
mother was out to-day for above an hour."
"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 three-quarters of an hour in the flower-garden, while Fanny
cut the roses, and very pleasant it was, I assure you, but very hot. It was
shady enough in the alcove, but I declare I quite dreaded the coming
home again."
"Fanny has been cutting roses, has she?"
"Yes, and I am afraid they will be the last this year. Poor thing! She
found it hot enough ; but they were so full blown that one could not wait."
"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 to-morrow. Suppose you let her
have your aromatic vinegar; I always forget to have mine filled."
"She has got it," said Lady Bertram; "she has had it ever since she
came back from your house the second time."
"What! " cried Edmund ; "has she been walking as well as cutting roses,
walking across the hot park to your house, and doing it twice, ma'am!
No wonder her head aches."
Mrs. Norris was talking to Julia, and did not hear.
"I was afraid it would be too much for her," said Lady Bertram; "but
when the roses were gathered, your aunt wished to have them, and then
you know they must be taken home."
"But were there roses enough to oblige her to go twice?"
"No, but they were to be put into the spare room to dry ; and, unluckily,
MANSFIELDPARK 513
Fanny forgot to lock the door of the room and bring away the key, so she
was obliged to go again."
Edmund got up and walked about the room, saying, "And could nobody
be employed on such an errand but Fanny? Upon my word, ma'am, it
has been a very ill-managed business."
"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. Jeff cries 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 mile I cannot think I was
unreasonable to ask it. How often do I pace it three times a day, early and
late, ay, arid in all weathers too, and say nothing about it?"
"I wish Fanny had half your strength, ma'am."
"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 flower-garden, that did the mis-
chief."
"I am afraid it was, indeed," said the more candid Lady Bertram, who
had overheard her; "lam 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 flower-
beds, was almost too much for me."
Edmund said no more to either lady; but going quietly to another table,
on which the supper tray 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.
514 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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.
Chapter 8
FANNY'S rides recommenced the very next day ; and as it was a pleasant
fresh-feeling 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 show 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 most proper thing to be done was for him to walk
down to the Parsonage directly, and call on Mr. Crawford, and inquire
whether Wednesday would suit him or not.
Before his return, Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford came in. Having beer
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 well-meaning,
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
MANSFIELDPARK 515
Edmund, as he is not here to speak for himself, I will answer for his being
most happy to join the party. He can go on horseback, you know."
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 place."
"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 the question. Lady Bertram could not possibly spare her."
"Oh no! I cannot do without Fanny."
Mrs. Rushworth proceeded next, under the conviction that everybody
must be wanting to see Sotherton, to include Miss Crawford in the invi-
tation ; 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 suc-
cessful ; and Edmund made his appearance just in time to learn what had
been settled for Wednesday, to attend Mrs. Rushworth to her carriage,
and walk half-way down the park with the two other ladies.
On his return to the breakfast-room, 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 well, independent of the box, on
which one might go with him."
"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 car-
riage of the family."
"What!" cried Julia; "go, boxed up three in a postchaise in this
weather, when we may have seats in a barouche ! No, my dear Edmund,
that will not quite do."
"Besides," said Maria, "I know that Mr. Crawford depends upon taking
us. After what passed at first, he would claim it as a promise."
"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
Si6 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
not know how to drive. I will answer for it, that we shall find no incon-
venience from narrow roads on Wednesday."
"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 ones view
of the country. Probably Miss Crawford will choose the barouche box
herself."
"There can be no objection, then, to Fanny's going with you; there
can be no doubt of your having room for her."
"Fanny!" repeated Mrs. Norris; "my dear Edmund, there is no idea
of fier going with us. She stays with her aunt. I told Mrs. Rushworth so.
She is not expected,"
* ou 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 wish to keep her at home?"
"To be sure not, but I cannot do without her."
"You can, if I stay at home with you, as I mean to do."
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?"
"Oh yes! very glad, if your aunt sees no objection."
Mrs. Norris was very ready with the only objection which could remain
their 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 good breeding 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 op-
position 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 invi-
tation 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
choose, settle it your own way, I am sure I do not care about it."
MANSFIELDPARK 517
"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, from a consciousness that she ought
to offer to stay at home herself.
"Fanny will feel quite as grateful as the occasion requires," was Ed-
mund's reply only, and the subject dropped.
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 seeing Sotherton would be nothing
without him.
The next meeting of the two Mansfield families produced another
alteration in the plan, and one that was admitted with general approba-
tion. 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 re-
stored him to his share of the party; and Mrs. Norris thought it an
excellent plan, and had it at her tongue's end, and was on the point of
proposing it, when Mrs. Grant spoke.
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 oppor-
tunity for you to take a lesson."
Happy Julia! Unhappy Maria! The former was on the barouche-box
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
ladies, and the barking of pug in his mistress's arms.
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.
Si8 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 same moment from
them both, more than once.
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 be-
lieved 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 family, with all its rights of court-leet and court-baron.
"Now, we shall have no more rough road, Miss Crawford; our dif-
ficulties are over. The rest of the way is such as it ought to be. Mr. Rush-
worth 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 tidy -looking 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 lodge-gates ; 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 ill-
looking place if it had a better approach."
MANSFIELDPARK 519
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 enjoy-
ment 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 of the west front."
"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 fur-
nish, when they drove up to the spacious stone steps before the principal
entrance.
Chapter 9
MR. RUSHWORTH was at the door to receive his fair lady; and the
vvhole party were welcomed by him with due attention. In the drawing-
room 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 dining-parlour, 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 choose, 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 loss of present
pleasure."
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 showing the house to such of them as
had not been there before, was more acceptable, for Miss Bertram was
pleased to have its size displayed, and all were glad to be doing something.
The whole party rose accordingly, and under Mrs. Rushworth's guid-
ance were shown 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
520 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
in its way. Of pictures there were abundance, and some few good, but the
larger part were family portraits, no longer anything to anybody except
Mrs. Rushworth, who had been at great pains to learn all that the house-
keeper could teach, and was now almost equally well qualified to show 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 her imagination with scenes of the past.
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 shak-
ing his head at the windows. Every room on the west front looked across a
lawn to the beginning of the avenue immediately beyond tall iron pal-
isades and gates.
Having visited many more rooms than could be supposed to be of any
other use than to contribute to the window tax, 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 friends, I will take you in this way, if you will
excuse me."
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 monas-
teries. 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."
"It was foolish of me not to think of all that; but I am disappointed."
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
MANSFIELDPARK 52!
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 remained in a cluster together.
"It is a pity," cried Fanny, "that the custom should have been dis-
continued. 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 assem-
bling 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 day, while they are inventing excuses themselves for staying
away."
That is hardly Fanny's idea of a family assembling," said Edmund.
"If the master and mistress do not attend themselves, there must be more
harm than good in the custom."
"At any rate, it is safer to leave people to their own devices on such
subjects. Everybody likes to go their own way to choose their own time
and manner of devotion. The obligation of attendance, the formality, the
restraint, the length of time altogether 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 head-
ache, 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
different especially if the poor chaplain were not worth looking at
and, in those days, I fancy parsons were very inferior even to what they
are now."
For a few moments she was unanswered. Fanny coloured and looked
at Edmund, but felt too angry for speech ; and he needed a little recollec-
tion 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 wanderings in a chapel,
would be more collected in a closet?"
"Yes, very likely. They would have two chances at least in their favour.
522 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
There would be less to distract the attention from without, and it would
not be tried so long."
"The mind which does not struggle against itself under one circum-
stance, 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
are."
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 hear, "I do not like to see Miss
Bertram so near the altar."
Starting, the lady instinctively moved a step or two, but recovering
herself in a moment, affected to laugh, and asked him in a tone not much
louder, "If he would give her away?"
"I am afraid I should do it very awkwardly," was his reply, with a look
of meaning.
Julia, joining them at the moment, carried on the joke. "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 all together, 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 and dignity of its
being a most happy event to her whenever it took place.
"If Edmund weie 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
that you are not ordained; Mr. Rushworth and Maria are quite ready."
Miss Crawford's countenance, as Julia spoke, might have amused a dis-
interested observer. She looked almost aghast under the new idea she was
receiving. Fanny pitied her. "How distressed she will be at what she said
just now," passed across her mind.
"Ordained!" said Miss Crawford; "what, are you to be a clergyman?"
"Yes; I shall take orders soon after my father's return; probably at
Christmas."
Miss Crawford rallying her spirits, and recovering her complexion,
replied only, "If I had known this before, I would have spoken of the cloth
with more respect," and turned the subject.
The chapel was soon afterwards left to the silence and stillness which
reigned in it, with few interruptions, throughout the year. Miss Bertram,
MANSFIELDPARK 523
displeased with her sister, led the way, and all seemed to feel that they
had been there long enough.
The lower part of the house had been now entirely shown, 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 a sort of self-evident 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 pleasure-grounds, as by one impulse,
one wish for air and liberty, all walked out.
"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 further? I see walls of
great promise. Mr. Rushworth, shall we summon a council on this lawn?"
"James," said Mrs. Rushforth to her son, "I believe the wilderness will
be new to all the party. The Miss Bertrams have never seen the wilder-
ness yet."
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 bowling-green, and beyond the
bowling-green a long terrace walk, backed by iron palisades, and com-
manding a view over them into the tops of the trees of the wilderness
immediately adjoining. It was a good spot for fault-finding. 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 partici-
pation 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 house-
keeper, 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
524 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
satisfied with their lot, was now in a state of complete penance, and as
different from the Julia of the barouche-box 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
self-command, 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 miserable under it.
"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
they like."
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 bowling-
green 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. Bertram. This
is rather a surprise to me."
"Why should it surprise you? You must suppose me designed for some
profession, and might perceive that I am neither a lawyer, nor a soldier,
nor a sailor."
"Very true; but, in short, it had not occurred to me. And you know
there is generally an uncle or a grandfather to leave a fortune to the
second son."
"A very praiseworthy practice," said Edmund, "but not quite uni-
versal. I am one of the exceptions, and being one, must do something for
myself."
"But why are you to be a clergyman? I thought that was always the
lot of the youngest, where there were many to choose before him."
"Do you think the church itself never chosen, then?"
"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 dis-
tinction 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
MANSFIELDPARK 525
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 appear
what he ought not to appear."
"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 clergyman out of his pulpit."
"You are speaking of London, 7 am speaking of the nation at large."
"The metropolis, I imagine, is a pretty fair sample of the rest."
"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 neighbour-
hood, where the parish and neighbourhood are of a size capable of know-
ing 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 matters, Miss Crawford must
not misunderstand me, or suppose I mean to call them the arbiters of good
breeding, 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 doc-
trines 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."
"Certainly," said Fanny, with gentle earnestness.
"There," cried Miss Crawford, "you have quite convinced Miss Price
already."
"I wish I could convince Miss Crawford too."
"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 is not too late. Go into the law."
"Go into the law! With as much ease as I was told to go into this
wilderness."
"Now you are going to say something about law being the worst wilder-
ness of the two, but I forestall you ; remember, I have forestalled 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 matter-
526 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
of-fact, plain-spoken being, and may blunder on the borders of a repartee
for half-an-hour together without striking it out."
A general silence succeeded. Each was thoughtful. Fanny made the first
interruption by saying: "I wonder that I should be tired with only walk-
ing in this sweet wood ; but the next time we come to a seat, if it is not dis-
agreeable to you, I should be glad to sit down for a little while."
"My dear Fanny," cried Edmund, immediately drawing her arm within
his, "how thoughtless I have been! I hope you are not very tired. Per-
haps," turning to Miss Crawford, "my other companion may do me the
honour of taking an arm."
"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 connec-
tion 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 are only a fly in comparison."
"I am really not tired, which I almost wonder at; for we must have
walked at least a mile in this wood. Do not you think we have?"
"Not half a mile," was his sturdy answer ; for he was not; yet so much in
love as to measure distance, or reckon time, with feminine lawlessness.
"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 left the first great path."
"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 within compass."
"We have been exactly a quarter of an hour here," said Edmund, taking
out his watch. "Do you think we are walking four miles an hour?"
"Oh! do not attack me with your watch. A watch is always too fast or
too slow. I cannot be dictated to by a watch."
A few steps further 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 ha-ha into the park, was a comfortable-sized bench on
which they all sat down.
"I am afraid you are very tired, Fanny," said Edmund, observing her;
"why would you not 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 soon, Miss Crawford, except riding."
MANSFIELDPARK 527
"How abominable in you, then, to let me engross her horse as I did all
last week ! I am ashamed of you and of myself, but it shall never happen
again."
"Your attentiveness and consideration make me more sensible of my
own neglect. Fanny's interest seems in safer hands with you than with
me."
"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, though she did not know it."
"I shall soon be rested," said Fanny; "to sit in the shade on a fine day,
and look upon verdure, is the most perfect refreshment."
After sitting a little while, Miss Crawford was up again. "I must move,''
said she, "resting fatigues me. I have looked across the ha-ha till I am
weary. I must go and look through that iron gate at the same view,
without being able to see it so well."
Edmund left the seat likewise. "Now, Miss Crawford, if you will look
up the walk, you will convince yourself that it cannot be half a mile long,
or half half a mile."
"It is an immense distance," said she; "I see that with a glance."
He still reasoned with her, but in vain. She would not calculate, she
would not comoare. 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 the 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 ha-ha), and 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 corner, and listened till all sound of them
had ceased.
Chapter 10
A QUARTER of an hour, twenty minutes, passed away, and Fanny was
still thinking of Edmund, Miss Crawford, and herself, without interrup-
tion from anyone. 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 approach-
528 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
ing; 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 were before her.
"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 stayed
with us."
Then seating herself with a gentleman on each side, she resumed the
conversation which had engaged them before, and discussed the possi-
bility 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 place.
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 accordingly.
"It is undoubtedly the best thing we can do now, as we are so far from
the house already," said Mr. Crawford, when he was gone.
"Yes, there is nothing else to be done. But now, sincerely, do not you
find the place altogether worse than you expected?"
"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 / 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 the
case with men of the world."
MANSFIELDPARK 529
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."
"You think her more lighthearted than I am."
"More easily amused," he replied, "consequently, you know," smiling,
"better company. I could not have hoped to entertain you with Irish
anecdotes during a ten miles' drive."
"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 ha-ha, 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 her. "Mr. Rushworth is
so long fetching this key?"
"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."
"Prohibited! Nonsense! I certainly can get out that way, and I will.
Mr. Rushworth will be here in a moment, you know; we shall not be out
of sight."
"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 the knoll."
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
will be in danger of slipping into the ha-ha. You had better not go."
Her cousin was safe on the other side while these words were spoken,
and, smiling with all the good humour of success, she said: "Thank 3 r ou,
my dear Fanny, but I and my gown are alive and well, and so good-b} T e."
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
530 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
Edmund and Miss Crawford had left it, but that it was impossible for
Edmund to forget her so entirely.
She was again roused from disagreeable musings by sudden footsteps :
somebody was coming at a quick pace down the principal walk. She ex-
pected 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
are the others? I thought Maria and Mr. Crawford were with you."
Fanny explained.
"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 mv
place, but you always contrive to keep out of these scrapes."
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
not seen Mr. Rushworth.
"Yes, yes, we saw him. He was posting away as if upon life and death,
and could but just spare time to tell us his errand, and where you all
were."
"It is a pity he should have so much trouble for nothing."
"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 from."
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 con-
tinued absence, however, as she might have done. She felt that he had
been very ill used, and was quite unhappy in having to communicate what
had passed. He joined her within five minutes after Julia's exit ; 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 to know what to do.
"They desired me to stay; my cousin Maria charged me to say that
you would find them at that knoll, or thereabouts."
"I do not believe I shall go any further," said he, sullenly; "I see
nothing of them. By the time I get to the knoll, they may be gone some-
where else. I have had walking enough."
And he sat down with a most gloomy countenance by Fanny.
MANSFIELDPARK 531
"I am very sorry," said she; "it is very unlucky." And she longed to
be able to say something more to the purpose.
After an interval of silence, "I think they might as well have stayed for
me," said he.
"Miss Bertram thought you would follow her."
"I should not have had to follow her if she had stayed."
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."
"I do not think him at all handsome."
"Handsome! Nobody can call such an undersized man handsome. He
is not five foot nine. I should not wonder if he was not more than five foot
eight. I think he is an ill-looking fellow. In my opinion, these Crawfords
are no addition at all. We did very well without them."
A small sigh escaped Fanny here, and she did not know how to contra-
dict him.
"If I had niade any difficulty about fetching the key, there might have
been some excuse, but I went the very moment she said she wanted it."
"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,
you know, can bs settled without you."
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 nothing.'
And letting himself out, he walked off without further ceremony.
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 side gate, 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 morn-
ing 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
532 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 agree-
ment 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 wilder-
ness, 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 cross acci-
dents 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 shown 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 chit-chat, and Quar-
terly 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 re-establishing harmony, as it con-
fessedly 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 any little resentment
of the other two, and restore general good humour.
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
Vvay. At the same moment, Mr. Crawford, approaching Julia, said: "I
MANSFIELDPARK 533
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 pre-
ferred 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
complacency seemed confirmed by the arrangement.
"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
elbow unmercifully."
"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. Now I can manage the other parcel and the
basket very well."
"What else have you been spunging?" said Maria, half pleased that
Sotherton should be so complimented.
"Spunging, my dear! It is nothing but four of those beautiful pheas-
ants' 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 if I have good luck your mother
shall have some."
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 meditations of almost all.
534 THE WORKSOF JANE AUSTEN
Chapter n
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 his beloved family again early in
November.
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 gener-
ally 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 thirteen weeks. Much might happen in thirteen
weeks.
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 dropped; 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 November."
Edmund looked round at Mr. Rushworth too, but had nothing to say,
"Your father's return will be a very interesting event."
"It will, indeed, after such an absence; an absence not only long, but
including so many dangers."
MANSFIELDPARK 535
"It will be the forerunner also of other interesting events; your sister's
marriage, and your taking orders."
"Yes."
"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, "it is entirely her own doing."
"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."
"My taking orders, I assure you, is quite as voluntary as Maria's
marrying."
"It is fortunate that your inclination and your father's convenience
should accord so well. There is a very good living kept for you, I under-
stand, hereabouts."
"Which you suppose has biassed me?"
"But that I am sure it has not," cried Fanny.
"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 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. I have no doubt that I was biassed, but
I think it was blamelessly."
"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 sus-
pects them to be less in earnest in it than they appear."
"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 accept-
able in society. Nobody can wonder that men are soldiers and sailors."
"But the motives of a man who takes orders with the certainty of pre-
ferment may be fairly suspected, you think?" said Edmund. "To be justi-
fied in your eyes, he must do it in the most complete uncertainty of any
provision."
"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
53 6 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 his."
"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 makes men clergymen. A clerygman has nothing
to do but be slovenly and selfish; read the newspaper, watch the weather,
and quarrel with his wife. His curate does all the work, and the business
of his own life is to dine."
"There are such clergymen, no doubt, but I think they are not so
common as to justify Miss Crawford in esteeming it their general char-
acter. I suspect that in this comprensive 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. You are speaking what you have been told
at your uncle's table."
"I speak what appears to me the general opinion ; and where an opinion
is general, it is usually correct. Though / have not seen much of the
domestic lives of clergymen, it is seen by too many to leave any defi-
ciency of information."
"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, per-
haps 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, /
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
MANSFIELDPARK 537
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 self-indulgence;
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 professon for all
that ; because, whatever profession Dr. Grant had chosen, he would have
taken a not 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 what-
ever 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 knowl-
edge which it is impossible he should escape as he is now. A man a sensi-
ble 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 clergyman."
"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 good
humour every Sunday, it will be bad enough to have him quarrelling about
green geese from Monday morning till Saturday night."
"I think the man who could often quarrel with Fanny," said Edmund,
affectionately, "must be beyond the reach of any sermons."
Fanny turned further 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 good humour, 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,
538 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 can only 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 such a scene."
"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. They lose a great deal."
"You taught me to think and feel on the subject, cousin."
"I had a very apt scholar. There's Arcturus looking very bright."
"Yes, and the Bear. I wish I could see Cassiopeia."
"We must go out on the lawn for that. Should you be afraid?"
"Not in the least. It is a great while since we have had any star-gazing."
"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, among the most urgent in requesting
to hear the glee again.
Fanny sighed alone at the window till scolded away by Mrs. Norris's
threats of catching cold.
Chapter 12
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, agree-
able, 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 the power of actual comparison, of her pre-
ferring his younger brother.
It was very vexatious, and she was heartily sorry for it ; but so it was ;
ind 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
MANSFIELD PARK 539
Sir Thomas complete, which he was to be in time, she did not believe she
could accept him.
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 fortnight a 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 abso-
lute necessity of distrusting his attentions, and wishing him not to return ;
and a fortnight of sufficient leisure, in ihe intervals of shooting and sleep-
ing, 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 re-
flecting 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 gladly by
those whom he came to trifle with further.
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 cen-
sure; and had her confidence in her own judgment been equal to her exer-
cise of it in every other respect, had she been sure that she was seeing
clearly, and judging candidly, she would probably have made some im-
portant 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 wa? once gone, to take him elsewhere. He is used to much
gayer places than Mansfield."
540 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
"It is to his credit," was Edmund's answer; "and I dare say it gives his
sister pleasure. She does not like his unsettled habits."
"What a favourite he is with my cousins ! "
"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 attachment would remove."
"If Miss Bertram were not engaged," said Fanny, cautiously, "I could
sometimes almost think that he admired her more than Julia."
"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 she has given, that her feelings are not strong."
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 re-entrance 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 couples
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 dialogue between the two above-mentioned ladies
was forced on her :
"I think, ma'am," said Mrs. Norris her eyes directed towards Mr.
Rushworth and Maria, who were partners for the second time, "we shall
see some happy faces again now."
"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 situa-
tion 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
MANSFIELDPARK 541
Maria has such a strict sense of propriety, so much of that true delicacy
which one seldom meets with now-a-days, Mrs. Rushworth that wish of
avoiding particularity ! Dear ma'am, only look at her face at this moment;
how different from what it was the two last dances!"
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 thought about her.
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."
Mrs. Rushworth, who saw nothing but her son, was quite at a loss.
"The couple above, ma'am. Do you see no symptoms there?"
"Oh dear! Miss Julia and Mr. Crawford. Yes, indeed, a very pretty
match. What is his property?"
"Four thousand a year."
"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 be. He is growing extremely
particular in his attentions."
Fanny could listen no further. Listening and wondering were all sus-
pended 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
lovers all but Yates and Mrs. Grant and, 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,
542 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 matters."
"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 half-crowns, you know, you
may bet half -guineas 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 longer, or the dance will be over."
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 card table 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."
Chapter 13
THE Honourable John Yates, this new friend, had not much to recom-
mend him beyond habits of fashion and expense, and being the younger
son of a lord with a tolerable independence ; and Sir Thomas would prob-
ably 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 rud
been expected, in consequence of the sudden breaking-up 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
MANSFIELDPARK 543
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 connections of the family had
destroyed the scheme and dispersed the performers. To be so near happi-
ness, 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 never-failing subject, and to boast of the past his only consolation.
Happily for him, a love of the theatre is so general, an itch for acting so
strong among young people, that he could hardly out-talk 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 Baron a little man with a weak voice, always hoarse
after the first ten minutes. It must have injured the piece materially; but
/ 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 the whole it would certainly have
gone off wonderfully."
"It was a hard case, upon my word;" and, "I do think you were very
much to be pitied," were the kind responses of listening sympathy.
"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 suppose
is one of the most correct men in England, would not hear of it."
"An afterpiece instead of a comedy," said Mr. Bertram. "Lovers' vows
were at an end, and Lord and Lady Ravenshaw left to act My Grand-
mother 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,
544 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
I think we must raise a little theatre at Mansfield, and ask you to be our
manager."
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 be enough."
"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
ourselves, we should want nothing more."
"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 object.
Many parts of our best plays are independent of scenery."
"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 begin-
ning to end ; so as it be a German play, no matter what, with a good trick-
ing, shifting afterpiece, and a figure-dance, 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 gone much further to see one."
"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
all the disadvantages of education and decorum to struggle through."
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
MANSFIELDPARK 545
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 pos-
sible, though his mother, who equally heard the conversation, which
passed at table, did not evince the least disapprobation.
The same evening afforded him an opportunity of trying his strength.
Maria, Julia, Henry Crawford, and Mr. Yates were in the billiard-room.
Tom returning from them into the drawing-room, 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 billiard-table 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 further 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 set down to wish for it ; and my father's room will be an excellent
green room. It seems to join the billiard-room on purpose."
"You are not serious, Tom, in meaning to act?" said Edmund, in a lovi
voice, as his brother approached the fire.
"Not serious! never more so, I assure you. What is there to surprise yov
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 any-
thing of the kind. It would show 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 delicate one, considering everything, extremely delicate."
"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
choosing some play most perfectly unexceptionable ; and I can conceive
no greater harm or danger to any of us in conversing in the elegant writ-
ten 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, will he. It is a very anxious period for her."
546 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
As he said this, each looked towards their mother. Lady Bertrarn, 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
through the few difficulties of her work for her.
Edmund smiled and shook his head.
"By jove! this won't do," cried Tom, throwing himself into a chair with
a hearty laugh. "To be sure, my dear mother, your anxiety I was un-
lucky there."
"What is the matter?" asked her ladyship, in the heavy tone of one
half roused, "I was not asleep."
"Oh, dear no, ma'am, nobody suspected you! Well, Edmund," he con-
tinued, 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 be doing no harm."
"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 grown-up daughters to be acting plays. His sense of decorum is
strict."
"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
family."
"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 in his absence which could not be justified."
"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 billiard-room 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 breakfast-room, 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! "
"The innovation, if not wrong as an innovation, will be wrong as an
expense."
MANSFIELDPARK 547
"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 yourself, if you do not like it, but don't
expect to govern everybody else."
"No, as to acting myself," said Edmund, "that I absolutely protest
against."
Tom walked out of the room as he said it, and Edmund was left to sit
down and stir the fire in thoughtful vexation.
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
suit them. Your brother's taste, and your sisters', seem very different."
"I have no hope there, Fannv. If they persist in the scheme, they will
find something. I shall speak to my sisters and try to dissuade them, and
that is all I can do."
"I should think my Aunt Norris would be on your side."
"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 any-
thing 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 delicacy but that could not extend
to her she was at liberty; and Maria evidently considered her engage-
ment 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 yourselves."
548 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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, accommodating purport of the message than on
anything else.
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 all-powerful 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 comfort 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 service, she
was, in fact, exceedingly delighted with the project.
Chapter 14
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 measure-
ments, 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 prepa-
rations 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 three quarters of a yard), and was actually
forming into a curtain by the housemaids, and still the play was wanting;
and as t.vo or three days passed away in this manner, Edmund began
almost to hope that none might ever be found.
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 first-rate, 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 trage-
MANSFIELD PARK 549
dians ; 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, / do not wish to make objections ; I shall be happy to be of any
use, but I think we could not choose worse."
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 against it.
"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, / make no difficulties. I take any part you choose to give me,
so as it be comic. Let it but be comic, I condition for nothing more."
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 were some fine tragic parts in the rest of the dramatis personae,
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 re-rant
it all in his own room. To storm through Baron Wildenheim was the height
of his theatrical ambition; and with the advantage of knowing half the
550 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 ranting
ground in Frederick, he professed an equal willingness for that. Henry
Crawford was ready to take either. Whichever Mr. Yates did not choose
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 will-
ing to do anything, when Julia, meaning, like her sister, to be Agatha,
began to be scrupulous on Miss Crawford's account.
"This is not behaving well by the absent," said she. "Here are not
women enough. Amelia and Agatha may do for Maria and me, but here
is nothing for your sister, Mr. Crawford."
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
seeming carelessness was turning over the first act, soon settled the
business.
"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 Frederick and his knapsack would be
obliged to run away."
Pleasantly, courteously, it was spoken ; but the manner was lost in the
natter 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
showed 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
MANSFIELDPARK 551
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
country-woman: the Cottager's Wife; you had, indeed, Julia. Cottager's
Wife is a very pretty part, I assure you. The old lady relieves the high-
flown benevolence of her husband with a good deal of spirit. You shall be
Cottager's Wife."
"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 pro-
pose 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 appre-
ciate the talents of your company a little better."
"Why, as to that, my good friend, till I and my company have really
acted there must be some guess work; but I mean no disparagement to
Julia. We cannot have two Agatha's, 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 every-
thing humorous, let her take Cottager's speeches instead of Cottager's
W T ife'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, / 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 good nature 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 gentlewoman a 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 Miss Crawford's better claim.
"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
S5 2 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
choice, but it will certainly appear that comedy chooses 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
alarmed but 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 provisions though one might have supposed but it is
only as Agatha that I was to be so overpowering!" She stopped, Henry
Crawford looked rather foolish, and as if he did not know what to say.
Tom Bertram began again:
"Miss Crawford must be Amelia. She will be an excellent Amelia."
"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 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 awk-
ward 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 without great pity.
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' help, to ascertain what scenery would be necessary,
while Maria and Henry Crawford conversed together in an under voice,
and the declaration with which she began of, "I am sure I would give up
the part of 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 compliments it called for.
When this had lasted some time, the division of the party was com-
pleted by Tom Bertram and Mr. Yates walking off together to consult
further 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 Fanny remained alone.
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
MANSFIELDPARK 553
representation; the 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 possible by the remonstrance
which Edmund would certainly make.
Chapter 15
Miss CRAWFORD accepted the part very readliy; and soon after Miss
Bertram's return from the Parsonage, Mr. Rushworth arrived, and an-
other character was consequently cast. He had the offer of Count Cassel
and Anhalt, and at first did not know which to choose, 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 hss 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 choosing
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 con-
clusions, or feel any of that displeasure which Maria had been half pre-
pared for.
Thus much was settled before Edmund, who had been out all the morn-
ing, knew anything of the matter ; but when he entered the drawing-room
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 9 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
shooting-dress. I do not know how I shall like it."
Fanny's eyes followed Edmund, and her heart beat for him as she heard
this speech, and saw his look and felt what his sensations must be.
"Lovers' Vows!" in a tone of the greatest amazement, was his only
reply to Mr. Rushworth, and he turned towards his brother and sisters as
if hardly doubting a contradiction.
"Yes," cried Mr. Yates. "After all our debatings and difficulties, we
find there is nothing that will suit us altogether so well, nothing so un-
exceptionable 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
554 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
advantage of what I saw at Ecclesf ord ; and it is so useful to have anything
of a model! We have cast almost every part."
"But what do you do for women?" said Edmund gravely, and looking
at Maria.
Maria blushed in spite of herself as she answered, "I take the part which
Lady Ravenshaw was to have done, and (with a bolder eye) Miss Craw-
ford is to be Amelia."
"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
two-and-forty 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 dress,
and a pink satin cloak."
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. Rush-
worth, Edmund almost immediately took the opportunity of saying, "I
cannot before Mr. Yates speak what I feel as to this play, without reflect-
ing 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 mother or aunt, and
see how you can approve it. It will not be necessary to send you to your
father's judgment, I am convinced."
"We see things very differently," cried Maria. "I am perfectly ac-
quainted 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 7 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 show them what true delicacy is. In all points
of decorum, your conduct must be law to the rest of the party."
This picture of her consequence had some effect, for no one loved better
to lead than Maria; and with far more good humour 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 this kind. There would be the
greatest indecorum, I think."
"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
MANSFIELDPARK 555
motive. The play will be given up, and your delicacy honoured as il
ought."
"Do not act anything improper, my dear," said Lady Bertram. "Sir
Thomas would not like it. Fanny, ring the bell ; I must have my dinner. To
be sure Julia is dressed by this time."
"I am convinced, madam," said Edmund, preventing Fanny, "that Sir
Thomas would not like it."
"There, my dear, do you hear what Edmund says?"
"If I were to decline the part," said Maria, with renewed zeal, "Julia
would certainly take it."
"What! " cried Edmund, "if she knew your reasons! "
"Oh! she might think the difference between us the difference in our
situations that she need not be so scrupulous as 7 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 if we are so very nice, we shall never act
anything."
"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 over precise, 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 side-doors. 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 poultry yard, and was
just coming out, when who should I see but Dick Jackson, making up to
the servants' hall-door with two bits of deal board in his hand, bringing
them to father you may be sure ; mother had chanced to send him on a
message to father, and then father had bid him bring up them two bits of
board, for he could not know how do without them. I knew what all this
meant, for the servants' dinner-bell 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) ; '/'// 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
556 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 endeavoured to set them right must be his
only satisfaction.
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 drawing-room, 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 en-
trance of Mr. and Miss Crawford, who, late and dark and dirty as it was,
could not help coming, and were received with the most grateful joy.
"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 by-standers 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, beyond Fanny to Edmund.
She was very civilly answered by Lady Bertram, but Edmund said
nothing. His being only a by-stander was not disclaimed. After continuing
in chat with the party round the fire a few minutes, Miss Crawford re-
turned to the party round the table; and standing by them, seemed to
interest herself in their arrangements till, as if struck by 2. sudden recol-
lection, she exclaimed, "My good friends, you are most composedly at
work upon these cottages and ale-houses, inside and out ; but pray, let me
know my fate in the meanwhile. Who is to be Anhalt? What gentleman
among you am I to have the pleasure of making love to?"
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
MANSFIELDPARK 557
should like the Count best, though I do not much relish the finery I am
to have."
"You choose very wisely, I am sure," replied Miss Crawford, with a
brightened look ; "Anhalt is a heavy part."
"The Count has two-and-forty 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 deserves no better. Such a forward young
lady might well frighten the men."
"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 done I will look it
over again."
"Your brother should take the part," said Mr. Yates, in a low voice. "Do
you not think he would?"
"/ shall not ask him," replied Tom, in a cold determined manner.
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 your advice?"
"My advice," said he calmly, "is that you change the play."
"/ should have no objection," she replied; "for though I should not
particularly dislike the part of Amelia, if well supported, that is, if every-
thing went well, I shall be sorry to be an inconvenience ; but as they do
not choose to hear your advice at that table (looking round), it certainly
will not be taken."
Edmund said no more.
"If any part could tempt you to act, I suppose it would be Anhalt,"
observed the lady archly, after a short pause; "for he is a clergyman,
you know."
"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 chooses the profession itself, is, perhaps, one of the last
who would wish to represent it on the stage."
Miss Crawford was silenced, and with some feelings of resentment and
mortification, moved her chair considerably nearer the tea-table, and gave
all her attention to Mrs. Norris, who was presiding there.
"Fanny," cried Tom Bertram, from the other table, where the con-
ference was eagerly carrying on, and the conversation incessant, "we want
your services."
Fanny was up in a moment, expecting some errand; for the habit of
5$8 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
employing her in that way was not yet overcome, in spite of all that
Edmund could do.
"Oh! we do not want to disturb you from your seat. We do not want
your present services. We shall only want you in our play. You must be
Cottager's Wife."
"Me!" cried Fanny, sitting down again with a most frightened look.
"Indeed you must excuse me. I could not act anything if you were to
give me the world. No, indeed, I cannot act."
"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 say, so you may be as creep-mouse as you like, but we must have you
to look at."
"If you are afraid of half-a-dozen speeches," cried Mr. Rushworth,
"what would you do with such a part as mine? I have forty- two to learn "
"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, I'll answer
for it."
"No, indeed, Mr. Bertram, you must excuse me. You cannot have an
idea. It would be absolutely impossible for me. If I were to undertake it,
I should only disappoint you."
"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 woman."
"You must excuse me, indeed you must excuse me," cried Fanny,
growing more and more red from excessive agitation, and looking dis-
tressfully 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 sort so kind as they are to you !
Take the part with a good grace, and let us hear no more of the matter,
I entreat."
"Do not urge her, madam," said Edmund. "It is not fair to urge her
MANSFIELDP-ARK 559
in this manner. You see she does not like to act. Let her choose for herself,
as well as the rest of us. Her judgment may be quite as safely trusted.
Do not urge her any more."
"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
what she is."
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 show 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 teas-
ing, 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 further
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 she had lost in Edmund's favour.
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 sup-
posing 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
again, she could not help admitting it to be very agreeable flattery, or help
listening, and answering with more animation than she had intended.
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 under-
take the part of Anhalt in addition to the Butler: he had been most anx-
iously 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 choose. 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 Mad-
dox is as gentlemanlike a man as you will see anywhere, so I will take my
horse early to-morrow 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
560 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 Mad-
dox dined at my sister's one day, did not he, Henry? A quiet looking
young man. I remember him. Let him be applied to, if you please, for it
will be less unpleasant for 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 showed his feelings only by a determined gravity.
"I am not very sanguine as to our play," said Miss Crawford, in an
under voice 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."
Chapter 16
IT was not in Miss Crawford's power to talk Fanny into any real for-
getfulness 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 pro-
tected 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 con-
tinued her sleeping room 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
MANSFIELDPARK 561
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 it was the best room in the house.
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 collectoi
from the first hour of her commanding a shilling her writing-desk, and
her works of charity and ingenuity, were all within her reach ; or if indis-
posed 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 dis-
regarded; and her comprehension undervalued; though she had known
the pains of tyranny, or 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 ill-
usage of children ; and its greatest elegancies and ornaments were a faded
footstool of Julia's work, too ill done for the drawing-room, three trans-
parencies, made in a rage for transparencies, for the three lower panes of
one window, where Tintern Abbey held its station between a cave in
562 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 William, with H.M.S. Antwerp
at the bottom, in letters as tall as the mainmast.
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 for what 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 ill-nature, 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 work-boxes
and netting-boxes 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 doubts
were wont to be laid. Her eyes brightened at the sight of Edmund.
"Can I speak with you, Fanny, for a few minutes?" said he.
"Yes, certainly."
"I want to consult. I want your opinion."
"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 obie^
tionable, the more than intimacy the familiarity. I cannot think of it
with any patience ; and it does appear to me an evil of such magnitude ^b
must, if possible, be prevented. Do not you see it in the same light?"
"Yes; but what can be done? Your brother is so determined."
"There is but one thing to be done, Fanny. I must take Anhalt myself.
I am well aware that nothing else will quiet Tom."
MANSFIELD PARK 563
Fanny could not answer him.
"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 alternative. Can you, Fanny?"
"No," said Fanny slowly, "not immediately, but "
"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 expecta-
tions perhaps 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 respected. Does it not strike you so,
Fanny? You hesitate."
"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 in-
famously 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
good humour 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 Mrs. Rushworth and the Grants. Will not this be worth
gaining?"
"Yes, it will be a great point."
"But still it has not your approbation. Can you mention any other
measure by which I have a chance of doing equal good?"
"No, I cannot think of anything else."
"Give me your approbation, then, Fanny. I am not comfortable with-
out it."
"Oh, cousin!"
"If you are against me, I ought to distrust myself, and yet But 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 act no matter
564 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
whom: the look of a gentleman is to be enough. I thought you would have
entered more into Miss Crawford's feelings."
"No doubt she will be very glad. It must be a great relief to her," said
Fanny, trying for greater warmth of manner.
"She never appeared more amiable than in her behaviour to you last
night. It gave her a very strong claim on my goodwill."
"She was very kind, indeed, and I am glad to have her spared "
She could not finish the generous effusion. Her conscience stopped 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 good humour
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 establish-
ment exceedingly; and as soon as I am gone, you will empty your head
of all this nonsense of acting, and sit comfortably down to your table.
But do not stay here to be cold."
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 objections objections 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 teaze her. She was beyond their reach; and if at last obliged to
yield no matter it was all misery now.
Chapter 17
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
MANSFIELDPARK 565
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 descent.
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 particu-
larly 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 com-
plaisance of the moment, to promise anything. It was all good humour
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
speeches.
"Perhaps," said Tom, "Fanny may be more disposed to oblige us now.
Perhaps you may persuade her."
"No, she is quite determined. She certainly will not act."
"Oh! very well." And not another word was said; but Fanny felt her-
self again in danger, and her indifference to the danger was beginning
to fail her already.
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 good humour, 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 i f was Miss Crawford to whom she was obliged ;
it 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 ot jealousy and agitation. Miss Crawford came with looks of gaiety
which seemed an insult, with friendly expressions towards herself which
566 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 good nature 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 showed 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, considering only her uncle, she must condemn
altogether.
Fanny's heart was not absolutely the only saddened one amongst them,
as she soon began to acknowledge to herself. Julia was a sufferer, too,
though not quite so blamelessly.
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, wrapped in such
gravity as nothing could subdue, no curiosity touch, no wit amuse; or
allowing the attentions of Mr. Yates, was talking with forced gaiety to
him alone, and ridiculing the acting of the others.
For a day or two after the affront was given Henry Crawford had en-
deavoured 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 dear to her.
MANSFIELDPARK 567
"I rather wonder Julia is not in love with Henry," was her observation
:o Mary.
"I dare say she is," replied Mary coldly. "I imagine both sisters are."
"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 inde-
pendence 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 remember Hawkins Browne's 'Address
to Tobacco,' in imitation of Pope?
'Blest leaf! whose aromatic gales dispense
To Templars modesty, to Parsons sense.'
l will parody them :
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 cypher
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 stepped
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
Henry, for a time."
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 ill-usage. Her heart
was sore and angry, and she was capable only of angry consolations. The
568 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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. Rush worth. 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 consciousness.
The inattention of the two brothers and the aunt to Julia's discom-
posure, 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 expedience, 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 watch-
ing the behaviour, or guarding the happiness of his daughters.
Chapter 18
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 un-
interrupted 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 scene painter ar-
rived 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 representa-
tion, was giving an invitation to every family who came in his way. Tom
himself began to fret over the scene painter's slow progress, and to feel
the miseries of waiting. He had learned his part all his parts, for he
took every trifling one that could be united with the Butler, and began to
MANSFIELD PARK i'69
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 other play had not been chosen.
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 dread-
fully; 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 behind-hand with his
part, and that it was a 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 to come in; nobody
but the complainer would observe any directions.
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 con-
fidence 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, mean-looking 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 two-and-forty speeches became much less. As to his ever making any-
thing 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 rehearsai to comprehend all his scenes: but the others asoired at
570 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
nothing beyond his remembering the catch-word, 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 his being much the forwarder.
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 amognst 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 ;
she was perhaps as much at peace as any.
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 lockings -on
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 did more than you, we should not
get on very fast."
Fanny took the work very quietly, without attempting any defence;
but her kinder Aunt Bertram observed on her behalf:
"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, 7 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 is about lovers' vows."
"I believe," said Fanny to her Aunt Bertram, "there will be three acts
rehearsed to-morrow evening, and that will give you an opportunity of
seeing all the actors at once."
"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
drawn up into very handsome festoons."
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 be-
tween them which interested her most particularly, and which she was
MANSFIELDPARK 571
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 love be made by the lady.
She had read, and read the scene again with many painful, many won-
dering emotions, and looked forward to their representation of it as a
circumstance almost too interesting. She did not believe they had yet
rehearsed it, even in private.
The morrow came, the plan for the evening continued, and Fanny 's
consideration of it did not become less agitated. She worked very dili-
gently under her aunt's directions, but her diligence and her silence con-
cealed 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 an-
other, 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 Par-
sonage, made no change in her wish of retreat, and she worked and medi-
tated 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 Crawford.
"Am I right ? Yes ; this is the East Room. My dear Miss Price, I beg
your pardon, but I have made my way to you on purpose to entreat your
help."
Fanny, quite surprised, endeavoured to show herself mistress of the
room by her civilities, and looked at the bright bars of her empty grate
with concern.
"Thank you; I am quite warm, very warm. Allow me to stay here a
little while, and do have the goodness to hear 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 to-day intending to rehearse it with Edmund by ourselves
against 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
first but, 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 by degrees.
You have a look of his sometimes."
"Have I? I will do my best with the greatest readiness; but I must read
the part, for I can say very little of it."
"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. There very 'good schoolroom chairs, not made for a theatre,
572 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 dining-room. 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 sur-
prised. By the bye, I looked in upon them five minutes ago, and it hap-
pened 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 done of me? He brightened up directly. Now for my soliloquy."
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
ma^i. 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 all.
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 sympathising in praise of Fanny's kind offices.
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 shrank she
could not, would not, dared not, attempt it ; had she been otherwise quali-
fied for criticism, her conscience must have restrained her from venturing
at disapprobation. She believed herself to feel too much of it in the aggre-
gate 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
MANSFIELDPARK 573
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 everyone con-
cerned was looking forward with eagerness. There seemed a general dif-
fusion 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 sister-in-law, 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 to-day. He fancied it tough, sent
away his plate, and has been suffering ever since."
Here was disappointment! Mrs. Grant's non-attendance 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, Fanny, if
it is not very disagreeable to you."
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. She was properly punished.
"You have only to read the part," said Henry Crawford, with renewed
entreaty.
"And I do believe she can say every word of it," added Maria, "for she
could put Mrs. Grant right the other day in twenty places. Fanny, I am
sure you know the part."
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 good
574 THEWORKSOFJANEAUSTEN
nature, 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, appear-
ing at it, with a face all aghast, exclaimed, "My father is come! He is in
the hall at this moment."
Chapter 19
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 ill-timed, 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 self-condemnation 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 footsteps.
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, saying, "/ need not be afraid of appearing
before him."
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 drawing-room 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 sup-
port. 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
f Mr. Rushworth 's repeated question of, "Shall I go too? Had not I
MANSFIELDPARK 575
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 enquiry, 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 breathing time. 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 solici-
tude 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 unlooked-for 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 Antigua.
The Crawfords were more warm on the subject than Mr. Yates, from
better understanding the family, and judging more clearly of the mis-
chief 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 accom-
panying 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 hand-
somely, 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
stayed 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 uncle.
Too soon did she find herself at the drawing-room 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 drawing-room, and all the collected
family, were before her. As she entered, her own name caught her ear.
576 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 enquired particularly after her health, and then correcting him-
self, observed that he need not enquire, for her appearance spoke suffi-
ciently 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 enquired 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 pros-
perously rapid, and he came directly from Liverpool, having had an oppor-
tunity 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
him interrupting himself more than once, however, to remark on his
good fortune in finding them all at home coming 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 hand-shaking 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 Thomas was liking him already.
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 atten-
MANSFIELDPARK 577
tion 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
^pent during his absence: she had done a great deal of carpet work, 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 comprehensions filled by his narra-
tives, that she began particularly to feel how dreadfully she must have
missed him, and how impossible it would have been for her to bear a
lengthened absence.
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 disapproba-
tion when the present state of his house should be known, for her judg-
ment had been so blinded that, except by the instinctive caution with
which she had whisked away Mr. Rushworth's pink satin cloak as her
brother-in-law entered, she could hardly be said to show 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 drawing-room. Mrs. Norris felt her-
self 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 came he 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 every-
body's comfort, my dear Mrs. Norris," was his answer, "But, indeed, I
would rather have nothing but tea."
"Well, then, Lady Bertram, suppose you speak for tea directly; suppose
you hurry Baddeley a little; he seems behindhand to-night." She carried
this point, and Sir Thomas's narrative proceeded.
At length there was a pause. His immediate communications were ex-
hausted, 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
578 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
think the young people have been amusing themselves lately, Sir Thomas?
They have been acting. We have been all alive with acting."
"Indeed! And what have you been acting?"
"Oh! They'll tell you all about it."
"The all will soon be told," cried Tom hastily, and with affected un-
concern ; "but it is not worth while to bore my father with it now. You
will hear enough of it to-morrow, 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 third.
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.
7 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 sub-
sided; 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 return-
ing. 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 disappear-
ance. Edmund was the first to speak :
"Something must be done," said he.
"It is time to think of our visitors," said Maria, still feeling her hand
pressed to Henry Crawford's heart, and caring little for anything else.
"Where did you leave Miss Crawford, Fanny?"
Fanny told of their departure, and delivered their message.
"Then poor Yates is all alone," cried Tom. "I will go and fetch him.
He will be no bad assistant when it all comes out."
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
billiard-room door struck him especially, but he had scarcely more than
time to feel astonished at all this, before there were sounds from the bil-
liard-room to astonish him still further. Someone was talking there in a
very loud accent ; he did not know the voice more than talking almost
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 per-
MANSFIELDPARK 579
ceiving 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 keep-
ing 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 well-bred and easy Mr. Yates,
making his bow and apology to Sir Thomas Bertram, was such an exhibi-
tion, such a piece of true acting, as he would not have lost upon any
account. It would be the last in all probability the last scene on that
stage ; but he was sure there could not be a finer. The house would close
with the greatest eclat.
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 connections 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 theatri-
cal nonsense, and forced in so untoward a moment to admit the acquaint-
ance 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 mark him the most at home of the two.
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
enquired with mild gravity after the fate of the billiard-table, 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 arrange-
ment, the three gentlemen returned to the drawing-room 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 room
but 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 candle-light,
and does my friend Christopher Jackson credit." And then he would have
changed the subject, and sipped his coffee in peace over domestic matters
S8o THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 tc
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 ill opinion 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 sympathy than what a slight bow con-
veyed.
"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
spread as those things always spread, you know, sir the faster, prob-
ably, from your having so often encouraged the sort of thing in us for-
merly. It was like treading old ground again."
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 pre-
vented him even from seeing the expression of the face on which his own
eyes were fixed from seeing Sir Thomas's dark brows contract as he
looked with enquiring 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 aggra-
vation 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 to-night ; but if you will give us the honour of
your company to-morrow 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
MANSFIELDPARK 581
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 men-
tioned in my last letters from Mansfield. Do you find them agreeable
acquaintances?"
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
pleasant gentlemanlike man; his sister a sweet, pretty, elegant, lively
girl."
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 well-looking man."
Sir Thomas did not quite understand this, and looked with some sur-
prise at the speaker.
"If I must say what I think," continued Mr. Rushworth, "in my opin-
ion 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 quick-sighted,
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 you ; and I am sensible of the importance
of having an ally of such weight."
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 well-judging, 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 anything, he did his best
towards preserving that good opinion a little longer.
Chapter 20
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 mo-
tives to deserve, and acknowledging, with perfect ingenuousness, that his
concession had been attended with such partial good as to make his judg-
582 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
ment 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 was due to
you. You will find Fanny everything you could wish."
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 o'.her children: he was more willing to believe they felt their error,
than to run the risk of investigation. The reproof of an immediate con-
clusion of everything, the sweep of every preparation, would be sufficient.
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 dis-
approved. 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 great-
est support and glory was in having formed the connection with the Rush-
worths. 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
MANSFIELD PARK 583
certain as I sit here that nothing would have come of it; for Mr. Rush-
worth 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
impassable, but I did persuade her."
"I know how great, how justly great, your influence is with Lady
Bertram and her children, and am the more concerned that it should not
have been "
"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 winter and
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. 7 But, however, I soon
found it would not do ; he was bent upon going, and as I hate to be worry-
ing 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 accom-
plished in the visit."
"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. He seemed to feel exactly as
one could wish."
"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
584 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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
sometimes overpower her judgment.
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 method-
ical, 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 billiard-room, and given the scene-
painter his dismissal, long enough to justify the pleasing belief of his being
then at least as far off as Northampton. The scene-painter was gone, hav-
ing spoilt only the floor of one room, ruined all the coachman's sponges,
and made five of the under-servants 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 that
met his eye.
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 par-
ticularity, what was to be expected. Mr. Yates felt is as acutely as might
be supposed. To be a second time disappointed in the same way was an
instance of very severe ill luck ; 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 question. He had known many disagreeable
fathers before, and often been struck with the inconveniences they oc-
casioned, 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 days longer under his roof.
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 dis-
turbed that even a day should be gone by without seeming to advance
MANS FiiSLD PARK 585
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
enquiry from Mrs. Grant to Lady Bertram. It was the first day for many,
many weeks, in which the families had been wholly divided. Four-and-
twenty hours had never passed before, since August began, without bring-
ing 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 breakfast-room, where were mo3t
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 sen-
sations 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 under voice, 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 immedi-
ately, 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 England, at an hour's notice."
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 over entirely at an end (looking sig-
nificantly at his father) . The painter was sent off yesterday, and very little
will remain of the theatre to-morrow. I knew how that would be from the
first. It is early for Bath. You will find nobody there."
"It is about my uncle's usual time."
"When do you think of going?"
"I may, perhaps, get as far as Banbury to-day."
"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 tolerable calmness.
To her he soon turned, repeating much of what he had already said
with only a softened air and stronger expression of regret. But what
586 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 self-imposed. 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 gone he 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 bis
selfish vanity had raised in Maria and Julia Bertram.
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 ^e added to
desertion. Henry Crawford gone, she could even pity her sister.
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 re-
gret ; and his merits honoured with due gradation of feeling, from the sin-
cerity of Edmund's too partial regard, to the unconcern of his mother
speaking entirely by rote. Mrs. Norris began to look about her, and won-
der that his falling in love with Julia had come to nothing ; and could al-
most fear that she had been remiss herself in forwarding it ; but with so
many to care for, how was it possible for even her activity to keep pace
with her wishes?
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 vexa-
tious. In himself he was wearisome, but as the friend of Tom and the
admirer of Julia he became offensive. Sir Thomas had been quite indif-
ferent to Mr. Crawford's going or staying; but his good wishes for Mr.
Yates's having a pleasant journey, as he walked with him to the hall door,
were given with genuine satisfaction. Mr. Yates had stayed to see the
destruction of every theatrical preparation at Mansfield, the removal of
everything appertaining to the play : he left the house in all the soberness
of its general character ; and Sir Thomas hoped, in seeing him out of it, to
be rid of the worst object connected with the scheme, and the last that
must be inevitably reminding him of its existence.
Mrs. Norris contrived to remove one article from his sight that might
have distressed him. The curtain over which she had presided with such
talent and such success, went off with her to her cottage, where she hap-
pened to be particularly in want of green baize.
MANSFIELD PARK S7
Chapter 21
SIR THOMAS'S return made a striking change in the ways of the family,
independent of Lovers' Vows. Under his government, Mansfield was an
altered place. Some members of their society sent away, and the spirits of
many others saddened it was all sameness and gloom compared with the
past a sombre family party rarely enlivened. There was little intercourse
with the Parsonage. Sir Thomas, drawing back from intimacies in general,
was particularly disinclined, at this time, for any engagements but in one
quarter. The Rushworths were the only addition to his own domestic
circle which he could solicit.
Edmund did not wonder that such should be his father's feelings, nor
could he regret anything but the exclusion of the Grants. "But they," he
observed to Fanny, "have a claim. They seem to belong to us; they seem
to be part of ourselves. I could wish my father were more sensible of their
very great attention to my mother and sisters while he was away. I am
afraid they may feel themselves neglected. But the truth is, that my father
hardly knows them. They had not been here a twelvemonth when he left
England. If he knew them better, he would value their society as it de-
serves ; 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 en-
joyment even to my father."
"Do you think so?" said Fanny: "in my opinion, my uncle would not
like any addition. I think he values the very quietness you speak of, and
that the repose of his own family circle is all he wants. And it does not
appear to me that we are more serious than we used to be I mean before
my uncle went abroad. As well as I can recollect it was always much the
same. There was never much laughing in his presence; or, if there is any
difference it is not more I think than such an absence has a tendency to
produce at first. There must be a sort of shyness; but I cannot recollect
that our evenings formerly were ever merry, except when my uncle was in
town. No young people's are, I suppose, when those they look up to are at
home."
"I believe you are right, Fanny," was his reply, after a short considera-
tion. "I believe our evenings are rather returned to what they were, than
assuming a new character. The novelty was in their being lively. Yet, ho\?
strong the impression that only a few weeks will give! I have been feeling
as if we had never lived so before."
"I suppose I am graver than other people," said Fanny. "The evenings
do not appear long to me. I love to hear my uncle talk of the West Indies.
I could listen to him for an hour together. It entertains me more than
many other things have done; but then I am unlike other people, I dare
say."
588 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
"Why should you dare say that?" (smiling). "Do you want to be told
that you are only unlike other people in being more wise and discreet?
But when did you, or anybody, ever get a compliment from me, Fanny?
Go to my father if you want to be complimented. He will satisfy you.
Ask your uncle what he thinks, and you will hear compliments enough :
and though they may be chiefly on your person, you must put up with
it, and trust to his seeing as much beauty of mind in time."
Such language was so new to Fanny that it quite embarrassed her.
"Your uncle thinks you very pretty, dear Fanny and that is the long
and the short of the matter. Anybody but myself would have made some-
thing more of it, and anybody but you would resent that you had not
been thought very pretty before; but the truth is, that your uncle never
did admire you till now and now he does. Your complexion is so im-
proved! and you have gained so much countenance! and your figure
nay, Fanny, do not turn away about it it is but an uncle. If you cannot
bear an uncle's admiration, what is to become of you? You must really
begin to harden yourself to the idea of being worth looking at. You must
try not to mind growing up into a pretty woman."
"Oh! don't talk so, don't talk so," cried Fanny, distressed by more
feelings than he was aware of; but seeing that she was distressed, he had
done with the subject, and only added more seriously
"Your uncle is disposed to be pleased with you in every respect; and I
only wish you would talk to him more. You are one of those who are too
silent in the evening circle."
"But I do talk to him more than I used. I am sure I do. Did not you hear
me ask him about the slave-trade last night?"
"I did and was in hopes the question would be followed up by others.
It would have pleased your uncle to be enquired of farther."
"And I longed to do it but there was such a dead silence! And while
my cousins were sitting by without speaking a word, or seeming at all
interested in the subject, I did not like I thought it would appear as if I
wanted to set myself off at their expense, by showing a curiosity and
pleasure in his information which he must wish his own daughters to feel.'*
"Miss Crawford was very right in what she said of you the other day:
that you seemed almost as fearful of notice and praise as other women
were of neglect. We were talking of you at the Parsonage, and those were
her words. She has great discernment. I know nobody who distinguishes
characters better. For so young a woman it is remarkable ! She certainly
understands you better than you are understood by the greater part of
those who have known you so long; and with regard to some others, I can
perceive, from occasional lively hints, the unguarded expressions of the
moment, that she could define many as accurately did not delicacy forbid
it. I wonder what she thinks of my father ! She must admire him as a fine-
looking man, with most gentlemanlike, dignified, consistent manners, but,
perhaps, having seen him so seldom, his reserve may be a little repulsive.
Could they be much together, I feel sure of their liking each other. He
MANSFIELD PARK 581
would enjoy her liveliness, and she has talents to value his powers. I wish
they met more frequently ! I hope she does not suppose there is any dislike
en his side."
"She must know herself too secure of the regard of all the rest of you,"
said Fanny, with half a sigh, "to have any such apprehension. And Sir
Thomas's wishing just at first to be only with his family is so very natural,
that she can argue nothing from that. After a little while I dare say we
shall be meeting again in the same sort of way, allowing for the difference
of the time of year."
"This is the first October that she has passed in the country since her
infancy. I do not call Tunbridge or Cheltenham the country; and Novem-
ber is a still more serious month, and I can see that Mrs. Grant is very
anxious for her not finding Mansfield dull as winter comes on."
Fanny could have said a great deal, but it was safer to say nothing, and
leave untouched all Miss Crawford's resources, her accomplishments, her
spirits, her importance, her friends, lest it should betray her into any ob-
servations seemingly unhandsome. Miss Crawford's kind opinion of her-
self deserved at least a grateful forbearance, and she began to talk of
something else.
"To-morrow, I think, my uncle dines at Sothertcn and you and Mr.
Bertram too. We shall be quite a small party at home. I hope my uncle
may continue to like Mr. Rushworth."
"That is impossible, Fanny. He must like him less after to-morrow's
visit, for we shall be five hours in his company. I should dread the stupidity
of the day, if there were not a much greater evil to follow the impression
it must leave on Sir Thomas. He cannot much longer deceive himself. I am
sorry for them all, and would give something that Rushworth and Maria
had never met."
In this quarter, indeed, disappointment was impending over Sir
Thomas. Not all his good-will for Mr. Rushworth, not all Mr. Rushworth's
deference for him, could prevent him from soon discerning some part of
the truth that Mr. Rushworth was an inferior young man, as ignorant
in business as in books, with opinions in general unfixed, and without
seeming much aware of it himself.
He had expected a very different son-in-law ; and beginning to feel grave
on Maria's account, tried to understand her feelings. Little observation
there was necessary to tell him -that indifference was the most favourable
state they could be in. Her behaviour to Mr. Rushworth was careless and
cold. She could not, did not like him. Sir Thomas resolved to speak seri-
ously 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 acquaint-
ance, and, on knowing him better, she was repenting.
With solemn kindness Sir Thomas addressed her; told her his fears,
enquired into her wishes, entreated her to be open and sincere, and as-
sured her that every inconvenience should be braved, and the connection
590 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 in-
clination since her forming it. She had the highest esteem for Mr. Rush-
worth's character and disposition, and could not have a doubt of her
happiness with him.
Sir Thomas was satisfied ; too glad to be satisfied, perhaps, to urge the
matter quite so far as his judgment might have dictated to others. It was
an alliance which he could not have relinquished without pain ; and thus he
reasoned. Mr. Rushworth was young enough to improve: Mr. Rushworth
must and would improve in good society ; and if Maria could now speak
so securely of her happiness with him, speaking certainly without the
prejudice, the blindness of love, she ought to be believed. Her feelings,
probably, were not acute ; he had never supposed them to be so ; but her
comforts might not be less on that account ; and if she could dispense with
seeing her husband a leading, shining character, there would certainly be
everything else in her favour. A well-disposed young woman, who did not
marry for love, was in general but the more attached to her own family ;
and the nearness of Sotherton to Mansfield must naturally hold out the
greatest temptation, and would, in, all probability, be a continual supply
of the most amiable and innocent enjoyments. Such and such-like were
the reasonings of Sir Thomas, happy to escape the embarrassing evils of a
rupture, the wonder, the reflections, the reproach that must attend it;
happy to secure a marriage which would bring him such an addition of
respectability and influence, and very happy to think anything of his
daughter's disposition that was most favourable for the purpose.
To her the conference closed as satisfactorily as to him. She was in a
state of mind to be glad that she had secured her fate beyond recall ; that
she had pledged herself anew to Sotherton ; that she was safe from the
possibility of giving Crawford the triumph of governing her actions, and
destroying her prospects ; and retired in proud resolve, determined only to
behave more cautiously to Mr. Rushworth in future, that her father might
not be again suspecting her.
Had Sir Thomas applied to his daughter within the first three or four
days after Henry Crawford's leaving Mansfield, before her feelings were at
all tranquillised, before she had given up every hope of him, or absolutely
resolved on enduring his rival, her answer might have been different ; but
after another three or four days, when there was no return, no letter, no
message, no symptom of a softened heart, no hope of advantage from
separation her mind became cool enough to seek all the comfort that pride
and self-revenge could give.
Henry Crawford had destroyed her happiness, but he should not know
MANSFIELDPARK S9i
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 retire-
ment 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 for-
tune and consequence, bustle and the world, for a wounded spirit. Her
mind was quite determined, and varied not.
To such feelings delay, even the delay of much preparation, would have
been an evil, and Mr. Rushworth could hardly be more impatient for the
marriage than herself. In all the important preparations of the mind she
was complete: being prepared for matrimony by an hatred of home, re-
straint, and tranquillity; by the misery of disappointed affection, and
contempt of the man she was to marry. The rest might wait. The prepara-
tion of new carriages and furniture might wait for London and spring,
when her own taste could have fairer play.
The principals being all agreed in this respect, it soon appeared that a
very few weeks would be sufficient for such arrangements as must precede
the wedding.
Mrs. Rushworth was quite ready to retire, and make way for the for-
tunate young woman whom her dear son had selected ; and very early in
November removed herself, her maid, her footman, and her chariot, with
true dowager propriety, to Bath, there to parade over the wonders of
Sotherton in her evening parties ; enjoying them as thoroughly, perhaps,
in the animation of a card-table as she had ever done on the spot ; and be-
fore 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, ex-
cept that the carriage which conveyed the bride and bridegroom and Julia
from the church door to Sotherton was the same chaise which Mr. Rush-
worth 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 de-
light ; for she had made the match ; she had done everything and no one
would have supposed, from her confident triumph, that she had ever
592 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
heard of conjugal infelicity in her life or could have the smallest insight
into the disposition of the niece who had been brought up under her eye.
The plan of the young couple was to proceed, after a few days, to-
Brighton, and take a house there for some weeks. Every public place was
new to Maria, and Brighton is almost as gay in winter as in summer.
When the novelty of amusement there was over, it would be time for the
wider range of London.
Julia was to go with them to Brighton. Since rivalry between the sisters
had ceased, they had been gradually recovering much of their former good
understanding ; and were at least sufficiently friends to make each of them
exceedingly glad to be with the other at such a time. Some other com-
panion 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 bet-
ter 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 tender-hearted cousin, who wandered about the
house, and thought of them, and felt for them, with a degree of affectionate
regret which they had never done much to deserve!
Chapter 22
FANNY'S consequence increased on the departure of her cousins. Be-
coming, as she then did, the only young woman in the drawing-room, the
only occupier of that interesting division of a family in which she had
hitherto held so humble a third, it was impossible for her not to be more
looked at, more thought of and attended to, than she had ever been be-
fore; and "Where is Fanny?" became no uncommon question even with-
out her being wanted for any one's convenience.
Not only at home did her value increase, but at the Parsonage too. In
that house which she had hardly entered twice a year since Mr, Norris's
death, she became a welcome, an invited guest, and in the gloom and dirt
of a November day, most acceptable to Mary Crawford. Her visits there,
beginning by chance, were continued by solicitation. Mrs. Grant, really
eager to get any change for her sister, could, by the easiest self-deceit,
persuade herself that she was doing the kindest thing by Fanny, and
giving her the most important opportunities of improvement in pressing
her frequent calls.
Fanny having been sent into the village on some errand by her Aunt
Norris, was overtaken by a heavy shower close to the Parsonage; and be-
ing descried from one of the windows endeavouring to find shelter under
the branches and lingering leaves of an oak just beyond their premises,
MANSFIELDPARK 593
was forced, though not without some modest reluctance on her part, to
come in. A civil servant she had withstood ; but when Dr. Grant himself
went out with an umbrella, there was nothing to be done but to be very
much ashamed, and to get into the house as fast as possible ; and to poor
Miss Crawford, who had just been contemplating the dismal rain in a very
desponding state of mind, sighing over the ruin of all her plan of exercise
for that morning, and of every chance of seeing a single creature beyond
themselves for the next twenty-four hours, the sound of a little bustle at
the front door, and the sight of Miss Price dripping with wet in the
vestibule, was delightful. The value of an event on a wet day in the coun-
try was most forcibly brought before her. She was all alive again directly,
and among the most active in being useful to Fanny, in detecting her to
be wetter than she would at first allow, and providing her with dry clothes ;
and Fanny, after being obliged to submit to all this attention, and to being
assisted and waited on by mistresses and maids, being also obliged, on
returning downstairs, to be fixed in their drawing-room for an hour while
the rain continued, the blessing of something freih to see and think of was
thus extended to Miss Crawford, and might carry on her spirits to the
period of dressing and dinner.
The two sisters were so kind to her, and so pleasant, that Fanny might
have enjoyed her visit could she have believed herself not in the way, and
could she have foreseen that the weather would certainly clear at the end
of the hour, and save her from the shame of having Dr. Grant's carriage
and horses out to take her home, with which she was threatened. As to
anxiety for any alarm that her absence in such weather might occasion at
home, she had nothing to suffer on that score; for as her being out was
known only to her two aunts, she was perfectly aware that none would be
felt, and that in whatever cottage Aunt Norris might choose to establish
her during the rain, her being in such a 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 acknowledg-
ment 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 cir-
cumstance. She had scarcely ever been at the Parsonage since the instru-
ment's arrival, there had been no reason that she should; but Miss Craw-
ford, calling to mind an early expressed wish on the subject, was concerned
at her own neglect; and "Shall I play to you now?" and "What will you
have?" were questions immediately following with the readiest good
humour.
She played accordingly ; happy to have a new listener, and a listener
who seemed so much obliged, so full of wonder at the performance, and
who showed 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.
594 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
"Another quarter of an hour," said Miss Crawford, "and we shall see
how it will be. Do not run away the first moment of its holding up. Those
clouds look alarming."
"But they are passed over," said Fanny. "I have been watching them.
This weather is all from the south."
"South or north, I know a black cloud when I see it ; and you must not
set forward while it is so threatening. And besides I want to play some-
thing more to you a very pretty piece and your cousin Edmund's
prime favourite. You must stay and hear your cousin's favourite."
Fanny felt that she must ; and though she had not waited for that sen-
tence 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 what-
ever was liked by him, she was more sincerely impatient to go away at the
conclusion of it than she had been before ; and on this being evident, she
was so kindly asked to call again, to take them in her walk whenever
she could, to come and hear more of the harp, that she felt it necessary to
be done, if no objection arose at home.
Such was the origin of the sort of intimacy which took place between
them within the first fortnight after the Miss Bertrams' going away an
intimacy resulting principally from Miss Crawford's desire of something
new, and which had little reality in Fanny's feelings. Fanny went to her
every two or three days : it seemed a kind of fascination : she could not be
easy without going, and yet it was without loving her, without ever think-
ing like her, without any sense of obligation for being sought after now
when nobody else was to be had ; and deriving no higher pleasure from her
conversation than occasional amusement, and that often at the expense
of her judgment, when it was raised by pleasantry on people or subjects
which she wished to be respected. She went, however, and they sauntered
about together many an half-hour in Mrs. Grant's shrubbery, the weather
being unusually mild for the time of year ; and venturing sometimes even
to sit down on one of the benches now comparatively unsheltered, remain-
ing 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 shrub-
bery I am more struck with its growth and beauty. Three years ago this
was nothing but a rough hedgerow along the upper side of the field, never
thought of as anything or capable of becoming anything; and now it is
converted into a walk, and it would be difficult to say whether most
valuable as a convenience or an ornament ; and perhaps, in another three
years we may be forgetting almost forgetting what it was before. How
MANSFIELDPARK 595
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 in-
equalities of memory, than in any other of our intelligences. The memory
is sometimes so retentive, so serviceable, so obedient: at others, so be-
wildered and so weak; and at others again, so tyrannic, so beyond control!
We are, to be sure, a miracle every way; but our powers of recollecting
and of forgetting do seem peculiarly past finding out."
Miss Crawford, untouched and inattentive, had nothing to say; and
Fanny, perceiving it, brought back her own mind to what she thought
must interest.
"It may seem impertinent in me to praise, but I must admire the taste
Mrs. Grant has shown in all this. There is such a quiet simplicity in the
plan of the walk! Not too much attempted! "
"Yes," replied Miss Crawford, carelessly, "it does very well for a place
of this sort. One does not think of extent here; and between ourselves, till
I came to Mansfield, I had not imagined a country parson ever aspired to a
shrubbery, or anything of the kind."
"I am so glad to see the evergreens thrive! " said Fanny, in reply. "My
uncle's gardener always says the soil here is better than his own, and so
it appears from the growth of the laurels and evergreens in general. The
evergreen! How beautiful, how welcome, how wonderful the evergreen!
When one thinks of it, how astonishing a variety of nature! In some
countries we know the tree that sheds its leaf is the variety, but that does
not make it less amazing, that the same soil and the same sun should
nurture plants differing in the first rule and law of their existence. You
will think me rhapsodising; but when I am out of doors, especially when
I am sitting out of doors, I am very apt to get into this sort of wondering
strain. One cannot fix one's eyes on the commonest natural production
without finding food for a rambling fancy."
"To say the truth," replied Miss Crawford, "I am something like the
famous Doge at the court of Louis 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 be-
lieved them. I have now been here nearly five months; and, moreover,
the quietest five months I ever passed."
"Too quiet for you, I believe."
"I should have thought so theoretically myself, but," and her eyes
brightened as she spoke, "take it all and all, I never spent so happy a
summer. But then," with a more thoughtful air and lowered voice, "there
is no saying what it may lead to."
Fanny's heart beat quick, and she felt quite unequal to surmising or
596 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
soliciting anything more. Miss Crawford, however, with renewed anima-
tion, soon went on
"I am conscious of being far better reconciled to a country residence
than I had ever expected to be. I can even suppose it pleasant to spend
half the year in the country, under certain circumstances, very pleasant.
An elegant, moderate-sized house in the centre of family connections;
continual engagements among them ; commanding the first society in the
neighbourhood ; looked-up to, perhaps, as leading it even more than those
of larger fortune, and turning from the cheerful round of such amusements
to nothing worse than a tete-a-tete with the person one feels most agree-
able 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, bril-
liant, happy hours. I expect we shall be all very much at Sotherton another
year. Such a match as Miss Bertram has made is a public blessing ; for the
first pleasures of Mr. Rushworth's wife must be to fill her house, and give
the best balls in the country."
Fanny was silent, and Miss Crawford relapsed into thoughtfulness, till
suddenly looking up at the end of a few minutes, she exclaimed, "Ah,
here he is." It was not Mr. Rushworth, however, but Edmund, who then
appeared walking towards them with Mrs. Grant. "My sister and Mr.
Bertram. I am so glad your eldest cousin is gone, that he may be Mr.
Bertram again. There is something in the sound of Mr. Edmund Bertram
so formal, so pitiful, so younger-brother-like, that I detest it."
"How differently we feel!" cried Fanny. "To me, the sound of Mr.
Bertram is so cold and nothing-meaning, so entirely without warmth or
character! It just stands for a gentleman, and that's all. But there is
nobleness in the name of Edmund. It is a name of heroism and renown ;
of kings, princes, and knights; and seems to breathe the spirit of chivalry
and warm affections."
"I grant you the name is good in itself, and Lord Edmund or Sir
Edmund sound delightfully; but sink it under the chill, the annihilation
of a Mr. and Mr. Edmund is not more than Mr. John or Mr. Thomas.
Well, shall we join and disappoint them of half their lecture upon sitting
down out of doors at this time of year, by being up before they can begin?"
Edmund met them with particular pleasure. It was the first time of his
seeing them together since the beginning of that better acquaintance
which he had been hearing of with great satisfaction. A friendship be-
tween two so very dear to him was exactly what he could have wished :
and to the credit of the lover's understanding, be it stated, that he did not
by any means consider Fanny as the only, or even as the greater gainer
by such a friendship.
"Well," said Miss Crawford, "and do you not scold us for our impru-
M A N S F I E L D P A R K 597
dence? What do you think we have been sitting down for but to be talked
to about it, and entreated and supplicated never to do so again?"
"Perhaps I might have scolded," said Edmund, "if either of you had
been sitting down alone; but while you do wrong together, I can over-
look a great deal."
"They cannot have been sitting long," cried Mrs. Grant, "for when I
went up for my shawl I saw them from the staircase window, and then
they were walking."
"And really," added Edmund, "the day is so mild, that your sitting
down for a few minutes can be hardly thought imprudent. Our weather
must not always be judged by the calendar. We may sometimes take
greater liberties in November than in May."
"Upon my word," cried Miss Crawford, "you are two of the most dis-
appointing 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 manreuvre
against common sense, that a woman could be plagued with. I had very
little hope of him from the first ; but you, Mrs. Grant, my sister, my own
sister, I think I had a right to alarm you a little."
"Do not flatter yourself, my dearest Mary. You have not the smallest
chance of moving me. I have my alarms, but they are quite in a different
quarter; and if I could have altered the weather, you would have had a
good sharp east wind blowing on you the whole time for here are some
of my plants which Robert will leave out because the nights are so mild,
and I know the end of it will be, that we shall have a sudden change of
weather, a hard frost setting in all at once, taking everybody (at least
Robert) by surprise, and I shall lose every one; and what is worse, cook
has just been telling me that the turkey, which I particularly wished not
to be dressed till Sunday, because I know how much more Dr. Grant
would enjoy it on Sunday after the fatigues of the day, will not keep
beyond to-morrow. These are something like grievances, and make me
think the weather most unseasonably close."
"The sweets of housekeeping in a country village! " said Miss Crawford,
archly. "Commend me to the nurseryman and the poulterer."
"My dear child, commend Dr. Grant to the deanery of Westminster or
St. Paul's, and I should be as glad of your nurseryman and poulterer as
you could be. But we have no such people in Mansfield. What would you
have me do?"
"Oh! you can do nothing but what you do already: be plagued very
often, and never lose your temper."
"Thank you; but there is no escaping these little vexations, Mary, live
where we may ; and when you are settled in town and I come to see you,
I dare say I shall find you with yours, in spite of the nurseryman and the
poulterer or perhaps on their very account. Their remoteness and un-
598 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
punctuality, or their exorbitant charges and frauds, will be drawing forth
bitter lamentations."
"I mean to be too rich to lament or to feel anything of the sort. A large
income is the best recipe for happiness I ever heard of. It certainly may
secure all the myrtle and turkey part of it."
"You intend to be very rich?" said Edmund, with a look which, to
Fanny's eye, had a great deal of serious meaning.
"To be sure. Do not you? Do not we all?"
"I cannot intend anything which it must be so completely beyond my
power to command. Miss Crawford may choose her degree of wealth. She
has only to fix on her number of thousands a year, and there can be no
doubt of their coming. My intentions are only not to be poor."
"By moderation and economy, and bringing down your wants to your
income, and all that. I understand you and a very proper plan it is for
a person at your time of life, with such limited means and indifferent
connections. What can you want but a decent maintenance? You have not
much time before you ; and your relations are in no situation to do any-
thing for you, or to mortify you by the contrast of their own wealth and
consequence. Be honest and poor, by all means but I shall not envy
you ; I do not much think I shall even respect you. I have a much greater
respect for those that are honest and rich."
"Your degree of respect for honesty, rich or poor, is precisely what I
have no manner of concern with. I do not mean to be poor. Poverty is
exactly what I have determined against. Honesty, in the something be-
tween, in the middle state of worldly circumstances, is all that I am
anxious for your not looking down on."
"But I do look down upon it, if it might have been higher. I must look
down upon anything contented with obscurity when it might rise to dis-
tinction."
"But how may it rise? How may my honesty at least rise to any dis-
tinction?"
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 parlia-
ment, 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 Craw-
ford," he added, in a more serious tone, "there are distinctions which I
should be miserable if I thought myself without any chance absolutely
without chance or possibility of obtaining but they are of a different
character."
A look of consciousness, as he spoke, and what seemed a consciousness
of manner on Miss Crawford's side as she made some laughing answer,
was sorrowful food for Fanny's observation; and finding herself quite
MANSFIELDPARK 500
unable to attend as she ought to Mrs. Grant, by whose side she was now
following the others, she had nearly resolved on going home immediately,
and only waited for courage to say so, when the sound of the great clock
at Mansfield Park, striking three, made her feel that she had really been
much longer absent than usual, and brought the previous self-enquiry,
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
enquiring for her, and that he had walked down to the Parsonage on pur-
pose to bring her back.
Fanny's hurry increased ; and without in the least expecting Edmund's
attendance, she would have hastened away alone; but the general pace
was quickened, and they all accompanied her into the house through
which it was necessary to pass. Dr. Grant was in the vestibule, and as they
stopped 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 i.o 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 sup-
pose it would be in her power," was looking at Edmund for his opinon 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 auda-
cious independence, it was soon settled, that if nothing were heard to the
contrary, Mrs. Grant might expect her.
"And you know what your dinner will be," said Mrs. Grant, smiling
"the turkey, and I assure you a very fine one; for, my dear," turning to
her husband, "cook insists upon the turkey's being dressed to-morrow."
"Very well, very well," cried Dr. Grant, "all the better; I am glad to
hear you have anything so good in the house. But Miss Price and Mr.
Edmund Bertram, I dare say, would take their chance. We none of us
want to hear the bill of fare. A friendly meeting, and not a fine dinner,
is all we have in view. A turkey, or a goose, or a leg of mutton, or what-
ever you and your cook choose to give us."
The two cousins walked home together; and, except in the immediate
discussion of this engagement, which Edmund spoke of with the warm-
est satisfaction, as so particularly desirable for her in the intimacy which
he saw with so much pleasure established, it was a silent walk; for having
finished that subject, he grew thoughtful and indisposed for any other.
600 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
Chapter 23
a Bux why should Mrs. Grant ask Fanny?" said Lady Bertram. "How
came she to think of asking Fanny? Fanny never dines there, you know,
in this sort of way. I cannot spare her, and I am sure she does not want
to go. Fanny, you do not want to go, do you?"
"If you put such a question to her," cried Edmund, preventing his
cousin's speaking, "Fanny will immediately say No; but I am sure, my
dear mother, she would like to go ; and I can see no reason why she should
not."
"I cannot imagine why Mrs. Grant should think of asking her? She
never did before. She used to ask your sisters now and then, but she
never asked Fanny."
"If you cannot do without me, ma'am " said Fanny, in a self-
denying tone.
"But my mother will have my father with her all the evening."
"To be sure, so I shall."
"Suppose you take my father's opinion, ma'am."
"That's well thought of. So I will, Edmund. I will ask Sir Thomas, as
soon as he comes in, whether I can do without her."
"As you please, ma'am, on that head; but I meant my father's opinion
as to the propriety of the invitation's being accepted or not ; and I think
he will consider it a right thing by Mrs. Grant, as well as by Fanny, that
being the first invitation it should be accepted."
"I do not know. We will ask him. But he will be very much surprised
that Mrs. Grant should ask Fanny at all."
There was nothing more to be said, or that could be said, to any pur-
pose, till Sir Thomas were present; but the subject involving, as it did, her
own evening's comfort for the morrow, was so much uppermost in Lady
Bertram's mind, that half an hour afterwards, on his looking in for a
minute in his way from his plantation to his dressing-room, she called him
back again, when he had almost closed the door, with "Sir Thomas, stop
a moment I have something to say to you."
Her tone of calm languor, for she never took the trouble of raising her
voice, was always heard and attended to; and Sir Thomas came back.
Her story began ; and Fanny immediately slipped out of the room ; for to
her herself the subject of any discussion with her uncle was more than her
nerves could bear. She was anxious, she knew more anxious perhaps
than she ought to be for what was it after all whether she went or
stayed? 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 submis-
sive and indifferent. Her cause, meanwhile, went on well. It began, on
Lady Bertram's part, with "I have something to tell you that will sur-
prise you. Mrs. Grant has asked Fanny to dinner."
'ViANSFIELDPARK 601
"Well," said Sir Thomas, as if waiting more to accomplish the surprise.
"Edmund wants her to go. But how can I spare her?"
"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 she had only to add, "So strange!
for Mrs. Grant never used to ask her."
"But is it not very natural," observed Edmund, "that Mrs. Grant
should wish to procure so agreeable a visitor for her sister?"
"Nothing can be more natural," said Sir Thomas, after a short delibera-
tion; "nor, were there no sister in the case, could anything, in my opinion,
be more natural. Mrs. Grant's showing 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 reason why she should be denied
the indulgence."
"But can I do without her, Sir Thomas?"
"Indeed I think you may."
"She always makes tea, you know, when my sister is not here."
"Your sister, perhaps, may be prevailed on to spend the day with us,
and I shall certainly be at home."
"Very well, then, Fanny may go, Edmund."
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 hesi-
tation on your uncle's side. He had but one opinion. You are to go."
"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 feel-
ing, "And yet why should I be glad? for am I not certain of seeing or
hearing something there to pain me?"
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.
Nor r is, 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 pleasure, both present and future, as much as
possible.
"Upon my word, Fanny, you are in high luck to meet with such atten-
tion and indulgence ! You ought to be very much obliged to Mrs. Grant
602 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 cousin Julia had been at home, you
would not have been asked at all."
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. / 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 dining table 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 dinner table 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. Five
only five to be sitting round that table. However, you will have dinner
enough on it for ten, I dare say."
Mrs. Norris fetched breath, and went on again.
"The nonsense and folly of people's stepping out of their rank and try-
ing 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 cousins, as 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 tak-
ing place of her. And as to coming away at night, you are to stay just as
long as Edmund chooses. Leave him to settle that."
"Yes, ma'am, I should not think of anything else."
"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 to-night, and, therefore, the carriage will not be out on my
MANSFIELDPARK 603
account ; so you must make up your mind to what may happen, and take
your things accordingly."
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.
"My dear Sir Thomas! " cried Mrs. Norris, red with anger, "Fanny can
walk."
"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 stayed 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 he was hoarse on Thursday night."
But this could not impose on Fanny. She felt that the carriage was for
herself alone; and her uncle's consideration of her, coming immediately
after such representations from her aunt, cost her some tears of gratitude
when she was alone.
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 drawing-room, Sir Thomas saw
them off in as good time as his own correctly punctual habits required.
"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
winter. I hope you do not think me too fine."
"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
something the same?"
In approaching the Parsonage they passed close by the stable-yard and
coach-house.
"Hey-day!" said Edmund, "here's company, here's a carriage! who
have they got to meet us?" And letting down the side-glass 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 glad to see him."
There was no occasion, there was no time for Fanny to say how very
6o4 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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
aweful ceremony of walking into the drawing-room.
In the drawing-room 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, showed 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 un-
attended 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 part there 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 every-
thing 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 gentle-
man, however, with any appearance of interest in a scheme for extending
his sta3 r 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.
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 appar-
ently 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 re-assembled in the draw-
ing-room, 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 tea-table, he began talking of them with more particu-
larity to his other sister. With a significant smile, which made Fanny
quite hate him, he said, "So Rushworth and his fair bride are at Brighton,
I understand; happy man!"
"Yes, they have been there about a fortnight, Miss Price, have they
not? And Julia is wi*h them."
"And Mr. Yates, I presume is not far off."
"Mr. Yates! Oh! we hear nothing of Mr. Yates. I do not imagine he
M A N S F I E L D F t R K 605
figures much in the letters to Mansfield Paik; do you, Miss Price? I think
my friend Julia knows better than to entertain her father with Mr. Yates."
"Poor Rushworth and his twp-and-forty speeches!" continued Craw-
ford. "Nobody can ever forget them. Poor fellow! I see him now his toil
and his despair. Well, I am much mistaken if his lovely Maria will ever
want him to make two-and-forty speeches to her ; " adding, with a momen-
tary 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 esti-
mate your kindness, but I may venture to say that it had honour frorr
all the rest of the party."
Fanny coloured, and said nothing.
"It is as a dream, a pleasant dream!" Le 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 never was happier."
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! what a corrupted mind!"
"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 events if 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 Atlantic at that
season."
He seemed determined to be answered ; and Fanny, averting her face,
said with a firmer tone than usual, "As far as / 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 anyone ; 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
606 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
candid result of conviction, "I believe you are right. It was more pleasant
than prudent. We were getting too noisy." And then turning the con-
versation, he would have engaged her on some other subject, but her
answers were so shy and reluctant that he could not advance in any.
Miss Crawford, who had been repeatedly eyeing Dr. Grant and Ed-
mund, now observed: "Those gentlemen must have some very interesting
point to discuss."
"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 dining-parlour. I am
glad to heart 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 his for menus plaisirs; and a sermon at Christmas
and Easter, I suppose, will be the sum total of sacrifice."
His sister tried to laugh off her feelings by saying, "Nothing amuses
me more than the easy manner with which everybody settles the abun-
dance of those who have a great deal less than ourselves. 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. Birth-
right 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 and twenty
he will have seven hundred a year, and nothing to do for it."
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
two gentlemen shortly afterwards joined them.
"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 do not to
lose a word; or only looking off just to note down any sentence pre-
eminently beautiful? We will provide ourselves with tablets and a pencil.
When will it be? You must preach at Mansfield, you know, that Sir
Thomas and Lady Bertram may hear you."
"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."
"Will he not feel this?" thought Fanny. "No, he can feel nothing as he
ought."
The party being now all united, and the chief talkers attracting each
other, she remained in tranquillity ; and as a whist table was formed after
MANSFIELDPARK 607
tea formed really for the amusement of Dr. Grant, by his attentive wife,
though it was not to be supposed so and Miss Crawford took her harp,
she had nothing to do but to listen ; and her tranquillity remained undis-
turbed 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
amused her friend.
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 feel-
ings. 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 his affections, hers should do her no harm.
Chapter 24
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 think it is?"
"To walk and ride with me, to be sure."
"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 plain-
6o8 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
looking 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 im-
proved! She must be grown two inches, at least, since October."
"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 pretty not strikingly
pretty but '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 any-
thing 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 under-
stand 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 deter-
mined 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! I 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 endeavouring to recommend yourself,
for we are a great deal together."
MANSFIELD PARK. 609
And without attempting any further remonstrance, she left Fanny tc
her fate, a fate which, had not Fanny's heart been guarded in a way unsus-
pected by Miss Crawford, might have been a little harder than she de-
served ; 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 dis-esteem of him could give to the
peace of mind he was attacking, his continued attentions continued, but
not obtrusive, and adapting themselves more and more to the gentleness
and delicacy of her character obliged 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 impossible not to be civil to him in return.
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, writ-
ten 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 first 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, how-
ever, 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,
6io THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
for she was elevated beyond the common timidity of her mind by the flow
of her love for William.
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 corre-
spondent 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 dinner visit, 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 tearfulness 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 showed 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 his friend.
It was long before Fanny could recover from the agitated 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, for-
warded by an affection on his side as warm as her own, and much less
encumbered by refinement or self-distrust. 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 tete-a-tete, which Sir Thomas could not but observe with com-
placency, even before Edmund had pointed it out to him.
Excepting the moments of peculiar delight, which any marked or un-
looked-for 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 an((
MANSFIELDPARK 611
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 (per-
haps 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 fra-
ternal. 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 connections can supply; and it must be by a long
and unnatural estrangement, by a divorce which no subsequent connection
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 only in its increase.
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 warm-hearted, 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 Com-
missioner'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 must
supply.
It was a picture which Henry Crawford had moral taste enough to
value. Fanny's attractions increased increased twofold; for the sensi-
bility 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 stay became indefinite.
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
612 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
them was to understand the reciter, to know the young man by his his-
tories; and he listened to his clear, simple, spirited details with full satis-
faction, 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 Medi-
terranean again; had been often taken on shore by the favour of his cap-
tain, 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
second-hand 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 me! how disagreeable! I
wonder anybody can ever go to sea."
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 him-
self and working his way to fortune and consequence with so much self-
respect 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 enquiry 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 any-
thing, 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 high-fed hunter in an English fox-chase; 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
MANSFIELD PARK 613
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 Northamptonshire.
Chapter 25
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 neigh-
bourly 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 estab-
lishment that could be among the apparent possibilities of anyone most
dear to him, and disdaining even as a littleness the being quick -sighted
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 more willing assent to
invitations on that account.
His readiness, however, in agi eeing 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 good
breeding and good will 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 anyone in the habit of such
idle observations would have thought that Mr. Crawford was the admirer
of Fanny Price.
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 whist table 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
6i 4 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
own choice between the games, and being required either to draw a card
for whist or not. She hesitated. Luckily Sir Thomas was at hand.
"What shall I do, Sir Thomas? Whist and speculation; which will
amuse me most?"
Sir Thomas, after a moment's thought, recommended speculation. He
was a whist player himself, and perhaps might feel that it would not
much amuse him to have her for a partner.
"Very well," was her ladyship's contented answer; "then speculation,
if you please, Mrs. Grant. I know nothing about it, but Fanny must teach
me."
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 every-
body'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 pre-
eminent 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 comfortable contrast to the steady sobriety and orderly silence of
the other.
Twice had Sir Thomas enquired 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 was able, at the end of the first rubber, to go to her and pay her
compliments.
"I hope your ladyship is pleased with the game."
"Oh dear, yes! Very entertaining, indeed. A very odd game. I do not
know what it is all about. I am never to see my cards; and Mr. Crawford
does all the rest."
"Bertram," said Crawford, some time afterwards, taking the oppor-
tunity of a little languor in the game, "I have never told you what hap-
pened to me yesterday in my ride home." They had been hunting together,
MANSFIELDPARK 613
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 yew-trees, because I
ran never bear to ask ; but I have not told you that, with my usual luck
for I never do wrong without gaining by it I 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 one to be presumed the
Parsonage within a stone's throw of the said knoll and church. I found
myself, in short, in Thornton Lacey."
"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 Lacey for such it certainly
was."
"You enquired, then?"
"No, I never enquire. 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 negotiation for William Price's knave
increased.
"Well," continued Edmund, "and how did you like what you saw?"
"Very much, indeed. You are a lucky fellow. There will be work for
five summers at least before the place is livable."
"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
south-east. 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
6 T 6 TH WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
lane I stood in to the north-east, 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 stream something 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 half-look 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 Crawford began again about
Thornton Lacey.
"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 gentle-
man'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 parsonage house ; above the expendi-
ture 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, mansion-
like 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 gentle-
man'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 by, 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 judi-
cious improvement, the residence of a man of education, taste, modern
MANSFIELDPARK 617
manners, good connections. 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 land-
holder of the parish, by every creature travelling the road ; especially as
there is no real squire's house to dispute the point ; a 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 deter-
mined. 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 cheat herself as she wishes!"
"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 .it 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
went, and there we came home home again; and what was done there
is not to be told!"
Fanny's eyes were turned on Crawford for a moment with an expression
more than grave even 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 good humour, "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
6i8 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 Beachy 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 connections of our family as his
own."
"I would rather find him private secretary to the First Lord than any-
thing else," was William's only answer, in an under voice, not meant to
reach far, and the subject dropped.
As yet Sir Thomas had seen nothing to remark in Mr. Crawford's be-
haviour; but when the whist table 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 looker-on at the other, he found his niece the object of
attentions, or rather of professions, of a somewhat pointed character.
Henry Crawford was in the first glow of another scheme about Thorn-
ton 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 hunting season (as he was then telling her), though that considera-
tion 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 hi?
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 recep-
tion 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 Nor-
thamptonshire. Finding by whom he was observed, Henry Crawford ad-
dressed himself on the same subject to Sir Thomas, in a more everyday
tone, but still with feeling.
"I want to be your neighbour, Sir Thomas, as you have, perhaps, heard
MANSFIELDPARK 619
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, am I saying too much?"
Edmund, on this appeal, had first to hear what was going on; but, on
understanding the question, was at no loss for an answer.
"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 him-
self 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
*very 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 well-wisher and friend, he does very
little either for their good or his own."
Mr. Crawford bowed his acquiescence.
"I repeat again," added Sir Thomas, "that Thornton Lacey is the
only house in the neighbourhood in which I should not be happy to wait
on Mr. Crawford as occupier."
Mr. Crawford bowed his thanks.
"Sir Thomas/' said Edmund, "undoubtedly understands the duty of
a parish priest. We must hope his son may prove that he knows it too."
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 com-
pletely 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 agree-
able 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
620 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
man of independent fortune, was considering Sir Thomas, with decided
ill-will, 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
change of place and neighbour.
The chief of the party were now collected irregularly round the fire, and
waiting the final break-up. William and Fanny were the most detached.
They remained together at the otherwise deserted card-table, 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 ; him-
self, 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."
"But you do not wish yourself at Portsmouth, William."
"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 com-
mission. One might as well be nothing as a midshipman. One is nothing,
indeed. You remember the Gregorys; they are grown up amazing fine
girls, but they will hardly speak to me, because Lucy is courted by a
lieutenant."
"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 reflec-
tion 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 co 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, and 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 for
any nonsense of this kind."
"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 it necessary to talk of something
else.
MANSFIELDPARK 621
"Are you fond of dancing, Fanny?"
"Yes, very; only I am soon tired."
"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 hand-organ 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 an opportunity of doing ere
long."
"I have had the pleasure of seeing your sister dance, Mr. Price," said
Henry Crawford, leaning forward, "and will engage to answer every
enquiry 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 who does not like to have
Miss Price spoken of."
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 remembered anything about her.
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. Norris.
"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
622 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 to be indebted to his more prominent attention.
Chapter 26
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 dance at home
would be more eligible; and if "
"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 knew you would. If they were at home to grace the ball, a
ball you would have this very Christmas. Thank vour uncle, William,
thank your uncle!"
"My daughters," replied Sir Thomas, gravely interposing, "have theii
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 others of amusement."
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 good humour 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
MANSFIELDPARK 623
desire. Edmund's feelings were for the other two. His father had never
conferred a favour or shown a kindness more to his satisfaction.
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 could not imagine there would be any."
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, as by far the best day for the purpose.
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 life ordination and matrimonv events of
624 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 thost
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 resolved (almost 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 pref-
erence 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 and employment on his side as conscience must
forbid.
The issue of all depended on one question. Did she love him well enough
to forgo 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 checkered 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 "yes" in all this?
With such matters to ponder over, and arrange, and rearrange, Edmund
MANSFIELDPARK 625
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 receiv-
ing further 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 morning till
night.
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 dis-
cussion ; and the privacy of such a discussion was a most important part
of it to Fanny, being more than half ashamed 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 cose, without disturbing Dr. and Mrs. Grant, who
were together in the drawing-room. It was just the plan to suit Fanny ; and
with a great deal of gratitude on her side for such ready and kind atten-
tion, 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 trinket-
box placed before her, and being requested to choose 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 anc*
626 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
to keep for her sake, saying everything she could think of to obviate the
scruples which were making Fanny start back at first with a look of
horror at the proposal.
"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 affec-
tionate 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 con-
sent, proceeded to make the selection. She looked and looked, longing to
knew which might be least valuable; and was determined in her choice
at Idst, 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 choosing what Miss Craw-
ford 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 ex-
ceedingly 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 J 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 your mind without bringing the
brother too."
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 em-
barrassment 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?"
MANSFIELDPARK 62?
With the deepest blushes Fanny protested against such a thought.
"Well, then," replied Miss Crawford more seriously, but without at all
believing her, "to convince me that you suspect no trick, and are as un-
suspicious 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 im-
possible for me to value, or for him to remember half. And as for this neck-
lace, I do not suppose I have worn it six times; it is very pretty, but 1
never think of it ; and though you would be most heartily welcome to any
other in my trinket-box, 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 words."
Fanny dared not make any further 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
necklace? She could not be convinced that he had not, for Miss Crawford,
complaisant as a sister, was careless as a woman and a friend.
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
treading that path before.
Chapter 27
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 open-
ing the door, what was her surprise to find her cousin Edmund there
writing at the table! Such a sight having never occurred before, was al-
most as wonderful as it was welcome.
" 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 trifle: a chain for William's
cross. You ought to have had it a week ago, but there has been a delay
628 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 oldest
friends.' 7
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 a
moment, pray stop ! "
He turned back.
"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 be-
yond "
"If that is all you have to say, Fanny " smiling, and turning away
again.
"No, no, it is not. I want to consult you."
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 is."
"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 to-
morrow; 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 complete, so unalloyed. It is without
a drawback."
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,
"But what is it that you want to consult me about?"
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
MANSFIELDPARK 629
and then a few half sentences of praise ; but when he did awake and under-
stand, he was very decided in opposing what she wished.
"Return the necklace! No, my dear Fanny, upon no account. It would
be mortifying her severely. There can hardly be a more unpleasant sensa-
tion 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 she has shown herself so deserv-
ing of?"
"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
wanted?"
"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 ball-room."
"No, it is not handsomer, not at a 1 .! handsomer in its way, and, for my
purpose, not half so fit. The chain will agree with William's cross beyond
all comparison better than the necklace."
"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 been not 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. \Vear the necklace, as you are engaged to do, to-morrow 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 observ-
ing 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 reason-
able 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
dearest objects I have on earth."
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 long-standing
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 be oh, how different
630 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 decep-
tion, Fanny could not subdue her agitation ; and the dejection which fol-
lowed could only be relieved by the influence of fervent prayers for his
happiness.
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 for him by a sound intellect and an
honest heart.
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 self-government, 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 author never 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 hand-writing itself, in-
dependent of anything it may convey, is a blessedness. Never were such
characters cut by any other human being, as Edmund's commonest hand-
writing 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 arrange-
ment 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
usual observances without any apparent want of spirits.
Thursday, predestined to hope and enjoyment, came ; and opened with
more kindness to Fanny than such self-willed, 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 helo trying to
MANSFIELDPARK 631
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 dinner hour, 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 good-humoured, agreeable friend; and, in likening it to going
up with dispatches, was saying at once everything in favour of its happi-
ness 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 intro-
duction to Admiral Crawford might be of service. The Admiral, he be-
lieved, had interest. Upon the whole, it was a very joyous note. Fanny's
spirits lived on it half the morning, deriving some accession of pleasure
from its writer being himself to go away.
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 circum-
stances 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 snipe-shooting;
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
632 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 share in it.
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
to-day!' 7 said she to herself, in a fond indulgence of fancy.
"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 and fagged, Fanny. You have been walking too far."
"No, I have not been out at all."
"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 ; some-
thing unconnected with her was probably amiss. They proceeded upstairs
together, their rooms being on the same floor above.
"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 first two 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 enquiry as to the result.
"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 at I mean not this very week, this very day; to-morrow I leave
home."
Fanny struggled for speech, and said, "I am very sorry that anything
has occurred to distress you. This ought to be a day of pleasure. My uncle
meant it so/'
"Oh yes, yes! and it will be a day of pleasure. It will all end right. I'm
only vexed for a moment. In fact, it is not that I consider the ball as ill-
timed; 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 seem gives
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."
MANSFIELDPARK 633
"The effect of education," said Fanny gently.
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 tainted."
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 not ask advice of me. I am not competent."
"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 aything now, which hereafter you may be sorry for. The
time may come "
The colour rushed into her cheeks as she spoke.
"Dearest Fanny!" cried Edmund, pressing her hand to his lips with
almost as much warmth as if it had been Miss Crawford's, "you an* 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 grati-
tude."
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 anything you wish to say. Do not check
yourself. Tell me whatever you like."
They were now on the second floor, and the appearance of a housemaid
prevented any further 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
634 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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, too such 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 lortune 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 cross those memorials of the two most beloved of her heart, those
dearest tokens so formed for each other by everything real and imaginary
and 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 Craw-
ford 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
about her.
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 Bertram or Mrs. Chapman could do
themselves.
Chapter 28
HER uncle and both her aunts were in the drawing-room 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 remark-
ably 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 very decided
praise.
"Yes," said Lady Bertram, "she looks very well. I sent Chapman to
her."
"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
MANSFIELDPARK 635
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 would she have been if we had not taken her in hand?"
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 soon was 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
drawing-room as long as she could be safe from the notice of her Aunt
Norris, who was entirely taken up 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
of Mrs. Norris? What were the yawns of Lady Bertram?
The gentlemen joined them; and soon after began the sweet expecta-
tion 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 delightful to see the effort
so successfully made.
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 for-
mality 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 occasion-
ally 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 scene, and longing to be with him.
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 loveliness and what might not be the end of it? Her own musings were
636 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
brought to an end on perceiving Mr. Crawford before her, and her
thoughts were put into another channel by his engaging her almost in-
stantly for the two first 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
enquiry, 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 smile she thought there was a smile which 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 ball-room, she found herself
for the first time near Miss Crawford, whose eyes and smiles were immedi-
ately 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, showing 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 ball-room, 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 every-
thing 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
MANSFIELDPARK 637
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
given and 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 ar-
rangement was almost more than she could understand herself.
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 slow-
ness 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 com-
pliment 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
638 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 commendations of Fanny; to her, it was as the occasion offered "Ah!
ma'am, how much we want dear Mrs. Rushworth and Julia to-night ! " 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
card-tables, giving hints to Sir Thomas, and trying to move all the
chaperons to a better part of the room.
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 self-consequence; 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 to-morrow? 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
going for?"
Fanny protested her ignorance as steadily as her embarrassment
allowed.
"Well, then," replied Miss Crawford, laughing, "I must suppose it to be
purely for the pleasure of conveying your brother, and of talking of you
by the way.''
Fanny was confused, but it was the confusion of discontent; while Miss
Crawford wondered she did not smile, and thought her over-anxious, 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
enquiries 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
it was unpleasantly done, that there was indelicacy or ostentation in his
manner ; and sometimes, when he talked of William, he was really not un-
agreeable, and showed 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;
MANSFIELD PARK 639
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 he could find
repose. "I am worn out with civility," said he. "I have been talking inces-
santly 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 looker-on that Si* Thomas had been bringing up no wife for
his younger son.
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 bar-
barous to be happy when Edmund was suffering. Yet some happiness must
and would arise from the very conviction that he did suffer.
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 likewise.
"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
hours. How can you be tired so soon?"
"So soon! my good friend," said Sir Thomas, producing his watch with
all necessary caution; "it is three o'clock, and your sister is not used to
these sort of hours."
"Well, then, Fanny, you shall not get up to-morrow before I go. Sleep
as long as you can, and never mind me."
"Oh! William."
"What! Did she think of being up before you set off?"
"Oh! yes, sir," cried Fanny, rising eagerly from her seat to be nearer her
uncle; "I must get up and breakfast with him. It will be the last time, you
know; the last morning."
"You had better not. He is to have breakfasted and be gone by half-
past nine. Mr. Crawford, I think you call for him at half-past nine?"
Fanny was too urgent, however, and had too many tears in her eyes for
and it ended in a gracious "Well, well ! " which was permission.
640 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
"Yes, half-past nine," said Crawford to William, as the latter was leav-
ing them, "and I shall be punctual for there will be no kind sister to get
up for me! 1 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 to-morrow."
After a short consideration, Sir Thomas asked Crawford to join the
early breakfast party in that house instead of eating alone ; he should him-
self 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. Craw-
ford 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 counter-action which followed.
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 entrance door, 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
jlowly up the principal staircase, pursued by the ceaseless country-dance,
feverish with hopes and fears, soup and negus, sore-footed 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 showing her persuadableness.
Chapter 29
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
breakfast-room 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
MANSFIELDPARK 641
in William's plate, might but divide her feelings with the broken egg-shells
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 cares and selfish solicitudes
unconnected with him.
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 thought everything by William, that was due to
him for a whole fortnight.
It was a heavy, melancholy day. Soon after the second breakfast,
Edmund bade them good-bye 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 good humour 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 tea-things 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 thirty-one; 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 twenty-four 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 drawing-room, and out of
the drawing-room and everywhere. Now it was languor, and all but soli-
tude.
642 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 cheerful-
ness 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
wretched feelings as she had formerly known.
"We miss our two young men," was Sir Thomas's observation on both
the first and second day, as they formed the 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 further. William was kindly commended and his promo-
tion 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 him. This will be the last winter of his belong-
ing to us, as he has done."
"Yes," said Lady Bertram, "but I wish he was not going away. They are
all going away, I think. I wish they would stay at home."
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 good nature 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
arrangements. 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 thinking and I am very glad we took Fanny as we
did, for now the others are away we feel the good of it."
Sir Thomas immediately improved this compliment by adding, "Very
true. We show 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 her,
she is now quite as necessary to us."
"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
MANSFIELDPARK 643
replied, "She will never leave us, I hope, till invited to some other home
that may reasonably promise her greater happiness than she knows here." 1
"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
here ; and besides, I cannot do without her."
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 consider-
ing 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 break-up 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 hall ) , she could not help
thinking of him continually when absent, dwelling on his merits and affec-
tion, and longing again for the almost daily meetings they lately had.
His absence was unnecessarily long. He should not have planned such an
absence ; he should not have left home for a week, when her own depar-
ture 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 speak-
ing of the clergy, and that should not have been. It was ill-bred ; it was
wrong. She wished such words unsaid with all her heart.
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 before if she had been sorry for
what she said, and feared its too strong effect on him she now felt and
feared it all tenfold more. She had, moreover, to contend with one dis-
agreeable emotion entirely new to her jealousy. His friend Mr. Owen had
sisters; he might find them attractive. But at any rate his staying away at
644 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
a time when, according to all preceding plans, she was to remove to Lon-
don, 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 be-
fore, for the chance of hearing a little in addition, for the sake of at least
hearing his name.
The first half hour was lost, for Fanny and Lady Bertram were to-
gether, 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
sufferer. You must miss him. Does his staying longer surprise you?"
"I do not know," Fanny said 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 did not, the only time he went to see Mr. Owen before."
"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 language a something between compliments and and
love to 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 do so. A few days longer, or some days longer; I am not quite sure
which."
"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 of everything and
everybody. How many Miss Owens are there?"
"Three grown up."
"Are they musical?"
MANSFIELDPARK 645
"I do not at all know. I never heard."
"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 ladies about 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 all the better for not being
taught; or something like it."
"I know nothing of the Miss Owens," said Fanny calmly.
"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. Grant now the time draws near. She
does not like my going."
Fanny felt obliged to speak. "You cannot doubt your being missed by
many," said she. "You will be very much missed."
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 see me. I shall not be in any doubtful,
or distant, or unapproachable region."
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
again.
"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 right, for it would be a very pretty establish-
ment 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's speak. But honestly now, do not you rather
expect it than otherwise?"
"No," said Fanny stoutly, "I do not expect it at all."
''Not at all! " cried Miss Crawford, with alacrity. "I wonder at that. But
I dare say you know exactly I always imagine you are pox haps you do
not think him likely to marry at all or not at present."
"No, I do not," said Fanny softly, hoping she did not err either in. the
belief or the acknowledgment of it.
646 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
Her companion looked at her keenly ; and gathering greater spirit from
the blush soon produced from such a look, only said, "He is best off as he
is," and turned the subject.
Chapter 30
Miss CRAWFORD'S uneasiness was much lightened by this conversation,
and she walked home again in spirits which might have defied almost an-
other 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 further 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 Fanny.
"Sitting with them an hour and a half!" exclaimed Mary.
But this was only the beginning of her surprise.
"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 en-
tirely 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 conscious-
ness might suggest, a suspicion of his having any such views had never
entered his sister's imagination ; and she looked so truly the astonishment
he 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 m a connection with the Bertram family, and
to be not displeased with her brother's marrying a little beneath him.
"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;
but my own are entirely fixed."
"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
MANSFiELDPARK 6 4 r
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, in-
deed! 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 seri-
ously about her?"
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 choose to
consult the Admiral before you made up your mind."
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 dote on
her. She is exactly the woman to do away every prejudice of such a man
as the Admiral, for she is exactly such a woman as he thinks does not exist
in the world. She is the very impossibility 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 yet."
"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 for that 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 connections, they are more than good. The Ber-
trams 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 happi-
ness?"
"No."
"What are you waiting for?"
"For for very little more than opportunity. Mary, she is not like her
cousins ; but I think I shall not ask in vain."
"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 love you,
and she will never have the heart to refuse."
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 in-
648 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
teresting 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 her being well principled and
religious.
"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 merits, rejoice in her prospects.
"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 both find your good in it."
"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 neigh-
bourhood ; perhaps Stanwix Lodge. I shall let a seven years' lease of Ever-
ingham. I am sure of an excellent tenant at half a word. I could name three
people now, who would give me my own terms and thank me."
"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 kindest manner to his own house,, and to claim the best right in her.
MANSFIELD PARK 6 4 ,
"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 guest of neither brother nor sister many
months longer.
"You will divide your year between London and Northamptonshire?"
"Yes."
"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 or deed, look or gesture, would have
broken my heart."
"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 prejudice Fanny against him. I must have them love one another."
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 ill-used
aunt had to abhor the very name, I would prevent the marriage, if pos-
sible; 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 good-breeding of a gentleman."
The impossibility of not doing everything in the world to make Fanny
Price happy, or of ceasing to love Fanny Price, was of course the ground-
work of his eloquent answer.
"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 ceasing."
"My dearest Henry," cried Mary, stopping short, and smiling in his
650 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
face, "how glad I am to see you so much in love ! It quite delights me. But
what will Mrs. Rushworth and Julia say?"
"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 .1 am not such a coxcomb as to suppose her
feelings more lasting than other women's, though / 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 forgot-
ten. Her cousin Edmund never forgets her."
"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, long-worded,
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?"
Chapter 31
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 breakfast-room, 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 choosing by any means to take so much trouble in vain, she
still went on, after a civil reception, a short sentence about being waite.l
for, and a "Let Sir Thomas know," to the servant.
Henry, overjoyed to have her go, bowed and watched her off, and with-
out losing another moment, turned instantly to Fanny, and, taking out
some letters, said, with a most animated look, "I must acknowledge my-
self 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 lieu-
tenant. 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 them."
M A N S F I E L D P A R K 651
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 un-
dertaken, 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 great people.
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 event:
"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 7 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 passed together."
"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 youi
pardon, but I am bewildered. Did Admiral Crawford apply? How was it?
I am stupefied."
Henry was most happy to make it more intelligible, by beginning at,
652 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 busi-
ness; 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 at-
tend; 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 say-
ing 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 further 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 attach-
ment 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 show half the dis-
pleasure 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 how to suppose him serious, she could hardly stand. He pressed
for an answer.
"No, no, no!" she criedj hiding her face. "This is all nonsense. Do not
MANSFIELDPARK 653
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 such no, no, don't think of me. But
you are not thinking of me. I know it is all nothing."
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 further assurances or entreaty, though to part with her
at a moment when her modesty alone seemed, to his sanguine and pre-
assured 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 in 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 which
his visitor came to communicate.
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 insulted she 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 William!
She would not stir further 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 com-
fortable 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. Craw-
ford 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 soon.
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 sensations on the first day
of hearing of William's promotion.
Mr. Crawford was not only in the room he was soon close to her. He
654 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 Norris, who was also to dine there,
screened her a little from view.
"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 ap-
proval. Go on, my dear Fanny, and without fear; there can be no diffi-
culties worth naming. I choose 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 to me even happier than he goes.
Yours affectionately,
"M. C."
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 good-
humouredly 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 towards her.
She was more silent than ever. She would hardly join even when Wil-
liam was the subject, for his commission came all from the right hand
too, and there was pain in the connection.
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 drawing-room,
and she was able to think as she would, while her aunts finished the sub-
ject of William's appointment, in their own style.
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 \yas un-
known 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
MANSFIELDPARK 655
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 contributed
her mite towards it."
"I am glad you gave him something considerable," said Lady Bertram,
with most unsuspicious calmness, "for / gave him only 10."
"Indeed! " cried Mrs. Norris, reddening. "Upon my word, he must have
gone off with his pockets well lined, and at no expense for his journey to
London either!"
"Sir Thomas told me 10 would be enough."
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 /
do for them."
"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 have my shawl. I think I will
have two shawls, Fanny."
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 further, how could it be sup-
posed 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 towards 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
656 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 towards her cousins and fifty other women,
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
carefully refused him every opportunity.
At last it seemed an at last to Fanny's nervousness, though not re-
markably late he 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 you. Pray write to her, if it be
only a line."
"Oh yes! certainly," cried Fanny, rising in haste, the haste of embar-
rassment and of wanting to get away. "I will write directly."
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 some-
thing 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 further
notice. I have seen too much of Mr. Crawford not to understand his man-
ners ; 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 pretence of receiving the note, was com-
ing towards her.
"You cannot think I mean to hurry you," said he, in an under voice,
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 ; if you will be so good as to give
that to Miss Crawford."
MANSFIELDPARK 657
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 ill-written, that the
language would disgrace a child, for her distress had allowed no arrange-
ment ; but at least it would assure them both of her being neither imposed
on nor gratified by Mr. Crawford's attentions.
Chapter 32
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 know anything of the matter.
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.
6sS THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
She was all attention, however, in placing a chair for him, and trying
to appear honoured ; and in her agitation, had quite overlooked the defi-
ciencies of her apartment, till he, stopping short as he entered, said, with
much surprise, "Why have you no fire to-day?"
There was snow on the ground, and she was sitting in a shawl. She
hestitated.
"I am not cold, sir: I never sit here long at this time of year."
"But you have a fire in general?"
"No, sir."
"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 some-
thing 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 advo-
cate, 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 per-
fectly 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 atten-
tion that are due to her. But enough of this. Sit down, my dear. I must
speak to you for a few minutes, but I will not detain you long."
Fanny obeyed, with eyes cast down and colour rising. After a moment's
pause, Sir Thomas, trying to suppress a smile, went on.
"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 shown in. His errand you may probably conjecture."
M A N S F I E L D P A R K 659
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 further pause
proceeded in his account of Mr. Crawford's visit.
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, more-
over, his own replies, and his own remarks to have been very much to the
purpose, was exceedingly happy to give the particulars of their conversa-
tion, 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 inter-
rupt 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 shown 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 aston-
ished 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 yester-
day 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 out of
my power to return his good opinion."
"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 well- judging 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 showed a discretion highly to be
commended. But now, when he has made his overtures so properly, and
honourably what are your scruples now?"
"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 mis-
taken. How could Mr. Crawford say such a thing? I gave him no encour-
agement 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
66o THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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''
She could say no more ; her breath was almost gone.
"Am I to understand," said Sir Thomas, after a few moments' silence,
' that you mean to refuse Mr. Crawford?"
"Yes, sir."
"Refuse him?"
"Yes, sir."
"Refuse Mr. Crawford! Upon what plea? For what reason?"
"I I cannot like him, sir, well enough to marry him."
"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 to-day ; 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 already."
"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 prop-
erly (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 quite know your own feelings."
"Oh, yes, sir! indeed I do. His attentions were always what I did not
like."
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 anyone, 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 choosing at least to appear satisfied, he quickly added, "No, no, I
know that is quite out of the question; quite impossible. Well, there is
nothing more to be said."
And for a few minutes he did say nothing. He was deep in thought.
MANSFIELDPARK 661
His niece was deep in thought likewise, trying to harden and prepare
herself against further questioning. She would rather die than own the
truth ; and she hoped by a little reflection to fortify herself beyond be-
traying it.
"Independently of the interest which Mr. Crawford's choice seemed to
justify," said Sir Thomas, beginning again, and very composedly, a his
wishing to marry at all so early is recommendatory to me. I am an advo-
cate for early marriages, where there are means in proportion, and would
have every young man, with a sufficient income, settle as soon after four-
and-twenty 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 disposition 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 con-
vinced, my eldest son has not. Am I right? Do you agree with me, my
dear?"
"Yes, sir."
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 after-
wards, and in a voice of authority, said, "Have you any reason, child, to
think ill of Mr. Crawford's temper?"
"No, sir."
She longed to add, "But of his principles I have"; but her heart sank
under the appalling prospect of discussion, explanation, and probably
non-conviction. Her ill opinion of him was founded chiefly on observa-
tions, 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 acknowl-
edgment of settled dislike on her side, would have been sufficient. To her
infinite grief she found it was not.
Sir Thomas came towards the table where she sat in trembling wretch-
edness, and with a good deal of cold sternness, said: "It is of no use, I per-
ceive, 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, there-
fore, only add, as thinking it my duty to mark my opinion of your con-
duct, 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 shown, formed a
very favourable opinion of you from the period of my return to England.
662 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
[ had thought you peculiarly free from wilfulness of temper, self-conceit,
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
shown 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 shown 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 happi-
ness, 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 its 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 with-
out 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 your heart can acquit you of
ingra titude "
He ceased. Fanny was by this time crying so bitterly, that, angry as
he was, he would not press that article further. Her heart was almost
broken by such a picture of what she appeared to him ; by such accusa-
tions, so heavy, so multiplied, so rising in dreadful gradation ! Self-willed,
obstinate, selfish, and ungrateful. He thought her all this. She had de-
ceived his expectations ; she had lost his good opinion. What was to be-
come of her?
"I am very sorry," said she, inarticulately, through her tears, "I am
very sorry, indeed."
MANSFIELDPARK 663
"Sorry! Yes, I hope you are sorry; and you will probably have reason
to be long sorry for this day's transactions."
"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 en-
treaty 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 him-
self, he certainly has imbibed. I am totally unequal to it."
But Fanny showed 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 inter-
view. With a few words, therefore, of no particular meaning, he walked
off by himself, leaving his poor niece to sit and cry over what had passed,
with very wretched feelings.
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 connection about her. She could not but feel some resent-
ment against Mr. Crawford; yet, if he really loved her, and were unhappy
too ! It was all wretchedness together.
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:
664 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 gener-
ous 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 to-morrow, 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 show
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 disappointment ; say nothing about it yourself."
This was an order to be most joyfully obeyed ; this was an act of kind-
ness 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. Craw-
ford 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 her from her Aunt Norris.
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 house-
maid, 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 being ungrateful! "
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
MANSFIELD PARS 665
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 pleasantly her having only walked out without her aunt's knowl-
edge could be dwelt on, she felt all the reason she had to bless the kind-
ness which saved her from the same spirit of reproach, exerted on a more
momentous subject.
"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
walked in the shrubbery or gone to my house."
"I recommended the shrubbery to Fanny as the driest place," said Sir
Thomas.
"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 some-
thing about Fanny, I have often observed it before she 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
her to get the better of."
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 through the dinner.
It was over, however, at last ; and the evening set in with more com-
posure 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
further as he considered the matter with more impartiality, and felt, as
a good man must feel, how wretched, and how unpardonable, how hope-
less, and how wicked it was, to marry without affection.
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
566 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 Lon-
don he would soon learn to wonder at his infatuation, and be thankful for
the right reason in her which had saved him from its evil consequences.
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 moment. You mean me, Baddeley, I am sure ; Sir Thomas wants me,
not Miss Price."
But Baddeley was stout. "No, ma'am, it is Miss Price; I am certain of
its being Miss Price." And there was a half smile 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.
Chapter 33
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 dis-
position 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 con-
strained at last to admit that she did know her own present feelings, con-
vinced him that he should be able in time to make those feelings what he
wished.
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 well-grounded
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 time by speaking the disinterestedness and delicacy of her character
MANSFIELDPARK 667
(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
pre-engaged 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 atten-
tions, and who was still overpowered by the suddenness of addresses so
wholly unexpected, and the novelty of a situation which her fancy had
never taken into account.
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 pain-
ful to her ; that she must intreat 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 further pressed, had added, that in her opinion their disposi-
tions 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 uncon-
genial 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 soft-
ness made every expression of indifference seem almost an effort of self-
denial ; 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 clandes-
tine, insidious, treacherous admirer of Maria Bertram, had been her ab-
horrence, 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,
668 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 good-
ness ; and to complete the whole, he was now the Mr. Crawford who had
procured William's promotion!
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 ex-
pressive 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 con-
sidered him, in the professions of persevering, assiduous, and not despond-
ing attachment which closed the interview.
It was with reluctance that he suffered her to go ; but there was no look
of despair in parting to bely 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 they ought to have been, he never could have
engaged them.
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 nerv-
ous 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 disappoint-
ment: 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 gentle-tempered girl like Fanny; but there was speedy comfort in
the determined views and sanguine perseverance of the lover ; and when
seeing such confidence of success in the principal, Sir Thomas was soon
able to depend on it himself.
Nothing was omitted, on his side, of civility, compliment, or kindness,
that might assist the plan. Mr. Crawford's steadiness was honoured, and
MANSFIELDPARK 669
Fanny was praised, and the connection 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 incline one way.
Everything was said that could encourage, every encouragement re-
ceived with grateful joy, and the gentlemen parted the best of friends.
Satisfied that the cause was now on a footing the most proper and
hopeful, Sir Thomas resolved to abstain from all further importunity with
his niece, and to show no open interference. Upon her disposition he
believed kindness might be the best way of working. Intreaty should be
from one quarter only. The forbearance of her family on a point, respect-
ing 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 learnt
from him exactly how matters stand between you. He is a most extraor-
dinary 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 re-
spectable stamp. Had his choice been less unexceptionable, I should have
condemned his persevering."
"Indeed, sir," said Fanny, "I am very sorry that Mr. Crawford should
continue to 1 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 told him so, that it never will be in my power
"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 sub-
ject 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 incompat-
able 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 closed b*we^r us."
670 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
The promised departure was all that Fanny could think of with much 1
satisfaction. Her uncle's kind expressions, however, and forbearing man-
ner 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. Rush-
worth: 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 attach-
ment 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 inquire into a young lady's exact
estimate of her own perfections.
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 con-
cealment. 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
sister-in-law 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
well-meaning zeal. Sir Thomas, indeed, was, by this time, not very far
from classing Mrs. Norris as one of those well-meaning people who are
always doing mistaken and very disagreeable things.
Mrs. Norris, however, relieved him. He pressed for the strictest for-
bearance and silence towards their niece ; she not only promised, but did
observe it. She only looked her increased ill-will. 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 dis-
liked Fanny, because she had neglected her ; and she would have grudged
such an elevation to one whom she had been always trying to depress.
Sir Thomas gave her more credit for discretion on the occasion than she
deserved ; and Fanny could have blessed her for allowing her only to see
her displeasure, and not to hear it.
Lady Bertram took it differently. She had been a beauty, and a pros-
perous 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
MANSFIELDPARK 671
that she would be advantageously married, it made her feel a sort of
credit in calling her niece.
"Well, Fanny," said she, as soon as they were alone together after-
wards, 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,
she added, "Humph, we certainly are a handsome family! "
Fanny coloured, and doubted at first what to say; when hoping to assail
her on her vulnerable side, she presently answered
"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 was quite talkative.
"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 after-
wards added, "And I will tell you what, Fanny, which is more than I did
for Maria, the next time pug has a litter you shall have a puppy."
Chapter 34
EDMUND had great things to hear on his return. Many surprises were
awaiting him. The first that occurred was not least in interest: the appear-
ance of Henry Crawford and his sister walking together through the
village as he rode into it. He had concluded he 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
672 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
off, and as farther, much farther, from him in inclination than any dis-
tance could express.
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 unvary-
ing cheerfulness all dinner-time.
After dinner, when he and his father were alone, he had Fanny's his-
tory; 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 dining-parlour, 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 screen which the tea-things afforded,
she must have betrayed her emotion in some unpardonable excess.
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 any-
thing 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 connection 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 dis-
positions 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 con-
clusion. 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
MANSFIELDPARK 673
Thomas felt himself more than licensed to ask him to stay to dinner; it
was really a necessary compliment. He stayed 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 else), that 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 breath-
ing, 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 dinner.
In the evening a few circumstances occurred which he thought more
promising. When he and Crawford walked into the drawing-room, 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
footsteps."
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 hear 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 read-
ing 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
674 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
her again; nay, perhaps with greater enjoyment, for it came unexpect-
edly, and with no such drawback as she had been used to suffer in seeing
him on the stage with Miss Bertram.
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 Crawford; fixed 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 secret feelings too.
"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 be-
fore 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 Shake-
speare 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 of one of his plays
without falling into the flow of his meaning immediately."
"No doubt one is familiar with Shakespeare in a degree," said Edmund,
"from one's earliest years. His celebrated passages are quoted by every-
body; 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, perhaps,
not uncommon; but to read him well aloud is no every-day talent."
"Sir, you do me honour," was Crawford's answer, with a bow of mock
gravity.
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 wish Sir Thomas had been here."
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
MANSFIELDPARK 675
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,
"that lady will never allow a theatre at Everingham."
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
comprehension of a hint, he thought, was rather favourable than not.
The subject of reading aloud was further 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 school-system for boys, the consequently natural yet in some
instances almost unnatural, degree of ignorance and uncouthness of men,
of sensible and well-informed 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 manage-
ment 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 listening again with great entertainment.
"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 num-
ber, to judge by their performance, must have thought reading was read-
ing, 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 ordina-
tion ; 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 proper-
est manner in which particular passages in the service should be delivered,
showing 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 good-nature together could do; or at least, she would not be won
676 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 think-
ing 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 so?"
"No, indeed, you know your duty too well for me to even sup-
posing "
She stopped, felt herself getting into a puzzle, and could not be pre-
vailed on to add another word, not by dint of several minutes of supplica-
tion and waiting. He then returned to his former station, and went on as
if there had been no such tender interruption.
"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
often 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 a 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 be such a man."
Edmund laughed.
"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 for a
constancy; it would not do for a constancy."
Here Fanny who could not but listen, involuntarily shook her head,
and Crawford was instantly by her side again, intreating 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
MANSFIELDPARK 677
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;" and a "Capital season'd
Hunter."
Fanny meanwhile, vexed with herself for not having been as motion-
less 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
enquiries; and he, unrepulsable, was persisting in both.
"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, irrever-
ently 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 intreat 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, re-urging the same ques-
tions as before. She grew more agitated and displeased.
"How can you, sir? You quite astonish me; I wonder how you
can-
"Do I astonish you?" said he. "Do you wonder? Is there anything in
my present intreaty 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."
In spite of herself, she could not help half a smile, but she said nothing.
"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 always know yourself as well as
you seemed to do at that moment."
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 intreat 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 Bert-
ram's being just on the other side of the table was a trifle, for she might
678 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
always be considered as only half awake, and Edmund's advertisement?
were still of the first utility.
"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 opin-
ion, 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 it but 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,
"hat 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 sweet-
ness, that nothing else can now be descriptive of you."
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
cake-bearers, made its appearance, and delivered her from a grievous im-
prisonment of body and mind. Mr. Crawford was obliged to move. She
was at liberty, she was busy, she was protected.
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 speaker.
Chapter 35
EDMUND had determined that it belonged entirely to Fanny to choose
whether her situation with regard to Crawford should be mentioned
M A N S F I E L D P A R K 679
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, and try what his influence
might do for his friend.
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. Craw-
ford'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 too
long.
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 con-
fidence 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 es-
tranged 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 hi the
shrubbery, he instantly joined her.
"I am come to walk with you, Fanny," said he. "Shall I?" Drawing
her arm within his. "It is a long while since we have had a comfortable
walk together."
She assented to it all rather by look than word. Her spirits were low.
"But, Fanny," he presently added, "in order to have a comfortable
walk, something more is necessary than merely pacing this gravel to-
gether. 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 herself?"
Fanny, at once agitated and dejected, replied, "If you hear of it from
everybody, cousin, there can be nothing for me to tell."
"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 talk-
ing 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 point I consider Crawford's
proposals as most advantageous and desirable, if you could return his
680 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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?"
"My uncle thought me wrong, and I knew he had been talking to you."
"As far as you have gone, Fanny, I think you perfectly right. I may be
sorry, I may be surprised : though hardly that, for you had not had time
to attach yourself: but 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 him."
Fanny had not felt so comfortable for days and days.
"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 tender-hearted;
and then you will be the perfect model of a woman, which I have always
believed you born for."
"Oh! never, never, never! he never will succeed with me." And as 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 answered for; I think I never shall
return his regard."
"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 up-hill 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.
MANS*1ELL)PARK 681
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 him the natural wish of gratitude. You must have
some feeling of that sort. You must be sorry for your own indifference."
"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 should be miserable."
"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 circum-
stance. 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, gentle and continual, is the best
safeguard of manners and conduct."
Full well could Fanny guess where his thoughts were now, Miss Craw-
ford'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 had dined at the Parsonage only the preceding day.
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, in-
finitely 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
unfeelingly I may speak of it now because it is all over so improperly
by poor Mr. Rushworth, not seeming to care how he exposed or hurt
682 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
him, and paying attentions to my cousin Maria, which in 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, all the rest were blameless.
I was playing the fool with my eyes open."
"As a bystander," said Fanny, "perhaps I saw more than you did;
and I do think that Mr. Rushworth was sometimes very jealous."
"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 sur-
prised at the rest."
"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 show 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 to There 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 shows his
proper estimation of the blessing of domestic happiness and pure attach-
ment. It proves him unspoilt by his uncle. It proves him, in short, every-
thing that I had been used to wish to believe him, and feared he was not."
"I am persuaded that he does not think, as he ought, on serious sub-
jects."
"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 him-
self 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 happy ; but you will make
him everything."
"I would not engage in such a charge," cried Fanny, in a shrinking
accent; "in such an office of high responsibility!"
MANSFIELDPARK 683
"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 well-doing. Next to your happiness, Fanny, his has the first
claim on me. You are aware of my having no common interest in Craw-
ford."
Fanny was too well aware of it to have anything to say; and they
walked on together some fifty yards in mutual silence and abstraction.
Edmund first began again:
"I was very much pleased by her manner of speaking of it yesterday,
particularly pleased, because I had not depended upon her seeing every-
thing 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 connection 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 senti-
ments, 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 of ingenuousness which are so much a part of herself.
Mrs. Grant laughed at her for her rapidity."
"Was Mrs. Grant in the room, then?"
"Yes, when I reached the house I found the two sisters together by
themselves; and when once we had begun, we had not done with you,
Fanny, till Crawford and Dr. Grant came in."
"It is above a week since I saw Miss Crawford."
"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 all her heart."
"I knew she would be very angry with me."
"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 resent-
ment. 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 was never used to do; and it had a sound of most sisterly
cordiality "
684 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
"And Mrs. Grant did she say did she speak; was she there all the
time?"
"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 case
you 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 done. Do not turn away from me."
"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, and we think very differently of the nature
of women, if they can imagine a woman so very soon capable of returning
an affection, as this seems to imply."
"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 warm-
hearted 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 marriage."
MANSFIELDPARK 685
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 to her at such a moment, and on
such a subject, was a bitter aggravation.
Edmund saw weariness and distress in her face, and immediately
resolved to forbear all further 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 Mondoy. You are sure, therefore, of seeing your friend
either to-morrow 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."
"You were near staying there?"
"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 stayed; but I knew nothing that had
happened here for a fortnight, and felt that I had been away long
enough."
"You spent your time pleasantly there?"
"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."
"The Miss Owens you liked them, did not you?"
"Yes, very well. Pleasant, good-humoured, unaffected girls. But I am
spoilt, Fanny, for common female society. Good-humoured, unaffected
girls will not do for a man who has been used to sensible women. They
are two distinct orders of being. You and Miss Crawford have made me
too nice."
Still, however, Fanny was oppressed and wearied; he saw it in her
looks, it could not be talked away; and in attempting it no more, he led
her directly, with the kind authority of a privileged guardian, into the
house.
Chapter 36
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 very
distant.
He gave this opinion as the result of the conversation to his father;
686 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
and recommended there being nothing more said to her: no further
attempts to influence or persuade; but that everything should be left to
Crawford's assiduities, and the natural workings of her own mind.
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, however, but to submit quietly and hope
the best.
The promised visit from "her friend," as Edmund called Miss Craw-
ford, 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 Bert-
ram, kept away from the East Room, and took no solitary walk in the
shrubbery, in her caution to avoid any sudden attack.
She succeeded. She was safe in the breakfast-room, 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 an half hour 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 toler-
ably soon, in a low voice, "I must speak to you for a few minutes some-
where;" 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 way out of the
room. She did it with wretched feelings, but it was inevitable.
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 dis-
cretion 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
MANSFIELDPARK 687
change in Miss Crawford's ideas; by the strong effect on her mind which
the finding herself in the East Room again produced.
"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 away?"
Happily for her companion, she wanted no answer. Her mind was
entirely self -engrossed. She was in a reverie of sweet remembrances.
"The scene we were rehearsing was so very remarkable! The subject of
it so very very what shall I say? He was to be describing and recom-
mending 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 week that 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
u last." She cried as if she had loved Miss Crawford more than she pos-
sibly could; and Miss Crawford, yet further 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
688 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
be sisters? I know we shall. I feel that we are born to be connected; and
those tears convince me that you feel it too, dear Fanny."
Fanny roused herself, and replying only in part, said, "But you are
only going from one set of friends to another. You are going to a very
particular friend."
"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 thought-
ful; 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 evening!
there never was anything quite like it."
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 heart-burn-
ings 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 situa-
tion 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 t
MANSFIELDPARK 689
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 ill-tempered and exigeant, and wants a young woman, a beautiful
young woman of five-and twenty, 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 ill-bred. In their house I shall call to mind the conjugal
manners of Mansfield Parsonage with respect. Even Dr. Grant does show
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 worse
looking, and with a blackguard character. I had my doubts at the time
about her being right, for he has not even the air of a gentleman, and now
I am sure she was wrong. By-the-bye, Flora Ross was dying for Henry
the first winter she came out. But were I to attempt to tell you of all the
women whom I have known to be in love with him, I should never have
done. It is you, only you, insensible Fanny, who can think of him with
anything like indifference. But are you so insensible as you profess your-
self? No, no, I see you are not."
There was indeed so deep a blush over Fanny's face at that moment, as
might warrant strong suspicion in a predisposed mind.
"Excellent creature! I will not tease you. Everything shall take its
course. But, dear Fanny, you must allow that you were not so absolutely
unprepared to have the question asked as your cousin fancies. It is not
possible but that you must have had some thoughts on the subject, some
surmises as to what might be. You must have seen that he was trying to
please you by every attention in his power. Was not he devoted to you
at the ball? And then before the ball, the necklace! Oh! you received it
just as it was meant. You were as conscious as heart could desire. I re-
member it perfectly."
690 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
"Do you mean, then, that your brother knew of the necklace before-
hand? Oh! Miss Crawford, that was not fair."
"Knew of it! It was his own doing entirely, his own thought. I am
ashamed to say that it had never entered my head, but I was delighted
to act on his proposal for both your sakes."
"I will not say," replied Fanny, "that I was not half afraid at the time
of its being so, for there was something in your look that frightened me
but not at first I was as unsuspicious of it at first indeed, indeed I was.
It is as true as that I sit here. And had I had an idea of it, nothing should
have induced me to accept the necklace. As to your brother's behaviour,
certainly I was sensible of a particularity; I had been sensible of it some
little time, perhaps two or three weeks, but then I considered it as mean-
ing nothing ; I put it down as simply being his way, and was as far from
supposing as from wishing him to have any serious thoughts of me. I had
not, Miss Crawford, been an inattentive observer of what was passing
between him and some part of this family in the summer and autumn. I
was quiet, but I was not blind. I could not but see that Mr. Crawford
allowed himself in gallantries which did mean nothing."
"Ah! I cannot deny it. He has now and then been a sad flirt, and cared
very little for the havoc he might be making in young ladies' affections.
I have often scolded him for it, but it is his only fault ; and there is this to
be said, that very few young ladies have any affections worth caring for.
And then, Fanny, the glory of fixing one who has been shot at by so many ;
of having it in one's power to pay off the debts of one's sex ! Oh ! I am sure
it is not in woman's nature to refuse such a triumph."
Fanny shook her head. "I cannot think well of a man who sports with
any woman's feelings; and there may often be a great deal more suffered
than a stander-by can judge of."
"I do not defend him. I leave him entirely to your mercy, and when he
has got you at Everingham I do not care how much you lecture him. But
this I will say, that his fault, the liking to make girls a little in love with
him, is not half so dangerous to a wife's happiness, as a tendency to fall
in love himself, which he has never been addicted to. And I do seriously
and truly believe that he is attached to you in a way that he never was to
any woman before ; that he loves you with all his heart, and will love you
as nearly for ever as possible. If any man ever loved a woman for ever, I
Ihink Henry will do so much for you."
Fanny could not avoid a faint smile, but had nothing to say.
"I cannot imagine Henry ever to have been happier," continued Mary,
presently, "than when he had succeeded in getting your brother's com-
mission."
She had made a sure push at Fanny's feelings here
"Oh! yes. How very, very kind of him."
"I know he must have exerted himself very much, for I know the
parties he had to move. The Admiral hates trouble, and scorns asking
; and there are so many young men's claims to be attended to in
MANSFIELDPARK 691
the same way, that a friendship and energy, not very determined, is easily
put by. What a happy creature William must be! I wish we could see
him."
Poor Fanny's mind was thrown into the most distressing of all its
varieties. The recollection of what had been done for William was always
the most powerful disturber of every decision against Mr. Crawford ; and
she sat thinking deeply of it till Mary, who had been first watching her
complacently, and then musing oh something else, suddenly called her
attention by saying: "I should like to sit talking with you here all day,
but we must not forget the ladies below, and so good-bye, my dear, my
amiable, my excellent Fanny, for though we shall nominally part in the
breakfast parlour, I must take leave of you here. And I do take leave,
longing for a happy re-union, and trusting that when we meet again it
will be under circumstances which may open our hearts to each other,
without any remnant or shadow of reserve."
A very, very kind embrace, and some agitation of manner, accompanied
these words.
"I shall see your cousin in town soon: he talks of being there tolerably
soon ; and Sir Thomas, I dare say, in the course of the spring ; and your
eldest cousin, and the Rushworths, and Julia, I am sure of meeting again
and again, and all but you. I have two favours to ask, Fanny: one is your
correspondence. You must write to me. And the other, that you will often
call on Mrs. Grant, and make her amends for my being gone."
The first, at least, of these favours Fanny would rather not have been
asked ; but it was impossible for her to refuse the correspondence ; it was
impossible for her even not to accede to it more readily than her own
judgment authorised. There was no resisting so much apparent affection.
Her disposition was peculiarly calculated to value a fond treatment, and
from having hitherto known so little of it, she was the more overcome by
Miss Crawford's. Besides, there was gratitude towards her, for having
made their tete-a-tete so much less painful than her fears had predicted.
It was over, and she had escaped without reproaches and without de-
tection. 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 any-
thing. He was evidently oppressed, and Fanny must grieve for him, though
hoping she might never see him again, till he were the husband of some
other woman.
When it came to the moment of parting, he would take her hand, he
would not be denied it; he said nothing, however, or nothing that she
heard, and when he had left the room, she was better pleased that such a
token of friendship had passed.
On the morrow the Crawfords were gone.
692 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
Chapter 3 7
MR. CRAWFORD gone, Sir Thomas's next object was that he should be
missed; and he entertained great hope that his niece would find a blank
in the loss of those attentions which at the time she had felt, or fancied,
an evil. She had tasted of consequence in its most flattering form; and
he did hope that the loss of it, the sinking again into nothing, would
awaken very wholesome regrets in her mind. He watched her with this
idea ; but he could hardly tell with what success. He hardly knew whether
there were any difference in her spirits or not. She was always so gentle
and retiring, that her emotions were beyond his discrimination. He did
not understand her; he felt that he did not; and therefore applied to
Edmund to tell him how she stood affected on the present occasion, and
whether she were more or less happy than she had been.
Edmund did not discern any symptoms of regret, and thought his
father a little unreasonable in supposing the first three or four days could
produce any.
What chiefly surprised Edmund was, that Crawford's sister, the friend
and companion, who had been so much to her, should not be more visibly
regretted. He wondered that Fanny spoke so seldom of her, and had so
little voluntarily to say of her concern at this separation.
Alas! it was this sister, this friend and companion, who was now the
chief bane of Fanny's comfort. If she could have believed Mary's future
fate as unconnected with Mansfield as she was determined the brother's
should be, if she could have hoped her return thither to be as distant as
she was much inclined to think his, she would have been light of heart
indeed ; but the more she recollected and observed, the more deeply was
she convinced that everything was now in a fairer train for Miss Craw-
ford's marrying Edmund than it had ever been before. On his side the
inclination was stronger, on hers less equivocal. His objections, the scru-
ples of his integrity, seemed all done away, nobody could tell how, and the
doubts and hesitations of her ambition were equally got over ; and equally
without apparent reason. It could only be imputed to increasing attach-
ment. 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 shown 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
MANSFIELDPARK 693
scarcely a second feeling in common between them ; and she may be for-
given by older sages for looking on the chance of Miss Crawford's future
improvement as nearly desperate, for thinking that if Edmund's influence
in this season of love had already done so little in clearing her judgment,
and regulating her notions, his worth would be finally wasted on her even
in years of matrimony.
Experience might have hoped more for any young people so circum-
stanced, 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 ab-
sence, to be given to Northamptonshire, and was coming, the happiest of
lieutenants, because the latest made, to show his happiness and describe
his uniform.
He came ; and he would have been delighted to show 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 Ports-
mouth, 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
694 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
nothing at all with any idea of making her happy. He certainly wished her
to go willingly, but he as certainly wished her to be heartily sick of home
before her visit ended ; and that a little abstinence from the elegancies and
luxuries of Mansfield Park would bring her mind into a sober state, and
incline her to a juster estimate of the value of that home of greater per-
manence, and equal comfort, of which she had the offer.
It was a medicinal project upon his niece's understanding, which he
must consider as at present diseased. A residence of eight or nine years
in the abode of wealth and plenty had a little disordered her powers of
comparing and judging. Her father's house would, in all probability, teach
her the value of a good income; and he trusted that she would be the
wiser and happier woman, all her life, for the experiment he had devised.
Had Fanny been at all addicted to raptures, she must have had a strong
attack of them when she first understood what was intended, when her
uncle first made her the offer of visiting the parents, and brothers, and
sisters, from whom she had been divided, almost half her life; of returning
for a couple of months to the scenes of her infancy, with William for the
protector and companion of her journey, and the certainty of continuing
to see William to the last hour of his remaining on land. Had she ever
given way to bursts of delight, it must have been then, for she was de-
lighted, but her happiness was of a quiet, deep, heart-swelling sort, and
though never a great talker, she was always more inclined to silence when
feeling most strongly. At the moment she could only thank and accept.
Afterwards, when familiarised with the visions of enjoyment so suddenly
opened, she could speak more largely to William and Edmund of what
she felt; but still there were emotions of tenderness that could not be
clothed in words. The remembrance of all her earliest pleasures, and of
what she had suffered in being torn from them, came over her with re-
newed 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
C'rawfords, safe from every look which could be fancied a reproach on
their account this was a prospect to be dwelt on with a fondness that
a mid be but half acknowledged.
Edmund, too to be two months from Mm, and perhaps, she might be
allowed to make her absence three, must do 'her good. At a distance, un-
as sailed 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
ab le to reason herself into a proper state ; she should be able to think of
hi\n as in London, and arranging everything there, without wretchedness.
W hat might have been hard to bear at Mansfield was to become a slight
e\ il at Portsmouth.
The only drawback was the doubt of her Aunt Bertram's being com-
f c rtable without her. She was of use to no one else ; but there she might be
MANSFIELDPARK 695
missed to a degree that she did not like to think of ; and that part of the
arrangement was, indeed, the hardest for Sir Thomas to accomplish, and
what only he could have accomplished at all.
But he was master at Mansfield Park. When he had really resolved on
any measure, he could always carry it through ; and now by dint of long
talking on the subject, explaining and dwelling on the duty of Fanny's
sometimes seeing her family, he did induce his wife to let her go ; obtain-
ing it rather from submission, however, than conviction, for Lady Bertram
was convinced of very little more than that Sir Thomas thought Fanny
ought to go, and therefore that she must. In the calmness of her own
dressing-room, in the impartial flow of her own meditations, unbiassed by
his bewildering statements, she could not acknowledge any necessity for
Fanny's ever going near a father and mother who had done without her
so long, while she was so useful to herself. And as to the not missing her,
which under Mrs. Norris's discussion was the point attempted to be
proved, she set herself very steadily against admitting any such thing.
Sir Thomas had appealed to her reason, conscience and dignity. He
called it a sacrifice, and demanded it of her goodness and self-command
as such. But Mrs. Norris wanted to persuade her that Fanny could be
very well spared (she being ready to give up all her own time to her as
requested) and in short, could not really be wanted or missed.
"That may be, sister," was all Lady Bertram's reply. "I dare say you
are very right; but I am sure I shall miss her very much."
The next step was to communicate with Portsmouth. Fanny wrote to
offer herself; and her mother's answer, though short, was so kind a few
simple lines expressed so natural and motherly a joy in the prospect of
seeing her child again, as to confirm all the daughter's views of happiness
in being with her^-convincing her that she should now find a warm and
affectionate friend in the "mamma" who had certainly shown no remark-
able fondness for her formerly ; but this she could easily suppose to have
been her own fault or her own fancy. She had probably alienated love by
the helplessness and fretfulness of a fearful temper, or been unreasonable
in wanting a larger share than any one among so many could deserve.
Now, when she knew better how to be useful, and how to forbear, and
when her mother could be no longer occupied by the incessant demands
of a house full of little children, there would be leisure and inclination for
every comfort, and they should soon be what mother and daughter ought
to be to each other.
William was almost as happy in the plan as his sister. It would be the
greatest pleasure to him to have her there to the last moment before he
sailed, and perhaps find her there still when he came in from his first
cruise. And besides, he wanted her so very much to see the " Thrush"
before she went out of harbour (the "Thrush" was certainly the finest
sloop in the service) ; and there were several improvements in the dock-
yard, too, which he quite longed to show her.
6 9 6 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 confu-
sion. You will set things going in a better way, I am sure. You will tell my
mother how it all ought to be, and you will be so useful to Susan, and you
will teach Betsey, and make the boys love and mind you. How right and
comfortable it will all be!"
By the time Mrs. Price's answer arrived, there remained but a very few
days more to be spent at Mansfield; and for part of one of those days, the
young travellers were in a good deal of alarm on the subject of their
journey, for when the mode of it came to be talked of, and Mrs. Norris
found that all her anxiety to save her brother-in-law's money was vain,
and that in spite of her wishes and hints for a less expensive conveyance
of Fanny, they were to travel post; when she saw Sir Thomas actually
give William notes for the purpose, she was struck with the idea of there
being room for a third in the carriage, and suddenly seized with a strong
inclination to go with them, to go and see her poor dear sister Price. She
proclaimed her thoughts. She must say that she had more than half a mind
to go with the young people; it would be such an indulgence to her; she
had not seen her poor dear sister Price for more than twenty years ; and
it would be a help to the young people in their journey to have her older
head to manage for them ; and she could not help thinking her poor dear
sister Price would feel it very unkind of her not to come by such an
opportunity.
William and Fanny were horror-struck at the idea.
All the comfort of their comfortable journey would be destroyed at
once. With woeful countenances they looked at each other. Their sus-
pense 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 cer-
tainly 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 dis-
appointment 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
MANSFIELDPARK 697
he was looking forward to with the hope of its fixing his happiness for
ever.
He told Fanny of it. She knew so much already, that she must know
everything. It made the substance of one other confidential discourse
about Miss Crawford ; and Fanny was the more affected from feeling it
to be the last time in which Miss Crawford's name would ever be men-
tioned 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 corre-
spondent herself; and Edmund, at a convenient moment, then added in
a whisper, "And / shall write to you, Fanny, when I have anything worth
writing about, anything to say that I think you will like to hear, and that
you will not hear so soon from any other quarter." Had she doubted his
meaning while she listened, the glow in his face, when she looked up at
him, would have been decisive.
For this letter she must try to arm herself. That a letter from Edmund
should be a subject of terror! She began to feel that she had not yet gone
through all the changes of opinion and sentiment which the progress of
time and variation of circumstances occasion in this world of changes.
The vicissitudes of the human mind had not yet been sxhausted by her.
Poor Fanny! Though going as she did willingly and eagerly, the last
evening at Mansfield Park must still be wretchedness. Her heart was com-
pletely sad at parting. She had tears for every room in the house, much
more for every beloved inhabitant. She clung to her aunt, because she
would miss her; she kissed the hand of her uncle with struggling sobs,
because she had displeased him ; and as for Edmund, she could neither
speak, nor look, nor think, when the last moment came with him; and it
was not till it was over that she knew he was giving her the affectionate
farewell of a brother.
All this passed overnight, for the journey was to begin very early in the
morning ; and when the small, diminished party met at breakfast, William
and Fanny were talked of as already advanced one stage.
Chapter 38
THE novelty of travelling, and the happiness of being with William,
soon produced their natural effect on Fanny's spirits, when Mansfield
Park was fairly left behind ; and by the time their first stage was ended,
and they were to quit Sir Thomas's carriage, she was able to take leave
of the old coachman, and send back proper messages, with cheerful looks.
Of pleasant talk between the brother and sister there was no end. Every-
thing supplied an amusement to the high glee of William's mind, and he
was full of frolic and joke in the intervals of their higher-toned subjects,
all of which ended, if they did not begin, in praise of the "Thrush," con-
jectures how she would be employed, schemes for an action with some
698 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
superior force, which (supposing the first lieutenant out of the way, and
William was not very merciful to the first lieutenant) was to give himself
the next step as soon as possible, or speculations upon prize-money, which
was to be generously distributed at home, with only the reservation of
enough to make the little cottage comfortable, in which he and Fanny
were to pass all their middle and latter life together.
Fanny's immediate concerns, as far as they involved Mr. Crawford,
made no part of their conversation. William knew what had passed, and
from his heart lamented that his sister's feelings should be so cold towards
a man whom he must consider as the first of human characters ; but he
was of an age to be all for love, and therefore unable to blame ; and know-
ing her wish on the subject, he would not distress her by the slightest
allusion.
She had reason to suppose herself not yet forgotten by Mr. Crawford.
She had heard repeatedly from his sister within the three weeks which
had passed since their leaving Mansfield, and in each letter there had been
a few lines from himself, warm and determined like his speeches. It was
a correspondence which Fanny found quite as unpleasant as she had
feared. Miss Crawford's style of writing, lively and affectionate, was itself
an evil, independent of what she was thus forced into reading from the
brother's pen, for Edmund would never rest till she had read the chief
of the letter to him ; and then she had to listen to his admiration of her
language, and the warmth of her attachments. There had, in fact, been
so much of message, of allusion, of recollection, so much of Mansfield in
every letter, that Fanny could not but suppose it meant for him to hear;
and to find herself forced into a purpose of that kind, compelled into a
correspondence which was bringing her the addresses of the man she did
not love, and obliging her to administer to the adverse passion of the man
she did, was cruelly mortifying. Here, too, her present removal promised
advantage. When no longer under the same roof with Edmund, she trusted
that Miss Crawford would have no motive for writing strong enough to
overcome the trouble, and that at Portsmouth their correspondence would
dwindle into nothing.
With such thoughts as these, among ten hundred others, Fanny pro-
ceeded 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 en-
joyments and fatigues of the day.
The next morning saw them off again at an early hour ; and with no
events, and no delays, they regularly advanced, and were in the environs
of Portsmouth while there was yet daylight for Fanny to look around her,
and wonder at the new buildings. They passed the drawbridge, and en-
tered 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
MANSFIELDPARK 699
from the High Street, and drawn up before the door of a small house now
inhabited by Mr. Price.
Fanny was all agitation and flutter; all hope and apprehension. The
moment they stopped, a trollopy-looking maidservant, seemingly in wait-
ing for them at the door, stepped forward, and more intent on telling the
news than giving them any help, immediately began with "The Thrush'
is gone out of harbour, please, sir, and one of the officers has been here
to " She was interrupted by a fine tall boy of eleven years old, who,
rushing out of the house, pushed the maid aside, and while William was
opening the chaise-door himself, called out, "You are just in time. We
have been looking for you this half-hour. The 'Thrush' went out of har-
bour this morning. I saw her. It was a beautiful sight. And they think she
will have her orders in a day or two. And Mr. Campbell was here at four
o'clock to ask for you: he has got one of the 'Thrush's' boats, and is going
off to her at six, and hoped you would be here in time to go with him."
A stare or two at Fanny, as William helped her out of the carriage, was
all the voluntary notice which this brother bestowed : but he made no ob-
jection to her kissing him, though still entirely engaged in detailing fur-
ther particulars of the "Thrush's" going out of harbour, in which he had a
strong right of interest, being to commence his career of seamanship in
her at this very time.
Another moment and Fanny was in the narrow entrance passage of the
house, and in her mother's arms, who met her there with looks of true
kindness, and with features which Fanny loved the more, because they
brought her Aunt Bertram's before her ; and there were her two sisters,
Susan, a well-grown, fine girl of fourteen, and Betsey, the youngest of the
family, about five both glad to see her in their way, though with no
advantage of manner in receiving her. But manner Fanny did not want.
Would they but love her, she should be satisfied.
She was then taken into a parlour, so small that her first conviction was
of its being only a passage-room to something better, and she stood for a
moment expecting to be invited on; but when she saw there was no other
door, and that there were signs of habitation before her, she called back
her thoughts, reproved herself, and grieved lest they should have been
suspected. Her mother, however, could not stay long enough to suspect
anything. She was gone again to the street-door to welcome William.
"Oh! my dear William, how glad I am to see you. But have you heard
about the 'Thrush? She is gone out of harbour already; three days before
we had any thought of it ; and I do not know what I am to do about Sam's
things, they will never be ready in time ; for she may have her orders to-
morrow, perhaps. It takes me quite unawares. And now you must be
off for Spithead too. Campbell has been here, quite in a worry about you;
and now what shall we do? I thought to have had such a comfortable
evening with you, and here everything comes upon me at once."
Her son answered cheerfully, telling her that everything was always
700 THE WORKS OF JANE AUS1EN
for the best ; and making light of his own inconvenience, in being obliged
to hurry away so soon.
"To be sure, I had much rather she had stayed in harbour, that I might
have sat a few hours with you in comfort ; but as there is a boat ashore I
had better go off at once, and there is no help for it. Whereabouts does the
'Thrush' lie 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.' 7
In they both came, and Mrs. Price having kindly kissed her daughter
again, and commented a little on her growth, began with very natural
solicitude to feel for their fatigues and wants as travellers.
"Poor dears! How tired you must both be! And now, what will you
have? I began to think you would never come. Betsey and I have been
watching for you this half hour. And when did you get anything to eat?
And what would you like to have now? I could not tell whether you would
be for some meat, or only a dish of tea after your journey, or else I would
have got something ready. And now I am afraid Campbell will be here
before there is time to dress a steak, and we have no butcher at hand.
It is very inconvenient to have no butcher in the street. We were better
off in our last house. Perhaps you would like some tea as soon as it can
be got."
They both declared they should prefer it to anything. "Then, Betsey,
my dear, run into the kitchen, and see if Rebecca has put the water on ;
and tell her to bring in the tea-things as soon as she can. I wish we could
get the bell mended; but Betsey is a very handy little messenger."
Betsey went with alacrity, proud to show 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, mamma, moving my things," said Susan, in a fearless,
self-defending tone, which startled Fanny. "You know you had but just
settled that my sister Fanny and I should have the other room; and I
could not get Rebecca to give me any help."
Further 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 band-box 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
M A N S F I E L D P A R K 701
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 enquir-
ing for you: he has got one of the boats, and is to be off for Spithead by
six, so you had better go with him. I have been to Turner's about your
mess ; it is all in a way to be done. I should not wonder if you had your
orders to-morrow; but you cannot sail with this wind, if you are to cruise
to the westward; and Captain Walsh thinks you will certainly have a
cruise to the westward, with the 'Elephant/ By G , I wish you may!
But old Scholey was saying, just now, that he thought you would be sent
first to the 'Texel.' Well, well, we are ready, whatever happens. But by
G , you lost a fine sight by not being here in the morning to see the
-'Thrush' go out of harbour! I would not have been out of the way for a
thousand pounds. Old Scholey ran in at breakfast-time, to say she had
slipped her moorings and was coming out. I jumped up, and made but
two steps to the platform. If ever there was a perfect beauty afloat, she is
one ; and there she lays at Spithead and anybody in England would take
her for an eight-and-twenty. I was upon the platform two hours this
afternoon looking at her. She lays close to the 'Endymion/ between her
and the 'Cleopatra,' just to the eastward of the sheer hulk."
"Ha! " cried William, "that's just where I should have put her myself.
It's the best berth at Spithead. But here is my sister, sir; here is Fanny,"
turning and leading her forward; "it is so dark you do not see her."
With an acknowledgment that he had quite forgot her, Mr. Price now
received his daughter ; and having given her a cordial hug, and observed
that she was grown into a woman, and he supopsed 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 lan-
guage 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 sub-
ject, more than once tried to make his father think of Fanny, and her long
absence and long journey.
After sitting some time longer, a candle was obtained; but as there was
still no appearance of tea, nor, from Betsey's reports from the kitchen,
much hope of any under a considerable period, William determined to go
and change his dress, and made the necessary preparations for his removal
on board directly, that he might have his tea in comfort afterwards.
As he left the room, two rosy-faced boys, ragged and dirty, about eight
and nine years old, rushed into it just released from school, and coming
eagerly to see their sister, and tell that the "Thrush" was gone out of har-
bour ; 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
702 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
run about and make a noise ; and both boys had soon burst from her, and
slammed the parlour door till her temples ached.
She had now seen all that were at home; there remained only two
brothers between herself and Susan, one of whom was a clerk in a public
office in London, and the other midshipman on board an Indiaman. But
though she had seen all the members of the family, she had not yet heard
all the noise they could make. Another quarter of an hour brought her a
great deal more. William was soon calling out, from the landing-place of
the second story, for his mother and for Rebecca. He was in distress for
something that he had left there, and did not find again. A key was mis-
laid, 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 dis-
tinguished in the parlour, except when drowned at intervals by the superior
noise of Sam, Tom and Charles chasing each other up and down stairs,
and tumbling about and hallooing.
Fanny was almost stunned. The smallness of the house and thinness of
the walls brought everything so close to her, that, added to the fatigue of
her journey, and all her recent agitation, she hardly knew how to bear
it. Within the room all was tranquil enough, for Susan having disappeared
with the others, there were soon only her father and herself remaining ;
and he taking out a newspaper, the accustomary loan of a neighbour,
applied himself to studying it, without seeming to recollect her existence.
The solitary candle was held between himself and the paper, without any
reference to her possible convenience ; but she had nothing to do, and was
glad to have the light screened from her aching head, as she sat in be-
wildered, broken, sorrowful contemplation.
She was at home. But, alas! it was not such a home, she had not such
a welcome, as she checked herself ; she was unreasonable. What right
had she to be of importance to her family? She could have none, so long
lost sight of! William's concerns must be dearest, they always had been,
and he had every right. Yet to have so little said or asked about herself,
to have scarcely an enquiry made after Mansfield ! It did pain her to have
Mansfield forgotten ; the friends who had done so much ; the dear, dear
friends! But here, one subject swallowed up all the rest. Perhaps it must
be so. The destination of the "Thrush" must be now pre-eminently in-
teresting. A day or two might show the difference. She only was to blame.
Yet she thought it would not have been so at Mansfield's. 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.
MANSFIELDPARK 703
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. Halloa you there! Sam, stop your confounded pipe, or
I shall be after you."
This threat was so palpably disregarded, that though within five min-
utes afterwards the three boys all burst into the room together and sat
down, Fanny could not consider it as a proof of anything more than their
being for the time thoroughly fagged, which their hot faces and panting
breaths seemed to prove, especially as they were still kicking each other's
shins, and hallooing out at sudden starts immediately under their father's
eye.
The next opening of the door brought something more welcome ; it was
for the tea-things, which she had begun almost to despair of seeing that
evening. Susan and an attendant girl, whose inferior appearance informed
Fanny, to her great surprise, that she had previously seen the upper
servant, brought in everything necessary for the meal : Susan looking, as
she put the kettle on the fire and glanced at her sister, as if divided be-
tween the agreeable triumph of showing her activity and usefulness, and
the dread of being thought to demean herself by such an office. "She had
been into the kitchen," she said, "to hurry Sally and help make the toast,
and spread the bread and butter, or she did not know when they should
have got tea, and she was sure her sister must want something after her
journey."
Fanny was very thankful. She could not but own that she should be
very glad of a little tea, and Susan immediately set about making it, as if
pleased to have the employment all to herself; and with only a little un-
necessary bustle, and some few injudicious attempts at keeping her
brothers in better order than she could, acquitted herself very well.
Fanny's spirit was as much refreshed as her body; her head and heart
were soon the better for such well-timed kindness. Susan had an open,
sensible countenance ; she was like William, and Fanny hoped to find her
like him in disposition and good will towards herself .
In this more placid state of things William re-entered, followed not far
behind by his mother and Betsey. He, complete in his lieutenant's uni-
form, 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 ad-
miration, and then threw her arms round his neck to sob out her various
emotions of pain and pleasure.
Anxious not to appear unhappy, she soon recovered herself ; and wiping
away her tears, was able to notice and admire all the striking parts of his
dress; listening with reviving spirits to his cheerful hopes of being on
704 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
shore some part of every day before they sailed, and even of getting her to
Spithead to see the sloop.
The next bustle brought in Mr. Campbell, the surgeon of the "Thrush,"
a very well-behaved young man, who came to call for his friend, and for
whom there was with some contrivance found a chair, and with some hasty
washing of the young tea-maker's, a cup and saucer ; and after another
quarter of an hour of earnest talk between the gentlemen, roise rising
upon noise, and bustle upon bustle, men and boys at last all in motion to-
gether, the moment came for setting off; everything was ready, William
took leave, and all of them were gone ; for the three boys, in spite of their
mother's entreaty, determined to see their brother and Mr. Campbell to
the sally-port ; and Mr. Price walked off at the same time to carry back
his neighbour's newspaper.
Something like tranquillity might now be hoped for ; and accordingly,
when Rebecca had been prevailed on to carry away the tea-things, and
Mrs. Price had walked about the room some time looking for a shirt-
sleeve, which Betsey at last hunted out from a drawer in the kitchen,
the small party of females were pretty well composed, and the mother
having lamented again over the impossibility of getting Sam ready in
time, was at leisure to think of her eldest daughter and the friends she
had come from.
A few enquiries began ; but one of the earliest How did her sister Ber-
tram 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 charac-
ter 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!' 7 cried Mrs. Price; "I am sure I hope I shall be rid of her
before she has stayed a year, for that will not be up till November. Serv-
ants 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 some-
thing 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
MANSFIELDPARK 705
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 consider-
ing her with these ideas, Betsey, at a small distance, was holding out
something to catch her eyes, meaning to screen it at the same time from
Susan's.
"What have you got there, my love?" said Fanny, "come and show it
to me."
It was a silver knife. Up jumped Susan, claiming it as her own, and
trying to get it away; but the child ran to her mother's protection, and
Susan could only reproach, which she did very warmly, and evidently
hoping to interest Fanny on her side. "It was very hard that she was not
to have her own knife ; it was her own knife ; little sister Mary had left it
to her upon her death-bed, and she ought to have had it to keep herself
long ago. But mamma 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 mamma had promised her that Betsey should
not have it in her own hands."
Fanny was quite shocked. Every feeling of duty, honour, and tender-
ness, was wounded by her sister's speech and her mother's reply.
"Now, Susan," cried Mrs. Price in a complaining voice, "now, how can
you be so cross? You are always quarrelling about that knife. I wish you
would not be so quarrelsome. Poor little Betsey; how cross Susan is to
you! But you should not have taken-it out, my dear, when I sent you to
the drawer. You know I told you not to touch it, because Susan is so cross
about it. I must hide it another time, Betsey. Poor Mary little thought it
would be such a bone of contention when she gave it me to keep, only two
hours before she died. Poor little soul! She could but just speak to be
heard, and she said so prettily, 'Let sister Susan have my knife, mamma,
when I am dead and buried.' Poor little dear! She was so fond of it, Fanny,
that she would have it lie by her in bed, all through her illness. It was the
gift of her good godmother, old Mrs. Admiral Maxwell, only six weeks
before she was taken for death. Poor little sweet creature! Well, she was
taken away from evil to come. My own Betsey (fondling her), you have
not the luck of such a good godmother. Aunt Norris lives too far off to
think of such little people as you."
Fanny had indeed nothing to convey from Aunt Norris, but a message
to say she hoped that her god-daughter was a good girl, and learnt her
book. There had been at one moment a slight murmur in the drawing-
room at Mansfield Park, about sending her a prayer-book ; but no second
sound had been heard of such a purpose. Mrs. Norris, however, had gone
home and taken down two old prayer-books of her husband with that idea ;
but, upon examination, the ardour of generosity went off. One was found
to have too small a print for a child's eyes, and the other to be too cumber-
some for her to carry about.
706 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
Fanny, fatigued and fatigued again, was thankful to accept the first
invitation of going to bed ; and before Betsey had finished her cry at being
allowed to sit up only one hour extraordinary in honour of sister, she was
off, leaving all below in confusion and noise again ; the boys begging for
toasted cheese, her father calling out for his rum and water, and Rebecca
never where she ought to be.
There was nothing to raise her spirits in the confined and scantily-
furnished chamber that she was to share with Susan. 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 Mansfield Park, in that house reck-
oned too small for anybody's comfort.
Chapter 39
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 draw-
backs 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, and been
delighted with his own sagacity.
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 Ports-
mouth ; 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 ac-
quaintance 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 of Fanny."
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 im-
propriety. 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
MANSFIELbPARK 707
navy-list; 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 now he scarcely ever noticed her, but to
make her the object of a coarse joke.
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 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 ; always busy without getting on ; always behind hand
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 in-
dulging them, without any power of engaging their respect.
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 simi-
lar affluence and do-nothingness would have been much more suited to
her capacity than the exertions and self-denials of the one which her im-
prudent 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, ill-judging parent, a dawdle, a slattern, who neither taught nor re-
strained 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
7 o8 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 use-
fulness, 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 ill-timed
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 re-
turn of their riotous games all over the house ; and she very early learned
to sigh at the approach of Saturday's constant half holiday.
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 provo-
cation, 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 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
every hour of the day, by the prevalence of everything opposite to them
here.
The living in incessant noise was, to a frame and temper delicate and
nervous like Fanny's, an evil which no super-added elegance or harmony
could have entirely atoned for. It was the greatest misery of all. At Mans-
field, 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
MANSFIELD PARR 709
loud (excepting, perhaps, her mother's, which resembled the soft monot-
ony of Lady Bertram's, only worn into fretfulness) . Whatever was wanted
was halloo'd for, and the servants halloo'd 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 when they spoke.
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
Park might have some pains, Portsmouth could have no pleasures.
Chapter 40
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 con-
tinued, "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 the
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 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 self-possession, 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 Lascelles's,
7io THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 honour-
able 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 whom you disdain for his sake."
There was great food for meditation in this letter, and chiefly for
unpleasant meditation; and yet, with all the uneasiness it supplied, it
connected her with the absent, it told her of people and things about
whom she had never felt so much curiosity as now, and she would have
been glad to have been sure of such a letter every week. Her correspond-
ence 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 in-
troductions either to old or new acquaintances. The young ladies who
approached her at first with some respect, in consideration of her coming
from a baronet's family, were soon offended by what they termed "airs" ;
for, as she neither played on the pianoforte, nor wore fine pelisses, they
could, on farther observation, admit no right of superiority.
The first solid consolation which Fanny received for the evils of home,
the first which her judgment could entirely approve, and which gave any
promise of durability, was in a better knowledge of Susan, and a hope
of being of service to her. Susan had always behaved pleasantly to herself,
but the determined character of her general manners had astonished and
alarmed her, and it was at least a fortnight before she began to under-
stand 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
MANSFIELDPARK 7"
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 indul-
gence and vulgarity.
In every argument with her mother, Susan had in point of reason the
advantage, and never was there any maternal tenderness to buy her off.
The blind fondness which was for ever producing evil around her she had
never known. There was no gratitude for affection past or present to
make her better bear with its excesses to the others.
All this became gradually evident, and gradually placed Susan before
her sister as an object of mingled compassion and respect. That her man-
ner was wrong, however, at times very wrong, her measures often ill-
chosen and ill-timed, and her looks and language very often indefensible,
Fanny could not cease to feel; but she began to hope they might be
rectified. Susan, she found, looked up to her and wished for her good
opinion ; and new as anything like an office of authority was to Fanny,
new as it was to imagine herself capable of guiding or informing any one,
she did resolve to give occasional hints to Susan, and endeavour to exer-
cise for her advantage the juster notions of what was due to everybody,
and what would be wisest for herself, which her own more favoured
education had fixed in her.
Her influence, or at least the consciousness and use of it, originated in
an act of kindness by Susan, which, after many hesitations of delicacy,
she at last worked herself up to. It had very early occurred to her that a
small sum of money might, perhaps, restore peace for ever on the sore
subject of the silver knife, canvassed as it now was continually, and the
riches which she was in possession of herself, her uncle having given her
10 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 en-
tirely done away, and it was the means of opening Susan's heart to her,
712 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
and giving her something more to love and be interested in. Susan showed
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 for her having so struggled as to make the purchase necessary
for the tranquillity of the house.
Her temper was open. She acknowledged her fears, blamed herself
for having contended so warmly; and from that hour Fanny, under-
standing 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 understand-
ing, and given so mildly and considerately as not to irritate an imperfect
temper, and she had the happiness of observing its good effects not
unfrequently. More was not expected by one who, while seeing all the
obligation and expediency of submission and forbearance, saw also with
sympathetic acuteness of feeling all that must be hourly grating to a
girl like Susan. Her greatest wonder on the subject soon became not
that Susan should have been provoked into disrespect and impatience
against her better knowledge but that so much better knowledge, so
many good notions should have been hers at all; and that, brought up
in the midst of negligence and error, she should have formed such
proper opinions of what ought to be; she, who had had no cousin
Edmund to direct her thoughts or fix her principles.
The intimacy thus begun between them was a material advantage to
each. By sitting together upstairs, they avoided a great deal of the
disturbance of the house; Fanny had peace, and Susan learned to think
it no misfortune to be quietly employed. They sat without a fire; but
that was a privation familiar even to Fanny, and she suffered the less
because reminded by it of the East Room. It was the only point of re-
semblance. In space, light, furniture, and prospect, there was nothing
alike in the two apartments; and she often heaved a sigh at the re-
membrance 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 chooser of books! And to be having any one's improve-
ment 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 pleasure, and inspire
a taste for the biography and poetry which she delighted in herself.
In this occupation she hoped, moreover, to bury some of the recollec-
MANSFIELDPARK 713
tions of Mansfield, which were too apt to seize her mind if her fingers
only were busy; and especially at this time, hoped it might be useful
in diverting her thoughts from pursuing Edmund to London, whither,
on the authority of her aunt's last letter, she knew he was gone. She
had no doubt of what would ensue. The promised notification was
hanging over her head. The postman's knock within the neighbourhood
was beginning to bring its daily terrors, and if reading could banish
the idea for even half an hour, it was something gained.
Chapter 41
A WEEK was gone since Edmund might be supposed in town, and Fanny
had heard nothing of him. There were three different conclusions to be
drawn from his silence, between which her mind was in fluctuation;
each of them at times being held the most probable. Either his going
had been again delayed or he had yet procured no opportunity of seeing
Miss Crawford alone, or he was too happy for letter-writing!
One morning, about this time, Fanny having now been nearly four
weeks from Mansfield, a point which she never failed to think over
and calculate every day, as she and Susan were preparing to remove, as
usual, upstairs, they were stopped by the knock of a visitor, whom they
felt they could not avoid, from Rebecca's alertness in going to the door,
a duty which always interested her beyond any other.
It was a gentleman's voice; it was a voice that Fanny was just turn-
ing pale about, when Mr. Crawford walked into the room.
Good sense, like hers, will always act when really called upon; and
she found that she had been able to name him to her mother, and recall
her remembrance of the name, as that of "William's friend," though
she could not previously have believed herself capable of uttering a
syllable at such a moment. The consciousness of his being known there
only as William's friend was some support. Having introduced him,
however, and being all reseated, the terrors that occurred of what this
visit might lead to were overpowering, and she fancied herself on the
point of fainting away.
While trying to keep herself alive, their visitor, who had at first ap-
proached her with as animated a countenance as ever, was wisely and
kindly keeping his eyes away, and giving her time to recover, while he
devoted himself entirely to her mother, addressing her, and attending
to her with the utmost politeness and propriety, at the same time with a
degree of friendliness, of interest, at least, which was making his
manner perfect.
Mrs. Price's manners were also at their best. Warmed by the sight
of such a friend to her son, and regulated by the wish of appearing to
advantage before him, she was overflowing with gratitude, artless, ma-
ternal gratitude, which could not be unpleasing. Mr. Price was out, which
7U THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
she regretted very much. Fanny was just recovered enough to feel that
she could not regret it; for to her many other sources of uneasiness
was added the severe one of shame for the home in which he found her.
She might scold herself for the weakness, but there was no scolding
it away. She was ashamed, and she would have been yet more ashamed
of her father than of all the rest.
They talked of William; a subject on which Mrs. Price could never
tire; and Mr. Crawford was as warm in his commendation as even
her heart could wish. She felt that she had never seen so agreeable a
man in her life; and was only astonished to find, that so great and so
agreeable as he was, he should be come down to Portsmouth neither
on a visit to the port-admiral, nor the commissioner, nor yet with the
intention of going over to the island, nor of seeing the dockyard. Noth-
ing of all that she had been used to think of as the proof of impor-
tance, or the employment of wealth, had brought him to Portsmouth.
He had reached it late the night before, was come for a day or two,
was staying at the Crown, had accidentally met with a navy officer or
two of his acquaintance since his arrival, but had no object of that
kind in coming.
By the time he had given all this information, it was not unreasonable
to suppose that Fanny might be looked at and spoken to; and she was
tolerably able to bear his eye, and hear that he had spent half an hour
with his sister the evening before his leaving London; that she had
sent her best and kindest love, but had had no time for writing; that
he thought himself lucky in seeing Mary for even half an hour, having
spent scarcely twenty-four hours in London, after his return from Nor-
folk, before he set off again; that her cousin Edmund was in town,
had been in town, he understood, a few days ; that he had not seen him
himself, but that he was well, had left them all well at Mansfield, and
was to dine, as yesterday, with the Frasers.
Fanny listened collectedly, even to the last-mentioned circumstance;
nay, it seemed a relief to her worn mind to be at any certainty ; and the
words, "then by this time it is all settled," passed internally, without
more evidence of emotion than a faint blush.
After talking a little more about Mansfield, a subject in which her
interest was most apparent, Crawford began to hint at the expediency
of an early walk. "It was a lovely morning, and at that season of the
year a fine morning so often turned off, that it was wisest for everybody
not to delay their exercise;" and such hints producing nothing, he
soon proceeded to a positive recommendation to Mrs. Price and her
daughters, to take their walk without loss of time. Now they came to
an understanding. Mrs. Price, it appeared, scarcely ever stirred out of
doors, except on a Sunday ; she owned she could seldom, with her large
family, find time for a walk. "Would she not, then, persuade her daugh-
ters to take advantage of such weather, and allow him the pleasure
of attending them?" Mrs. Price wasjreatly obliged and very complying.
MANSFIELDPARK 715
"Her daughters were very much confined; Portsmouth was a sad place;
they did not often get out; and she knew they had some errands in
the town, which they would be very glad to do." And the consequence
was that Fanny, strange as it was, strange, awkward, and distressing,
found herself and Susan, within ten minutes, walking towards the High
Street, with Mr. Crawford.
It was soon pain upon pain, confusion upon confusion ; for they were
hardly in the High Street, before they met her father, whose appearance
was not the better from its being Saturday. He stopped, and, ungentle-
manlike as he looked, Fanny was obliged to introduce him to Mr. Craw-
ford. She could not have a doubt of the manner in which Mr. Crawford
must be struck. He must be ashamed and disgusted altogether. He must
soon give her up, and cease to have the smallest inclination for the
match ; and yet, though she had been so much wanting his affection to
be cured, this was a sort of cure that would be almost as bad as the
complaint; and I believe there is scarcely a young lady in the United
Kingdoms who would not rather put up with the misfortune of being
sought by a clever, agreeable man, than have him driven away by the
vulgarity of her nearest relations.
Mr. Crawford probably could not regard his future father-in-law with
any idea of taking him for a model in dress; but (as Fanny instantly,
and to her great relief, discerned) her father was a very different man,
a very different Mr. Price in his behaviour to this most highly respected
stranger, from what he was in his own family at home. His manners
now, though not polished, were more than passable; they were grateful,
animated, manly; his expressions were those of an attached father,
and a sensible man; his loud tones did very well in the open air, and
there was not a single oath to be heard. Such was his instinctive com-
pliment to the good manners of Mr. Crawford ; and, be the consequence
what it might, Fanny's immediate feelings were infinitely soothed.
The conclusion of the two gentlemen's civilities was an offer of Mr.
Price's to take Mr. Crawford into the dockyard, which Mr. Crawford,
desirous of accepting as a favour what was intended as such, though he
had seen the dockyard again and again, and hoping to be so much the
longer with Fanny, was very gratefully disposed to avail himself of, if
the Miss Prices were not afraid of the fatigue; and as it was somehow
or other ascertained or inferred, or at least acted upon, that they were
not at all afraid, to the dockyard they were all to go; and but for Mr.
Crawford, Mr. Price would have turned thither directly, without the
smallest consideration for his daughters' errands in the High Street.
He took care, however, that they should be allowed to go to the shops
they came out expressly to visit; and it did not delay them long, for
Fanny could so little bear to excite impatience, or be waited for, that
before the gentlemen, as they stood at the door, could do more than
begin upon the last naval regulations, or settle the number of three-
deckers now in commission, their companions were ready to proceed.
7i6 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
They were then to set forward for the dockyard at once, and the walk
would have been conducted (according to Mr. Crawford's opinion) in a
singular manner, had Mr. Price been allowed the entire regulation of it,
as the two girls, he found, would have been left to follow, and keep up
with them or not, as they could, while they walked on together at their
own hasty pace. He was able to introduce some improvement occasion-
ally, 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 look out!" he would give them
his particular attendance.
Once fairly in the dockyard, he began to reckon upon some happy
intercourse with Fanny, as they were very soon joined by a brother
lounger of Mr. Price's, who was come to take his daily survey of how
things went on, and who must prove a far more worthy companion than
himself; and after a time the two officers seemed very well satisfied
going about together, and discussing matters of equal and never-failing
interest, while the young people sat down upon some timbers in the
yard, or found a seat on board a vessel in the stocks which they all went
to look at. Fanny was most conveniently in want of rest. Crawford could
not have wished her more fatigued or more ready to sit down; but he
could have wished her sister away. A quick-looking girl of Susan's age
was the very worst third in the world: totally different from Lady
Bertram, all eyes and ears; and there was no introducing the main
point before her. He must content himself with being only generally
agreeable, and letting Susan have her share of entertainment, with the
indulgence, now and then, of a look or hint for the better informed
and conscious Fanny. Norfolk was what he had mostly to talk of : there
he had been some time, and everything there was rising in importance
from his present schemes. Such a man could come from no place, no
society, without importing something to amuse; his journeys and his
acquaintances were all of use, and Susan was entertained in' a way
quite new to her. For Fanny, somewhat more was related than the acci-
dental 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 re-
newal of a lease in which the welfare of a large and (he believed) in-
dustrious 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 fore-
seen, had been useful to more than his first plan had comprehended, and
was now able to congratulate himself upon it, r.nd to feel that, in per-
forming 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 acquaintances with cottages whose very
MANSFIELDPARE 717
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 Evering-
ham and all about it a dearer object than it had ever been yet.
She turned away, and wished he would not say such things. She was
willing to allow he might have more good qualities than she had been
wont to suppose. She began to feel the possibility of his turning out
well at last; but he was and must ever be completely unsuited to her,
and ought not to think of her.
He perceived that enough had been said of Everingham, and that it
would be as well to talk of something else, and turned to Mansfield. He
could not have chosen better ; that was a topic to bring back her atten-
tion 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 men-
tioned 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 speak-
ing of her uncle as all that was clever and good, and her aunt as having
the sweetest of all sweet tempers.
He had a great attachment to Mansfield himself; he said so; he
looked forward with the hope of spending much, very much, of his time
there ; always there, or in the neighbourhood. He particularly built upon
a very happy summer and autumn there this year; he felt that it would
be so; he depended upon it; a summer and autumn infinitely superior
to the last. As animated as diversified, as social, but with circumstances
of superiority undescribable.
"Mansfield, Sotherton, Thornton Lacey," he continued, "what a so-
ciety will be comprised in those houses! And at Michaelmas, perhaps, a
fourth may be added: some small hunting-box in the vicinity of every-
thing so dear; for as to any partnership in Thornton Lacey, as Edmund
Bertram once good-humouredly proposed, I hope I foresee two objec-
tions: 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 acknowl-
edged comprehension of one half of his meaning, and encouraged him
to say something more of his sister and Edmund. It was a subject which
she must learn to speak of, and the weakness that shrunk from it would
soon be quite unpardonable.
When Mr. Price and his friend had seen all that they wished, or had
time for, the others were ready to return; and in the course of their walk
7i8 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
back, Mr. Crawford contrived a minute's privacy for telling Fanny that
his only business in Portsmouth was to see her ; that he was come down
for a couple of days on her account and hers only, and because he
could not endure a longer total separation. She was sorry, really sorry;
and yet in spite of this and the two or three other things which she
wished he had not said, she thought him altogether improved since
she had seen him; he was much more gentle, obliging, and attentive to
other people's feelings than he had ever been at Mansfield; she had
never seen him so agreeable so near being agreeable; his behaviour
to her father could not offend, and there was something particularly
kind and proper in the notice he took of Susan. He was decidedly im-
proved. She wished the next day over, she wished he had come only
for one day; but it was not so very bad as she would have expected:
the pleasure of talking of Mansfield was so very great.
Before they parted, she had to thank him for another pleasure, and
one of no trivial kind. Her father asked him to do them the honour of
taking his mutton with them, and Fanny had time for only one thrill of
horror, before he declared himself prevented by a prior engagement. He
was engaged to dinner already both for that day and the next ; he had
met with some acquaintance at the Crown who would not be denied;
he should have the honour, however, of waiting on them again on the
morrow, etc., and so they parted Fanny in a state of actual felicity
from escaping so horrible an evil!
To have had him join their family dinner-party, and see all their
deficiencies, would have been dreadful! Rebecca's cookery, and Rebecca's
waiting, and Betsey's eating at table without restraint, and pulling
everything about as she chose, were what Fanny herself was not yet
enough inured to for her often to make a tolerable meal. She was nice
only from natural delicacy, but he had been brought up in a school of
luxury and epicurism.
Chapter 42
THE Prices were just setting off for church the next day when Mr.
Crawford appeared again. He came, not to stop, but to join them; he
was asked to go with them to the Garrison Chapel, which was exactly
what he had intended, and they all walked thither together.
The family were now seen to advantage. Nature had given them no
inconsiderable share of beauty, and every Sunday dressed them in their
cleanest skins and best attire. Sunday always brought this comfort to
Fanny, and on this Sunday she felt it more than ever. Her poor mother
now did not look so very unworthy of being Lady Bertram's sister as she
was but too apt to look. It often grieved her to the heart to think of the
contrast between them; to think that where nature had made so little
difference, circumstances should have made so much, and that her mother
MANSFIELDPARK 719
as handsome as Lady Bertram, and some years her junior, should have an
appearance so much more worn and faded, so comfortless, so slatternly,
so shabby. But Sunday made her a very creditable and tolerably cheerful-
looking Mrs. Price, coming abroad with a fine family of children, feeling
a little respite of her weekly cares, and only discomposed if she saw her
boys run into danger, or Rebecca pass by with a flower in her hat.
In chapel they were obliged to divide, but Mr. Crawford took care
not to be divided from the female branch; and after chapel he still
continued with them, and made one in the family party on the ramparts.
Mrs. Price took her weekly walk on the ramparts every fine Sunday
throughout the year, always going directly after morning service and
staying till dinner-time. It was her public place: there she met her ac-
quaintances, heard a little news, talked over the badness of the Ports-
mouth servants, and wound up her spirits for the six days ensuing.
Thither they now went; Mr. Crawford most happy to consider the
Miss Prices as his peculiar charge; and before they had been there long,
somehow or other, there was no saying how, Fanny could not have
believed it, but he was walking between them with an arm of each
under his, and she did not know how to prevent or put an end to it. It
made her uncomfortable for a time, but yet there were enjoyments in
the day and in the view which would be felt.
The day was uncommonly lovely. It was really March ; but it was April
in its mild air, brisk soft wind, and bright sun, occasionally clouded for a
minute; and everything looked so beautiful under the influence of such
a sky; the effects of the shadows pursuing each other on the ships at
Spithead and the island beyond, with the ever-varying hues of the sea,
now at high water, dancing in its glee and dashing against the ramparts
with so fine a sound, produced altogether such a combination of charms
for Fanny, as made her gradually almost careless of the circumstances
under which she felt them. Nay, had she been without his arm, she
would soon have known that she needed it, for she wanted strength for
a two hours' saunter of this kind, coming, as it generally did, upon a
week's previous inactivity. Fanny was beginning to feel the effect of
being debarred from her usual regular exercise; she had lost ground as
to health since her being in Portsmouth; and but for Mr. Crawford and
the beauty of the weather would soon have been knocked up now.
The loveliness of the day, and of the view, he felt like herself. They
often stopped 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
720 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
chat her present residence could not be comfortable, and therefore could
not be salutary for her, and he was growing anxious for her being again
at Mansfield, where her own happiness, and his in seeing her. must be
so much greater.
"You have been here a month, I think?" said he.
"No; not quite a month. It is only four weeks to-morrow since I left
Mansfield."
"You are a most accurate and honest reckoner. I should call that a
month."
"I did not arrive here till Tuesday evening."
"And it is to be a two months' visit, is not it?"
"Yes. My uncle talked of two months. I suppose it will not be less."
"And how are you to be conveyed back again? Who comes for you?"
''I do not know. I have heard nothing about it yet from my aunt.
Perhaps I may be able to stay longer. It may not be convenient for me
to be fetched exactly at the two months' end."
After a moment's reflection Mr. Crawford replied, "I know Mansfield,
I know its way, I know its faults towards you. I know the danger of
your being so far forgotten, as to have your comforts give way to the
imaginary convenience of any single being in the family. I am aware
that you may be left here week after week, if Sir Thomas cannot settle
everything for coming himself, or sending your aunt's maid for you,
without involving the slightest alteration of the arrangements which he
may have laid down for the next quarter of a year. This will not do.
Two months is an ample allowance; I should think six weeks quite enough.
1 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 un-
well, and any difficulties arise about your returning to Mansfield, with-
out 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 com-
fortable than usual, and will only let my sister know it, give her only
the slightest hint, she and I will immediately come down, and take
you back to Mansfield. You know the ease and the pleasure with which
this would be done. You know all that would be felt on the occasion."
Fanny thanked him, but tried to laugh it off.
"I am perfectly serious," he replied, "as you perfectly know. And I
hope you will not be cruelly concealing any tendency to indisposition.
Indeed, you shall not; it shall not be in your power; for so long only
as you positively say, in every letter to Mary, 'I am well,' and I know
you cannot speak or write a falsehood, so long only shall you be con-
sidered as well."
Fanny thanked him again, but was affected and distressed to a degree
MANSFIELDPARK 7i
that made it impossible for her to say much, or even to be eeilain of
what fthe "in-lit to say. I'his was lowaids the close of their walk. He
attended them to the last, and lelt them only at the dooi ol then own
house, when he knew I hem to be .!'.'"'" to dinner, and therefore pre-
tended to be waiteil for elsewhere.
"I wish you were not so In '(I," said he. still detainm- k'anny allei all
the other, wete in the house "I wi -h I lelt \oii m ,lion".ei health. Is
thete anylhim. 1 , I i an do lor you town I have hall an idea of j'." m ". mll)
Norfolk arain soon. I am not sal i'. lied about Maddisoii. | am sine he
shll means te impose on me if possible, and i-.el a con m ol hi-, own into
a intain mill. win. h I design loi somebody else. I must come to an
under. laiidiji! 1 , with him. I must make him know that I will not be
hiiked on the south side ol I yei im-Jiam, any moie than on the notth
that I will be ma, lei ol my own piopeily. I was not rxpluil enoii!'.h
with him before. The mis hief sueh a man doe, on an estate, both as
to the (redii of his employer and the welfare of the pom , [| mon
trivahle. I have a i-ieal mind to ro ba I. into Not lolk dnetlly, and
put eveiyihin.!-. at once on such a foot in^ as cannot be a Met waul, ,wei veil
Mom. Maddr.on is a lever fellow; I do not wish to dispku e him, pi o
\ided he doe, not tiy to displace nir ; but it would be ample to h"
duped by a man who has no li'-hi ol iiedilor to dupe me, and \\or.e
than simple to let him i-.ivC me a hard-hearted, gripmr lellow for Ji
tenant, instead of an hone -t man, to whom I haye riven hall a piomi .e
already. Would it not be woi ,e than simple' Miall I -.,' I )o you ad
vise it .'"
I advise! Ym know veiy well what isrirhl."
\ . When you ^ivr me yom ipinion, I always know what is lil^llt.
\ ..m jndi'.menl is tny rule ol i iv.hl ."
( )h, MO! do not say >o. \\'e havr all a belter imide in ourselves, it we
would attend to il, than any other peison tan be. Cnod bye; I wish you
a pleasant journey to mot row."
"Is theie nolhiii!', I i an do I'm you in town?"
\olhii)!', I am HUM h obln-ed I., you."
"Have you no mess.i!',e for an\ bo.|\
M\ love i" y>ur sister, if you please; and when you see my cousin,
my i on-. in I'.dmnnd, I wish yon would be so :-oo,| a . to .ay lhal I siipjvoe
I .hall soon he n Mom him."
"Certainly; and ii h- .s iazy or negligent, I will vnte his excuses
m\ .ell
'lie loiild say no more, In, I anny would be no loiivei detained, lie
pressed her hand, looked at hei. and was gone. //' went lo winie away
the next llnee hoius as he could, with hi, ol hei acquaintance, till the
best dinner that a capital inn allot. led was ready l'r then enjoyment,
and \//r turned m to her mote simple .,-ie immedialel\
'I hen jM-neial I.H e boi e a vei \- dillei en I h.i, a. I ei , and mild he h a v
Slispei I "i I how many | n i\ at ion ., be .ide . I hat ol exeic ise, .he endmed in
722 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
her father's house, he would have wondered that her looks were not much
more affected than he found them. She was so little equal to Rebecca's
puddings and Rebecca's hashes, brought to table, as they all were, with
such accompaniments of half-cleaned plates, and not half-cleaned knives
and forks, that she was very often constrained to defer her heartiest meal
till she could send her brothers in the evening for biscuits and buns. After
being nursed up at Mansfield, it was too late in the day to be hardened
at Portsmouth; and though Sir Thomas, had he known all, might have
thought his niece in the most promising way of being starved, both mind
and body, into a much juster value of Mr. Crawford's good company
and good fortune, he would probably have feared to push his experiment
farther, lest she might die under the cure.
Fanny was out of spirits all the rest of the day. Though tolerably secure
of not seeing Mr. Crawford again, she could not help being low. It was
parting with somebody of the nature of a friend; and though, in one
light, glad to have him gone, it seemed as if she was now deserted by every-
body ; it was a sort of renewed separation from Mansfield ; and she could
not think of his returning to town and being frequently with Mary and
Edmund, without feelings so near akin to envy as made her hate herself
for having them.
Her dejection had no abatement from anything passing around her ; a
friend or two of her father's, as always happened if he was not with them,
spent the long, long evening there; and from six o'clock till half -past nine,
there was little intermission of noise or grog. She was very low. The won-
derful 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 see-
ing him, nor how much might be owing to contrast, she was quite per-
suaded of his being astonishingly more gentle and regardful of others than
formerly. And, if in little things, must it not be so in great? So anxious
for her health and comfort, so very feeling as he now expressed himself,
and really seemed, might not it be fairly supposed that he would not
much longer persevere in a suit so distressing to her?
Chapter 43
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,
MANSFIELD PARK 723
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 every-
thing was just as it ought to be, in a style that any of her connections
must have been gratified to witness, and that her own dress and manners
did her the greatest credit. My friend, Mrs. Fraser, is made for such a
house, and it would not make me miserable. I go to Lady Stornaway after
Easter; she seems in high spirits, and very happy. I fancy Lord S. is very
good-humoured and pleasant in his own family, and I do not think
him so very ill-looking as I did at least, one sees many worse. He will
not do by the side of your cousin Edmund. Of the last-mentioned hero,
what shall I say? If I avoided his name entirely, it would look suspicious.
I will say, then, that we have seen him two or three times, and that my
friends here are very much struck with his gentlemanlike appearance.
Mrs. Fraser (no bad judge) declares she knows but three men in town
who have so good a person, height, and air ; and I must confess, when he
dined here the other day, there were none to compare with him, and we
were a party of sixteen. Luckily there is no distinction of dress nowadays
to tell tales, but but but Yours affectionately
"I had almost forgot (it was Edmund's fault: he gets into my head more
than does me good) one very material thing I had to say from Henry and
myself I mean about our taking you back into Northamptonshire. My
dear little creature, do not stay at Portsmouth to lose your pretty looks.
Those vile sea-breezes are the ruin of beauty and health. My poor aunt
always felt affected if within ten miles of the sea, which the Admiral of
course never believed, but I know it was so. I am at your service and
Henry's, at an hour's notice. I should like the scheme, and we would make
a little circuit, and show you Everingham in our way, and perhaps you
would not mind passing through London, and seeing the inside of St.
724 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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
i4th, 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 I
own I am not sorry for having a little curiosity, and so I think has he
though he will not acknowledge it."
This was a letter to be run through eagerly, to be read deliberately, to
supply matter for much reflection, and to leave everything in greater
suspense than ever. The only certainty to be drawn from it was, that
nothing decisive had yet taken place. Edmund had not yet spoken. How
Miss Crawford really felt, how she meant to act, or might act without or
against her meaning ; whether his importance to her were quite what it had
been before the last separation; whether, if lessened, it were likely to
lessen more, or to recover itself, were subjects for endless conjecture, and
to be thought of on that day and many days to come, without producing
any conclusion. The idea that returned the oftenest was that Miss Craw-
ford, after proving herself cooled and staggered by a return to London
habits, would yet prove herself in the end too much attached to him to
give him up. She would try to be more ambitious than her heart would
allow. She would hesitate, she would tease, she would condition, she would
require a great deal, but she would finally accept.
This was Fanny's most frequent expectation. A house in town, that, she
thought, must be impossible. Yet there was no saying what Miss Crawford
might not ask. The prospect for her cousin grew worse and worse. The
woman who could speak of him, and speak only of his appearance! What
an unworthy attachment ! To be deriving support from the commendations
of Mrs. Fraser ! She who had known him intimately Jialf 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 i4th was certainly no
concern of hers, though, everything considered she thought he would go
without delay. That Miss Crawford should endeavour to secure a meeting
between him and Mrs. Rushworth was all in her worst line of conduct, and
grossly unkind and ill-judged; but she hoped he would not be actuated by
any such degrading curiosity. He acknowledged no such inducement, and
his sister ought to have given him credit for better feelings than her own.
She was yet more impatient for another letter from town after receiving
this than she had been before ; and for a few days was so unsettled by it
altogether, by what had come, and what might come, that her usual
readings and conversations with Susan were much suspended. She could
not command her attention as she wished. If Mr. Crawford remembered
MANSFIELDPARK 725
her message to her cousin, she thought it very likely, most likely, that he
would write to her at all events; it would be most consistent with his
usual kindness ; and till she got rid of this idea, till it gradually wore off,
by no letters appearing in the course of three or four days more, she was
in a most restless, anxious state.
At length, a something like composure succeeded. Suspense must be
submitted to, and must not be allowed to wear her out, and make her
useless. Time did something, her own exertions something more, and she
resumed her attentions to Susan, and again awakened the same interest
in them.
Susan was growing very fond of her, and though without any of the
early delight in books, which had been so strong in Fanny, with a dis-
position much less inclined to sedentary pursuits, or to information for
information's sake, she had so strong a desire, of not appearing ignorant,
as, with a good clear understanding, made her a most attentive, profitable,
thankful pupil. Fanny was her oracle. Fanny's explanations and remarks
were a most important addition to every essay, or every chapter of history.
What Fanny told her of former times dwelt more on her mind than the
pages of Goldsmith ; and she paid her sister the compliment of preferring
her style to that of any printed author. The early habit of reading was
wanting.
Their conversations, however, were not always on subjects so high as,
history or morals. Others had their hour; and of lesser matters none
returned so often, or remained so long between them, as Mansfield Park,
a description of the people, the manners, the amusements, the ways of
Mansfield Park. Susan, who had an innate taste for the genteel and well-
appointed, was eager to hear, and Fanny could not but indulge herself
in dwelling on so beloved a theme. She hoped it was not wrong; though,
after a time, Susan's very great admiration of everything said or done in
her uncle's house, and earnest longing to go into Northamptonshire,
seemed almost to blame her for exciting feelings which could not be
gratified.
Poor Susan was very little better fitted for home than her elder sister;
and as Fanny grew thoroughly to understand this, she began to feel that
when her own release from Portsmouth came, her happiness would have a
material drawback in leaving Susan behind. That a girl so capable of being
made everything good should be left in such hands, distressed her more
and more. Were she likely to have a home to invite her to, what a blessing
it would be! And had it been possible for her to return Mr. Crawford's
regard, the probability of his being very far from objecting to such a
measure would have been the greatest increase of all her own comforts.
She thought he was really good-tempered, and could fancy his entering
into a plan of that sort most pleasantly.
726 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
Chapter 44
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 mi-
nute detail of happiness and a profusion of love and praise towards the
fortunate creature who was now mistress of his fate. These were the
contents:
MANSFIELD PARK.
"My DEAR FANNY, Excuse me that I have not written before. Craw-
ford told me that you were wishing to hear from me, but I found it im-
possible to write from London, and persuaded myself that you would
understand my silence. Could I have sent a few happy lines, they should
not have been wanting, but nothing of that nature was ever in my power.
I am returned to Mansfield in a less assured state than when I left it. My
hopes are much weaker. You are probably aware of this already. So very
fond of you as Miss Crawford is, it is most natural that she should tell you
enough of her own feelings to furnish a tolerable guess at mine. I will not be
prevented however, from making my own communication. Our confi-
dences 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 Erasers that could
be reasonably expected. I dare say I was not reasonable in carrying with
me hopes of an intercourse at all like that of Mansfield. It was her manner,
however, rather than any unfrequency of meeting. Had she been different
when I did see her, I should have made no complaint, but from the very
first she was altered ; my first reception was so unlike what I had hoped,
that I had almost resolved on leaving London again directly. I need not
particularise. You know the weak side of her character, and may imagine
the sentiments and expressions which were torturing me. She was in high
spirits, and surrounded by those who were giving all the support of their
own bad sense to her too lively mind. I do not like Mrs. Fraser. She is a
cold-hearted, vain woman, who has married entirely from convenience,
and though evidently unhappy in her marriage, places her disappoint-
ment 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
MANSFIELDPARK 727
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 comfcrt, 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. Eraser, 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 un-
lucky moment, lead it to do what it may afterwards regret. I must think
726 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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. Eraser'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 in-
estimable 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 Ber-
tram. 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 pen instead of hers. Yours ever, my dearest Fanny "
"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 poor aunt talking of me every hour! "
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 does 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
MANSFIELDPARK 729
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 con-
sider as comprehending the loss of Crawford and Fanny.' Edmund, you do
not know me. The families would never be connected if you did not con-
nect 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 for the world, and which could never be
valued enough. This was the end of it.
Everybody at all addicted to letter-writing, 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 credit'
able, commonplace, amplifying style, so that 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 deprived of one of the last epistolary
uses she could put them to.
There was a rich amends, however, preparing for her. Lady Bertram's
hour of good luck came. Within a 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 doubt will give you much con-
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 notice by express a few hours before.
Tom had gone from London with a party of young men to Newmarket,
730 i THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 in-
increased considerably, and it was not long before he thought so ill of
himself, as to be as ready as his physician to have a letter dispatched to
Mansfield.
"This distressing intelligence, as you may suppose," observed her lady-
ship, 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 incon-
venience or injury. As I have little doubt of your feeling for us, my dear
Fanny, under these distressing circumstances, I will write again very
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 affection-
ate 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 Mans-
field, 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
MANSFIELDPARK 73I
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
;o-morrow, 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 experi-
ence 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 to-day
and looking forward to to-morrow'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 self-denying his life had
(apparently) been.
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 a
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
trouble."
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 dear sister Price to have them so
well provided for.
Chapter 45
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 imposi-
tion. 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
732 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 showed her the patient and the sick
room 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 imagina-
tion 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
her selfishness and vanity it would be good luck to have Edmund the only
son.
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 alarm-
ingly slow.
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 return, nothing-
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
MANSFIELD PARK 733
understand ; and who could say when there might be leisure to think of
01 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 school-boy's bosom to feel more keenly.
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 Mans-
field. 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 for 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 prog-
ress of vegetation had delighted her. W T hat 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 ver-
dure, 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 the longing to be useful to those who were wanting
her!
Could she nave 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
734 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
of solitude, or the still greater evil of a restless, officious companion, toe
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 messages she might have carried.
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. Rush-
worth 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 connections
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 received to revive old v and create
some new sensations:
"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 dis-
tress 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
io hear there has been any mistake, but the report is so prevalent, that
MANSFIELDPARK 735
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 physi-
cian 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 anyone, 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 fountain-head. 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 hus-
band 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? Yours ever,
"MARY.
"I had actually began 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
to-day ; 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 con-
veying 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
r%6 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 conscience
(conscientious as you are) keep away, when you have the means of re-
turning. I have not time or patience to give half Henry's messages; be
satisfied that the spirit of each and everyone is unalterable affection."
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 deter-
mine 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 uncfe, 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 encum-
brance."
Her representation of her cousin's state at this time was exactly accord-
ing 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 wish-
ing 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.
She had only learnt to think nothing of consequence but money.
Chapter 46
As Fanny could not doubt that her answer was conveying a real dis-
appointment, 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
iid come.
MANSFIELDPARK 737
On receiving it, she could instantly decide on its containing little writ-
ing, 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 Craw-
ford's having applied 'o her uncle and obtained his permission, was giving
her ease. This was the letter:
"A most scandalous, ill-natured 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 Rush-
worth'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 you? I wish you may not repent it. Yours, etc."
Fanny stood aghast. As no scandalous, ill-natured 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 any-
thing unpleasant should have preceded them, or at least should make any
.mpression.
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
any longer in addressing herself.
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 correspondent was not of a sort to regard a
slight one.
Very uncomfortable she was, and must continue, till she heard from
Miss Crawford again. It was impossible to banish the letter from her
738 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 what was due to her cousin.
The next day came and brought no second letter. Fanny was disap-
pointed. 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 head.
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 a 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 other-
wise have slept. There was neither health nor gaiety in cunshine 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 tea-board
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 great cousins in town, Fan?"
A moment's recollection enabled her to say, "Rushworth, sir."
"And don't they live in Wimpole Street?"
"Yes, sir."
"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 best way of preventing such things."
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 bril-
liant a leader in the fashionable world, having quitted her husband's
roof in company with the well-known and captivating Mr. C., the intimate
friend and associate of Mr. R., and it was not known, even to the editor
of the newspaper, whither they were gone."
MANSFIELDPARK 739
"It is a mistake, sir," said Fanny, instantly; "it must, be a mistake, it
cannot be true ; it must mean some other people."
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 afterwards matter of wonder to herself.
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
anybody."
"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 spoken at least a dozen times; have not I, Betsey? And
it would not be ten minutes' work."
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 exist-
ence, 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 cc uld see her own mistake as
to who were gone, or said to be gone. It was not Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth ;
it was Mrs. Rushworth and Mr. Crawford.
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 con-
nected 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 hei
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 Crawford's letter stamped it a fact.
What would be the consequence? Whom would it not injure?? Whose
views might it not affect? Whose peace would it not cup up for ever? Miss
Crawford herself, Edmund ; but it was dangerous, perhaps, to tread such
740 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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. Rush worth would be instant annihilation.
Nothing happened the next day, or the next, to weaken her terrors.
Two posts came in, and brought no refutation, public or private. There
was no second letter to explain away the first from Miss Crawford ; there
was no intelligence from Mansfield, though it was now full time for her
to hear again from her aunt. This was an evil omen. She had, indeed,
scarcely the shadow of a hope to soothe her mind, and was reduced to so
low and wan and trembling a condition, as no mother, not unkind, except
Mrs. Price, could have overlooked, when the third day did bring the
sickening knock, and a letter was again put into her hands. It bore the
London postmark, and came from Edmund.
"DEAR FANNY, You know our present wretchedness. May God sup-
port 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 woulc*
have been felt dreadfully. Now it seems nothing ; yet it is a heavy aggrava-
tion. 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 I 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 some-
thing of my present state. There is no end of the evil let loose upon us.
You will see me early by the mail. Yours, etc."
Never had Fanny more wanted a cordial. Never had she felt such a one
as this letter contained. To-morrow! To leave Portsmouth to-morrow! She
was, she felt she was, in the greatest danger of being exquisitely happy,
while so many were miserable. The evil which brought such good to her!
She dreaded lest she should learn to be insensible to 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 in-
MANSFIELDPARK 741
capable of suitably sharing the distress even of those whose distress she
thought of most. Julia's elopement could affect her comparatively but
little ; she was amazed and shocked ; but it could not occupy her, could not
dwell on her mind. She was obliged to call herself to think of it, and
acknowledge it to be terrible and grievous, or it was escaping her, in the
midst of all the agitating pressing joyful cares attending this summons to
herself.
There is nothing like employment, active indispensable employment,
for relieving sorrow. Employment, even melancholy, may dispel melan-
choly, and her occupations were hopeful. She had so much to do, that not
even the horrible story of Mrs. Rushworth (now fixed to the last point of
certainty) could affect her as it had done before. She had no time to bo
miserable. Within twenty-four hours she was hoping to be gone ; her father
and mother must be spoken to, Susan prepared, everything got ready.
Business followed business; the day was hardly long enough. The happi-
ness she was imparting, too, happiness very little alloyed by the black
communication which must briefly precede it the joyful consent of her
father and mother to Susan's going with her the general satisfaction
with which the going of both seemed regarded, and the ecstasy of Susan
herself, was all serving to support her spirits.
The affliction of the Bertrams was little felt in the family. Mrs. Price
talked of her poor sister for a few minutes, but how to find anything to
hold Susan's clothes, because Rebecca took away all the boxes and spoilt
them, was much more in her thoughts: and as for Susan, now unexpectedly
gratified in the first wish of her heart, and knowing nothing personally
of those who had sinned, or of those who were sorrowing if she could
help rejoicing from beginning to end, it was as much as ought to be
expected from human virtue at fourteen.
As nothing was really left for the decision of Mrs. Price, or the good
offices of Rebecca, everything was rationally and duly accomplished, and
the girls were ready for the morrow. The advantage of much sleep to
prepare them for their journey was impossible. The cousin who was
travelling towards them could hardly have less than visited their agitated
spirits, one all happiness, the other all varying and indescribable per-
turbation.
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 in-
stantly; and found herself pressed to his heart with only these words,
just articulate: "My Fanny, my only sister; my only comfort now! " She
could say nothing; nor for some minutes could he say more.
He turned away to recover himself, and when he spoke again, though
his voice still faltered, his manner showed the wish of self-command, and
. the resolution of avoiding any further allusion. "Have you breakfasted?
742 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 having
breakfasted and being quite ready in half an hour. He had already ate,
and declined staying for their meal. He would walk round the ramparts,
and join them with the carriage. He was gone again; glad to get away
even from Fanny.
He looked very ill ; evidently suffering under violent emotions, which
he was determined to suppress. She knew it must be so, but it was terrible
to her.
The carriage came; and he entered the house again at the same mo-
ment, just in time to spend a few minutes with the family, and be a
witness but that he saw nothing of the tranquil manner in which the
daughters were parted with, and just in time to prevent their sitting down
to the breakfast table, which by dint of much unusual activity, was quite
and completely ready as the carriage drove from the door. Fanny's last
meal in her father's house was in character with her first; she was dis-
missed from it as hospitably as she had been welcomed.
How her heart swelled with joy and gratitude as she passed the barriers
af Portsmouth, and how Susan's face wore its broadest smiles, may be
easily conceived. Sitting forwards, however, and screened by her bonnet,
those smiles were unseen.
The journey was likely to be a silent one. Edmund's deep sighs often
reached Fanny. Had he been alone with her, his heart must have opened
in spite of every resolution; but Susan's presence drove him quite into
himself, and his attempts to talk on indifferent subjects could never be
long supported.
Fanny watched him with never-failing solicitude, and sometimes catch-
ing his eye, revived an affectionate smile, which comforted her ; but the
first day's journey passed without her hearing a word from him on the
subjects that were weighing him down. The next morning produced a
little more. Just before their setting out from Oxford, while Susan was
stationed at a window, in eager observation of the departure of a large
family from the inn, the other two were standing by the fire ; and Edmund,
particularly struck by the alteration in Fanny's looks, and from his
ignorance of the daily evils of her father's house, attributing an undue
share of the change, attributing all to the recent event, took her hand,
and said in a low, but very expressive tone, "No wonder you must feel
it you must suffer. How a man who had once loved, could desert you !
But yours your regard was new compared with Fanny, think of
me!"
The first division of their journey occupied a long day, and brought
them, almost knocked up, to Oxford; but the second was over at a much
earlier hour. They were in the environs of Mansfield long before the usual
MANSFIELDPARK 744
dinner-time, and as they approached the beloved place, the hearts of both
sisters sank a little. Fanny began to dread the meeting with her aunts
and Tom, under so dreadful a humiliation ; and Susan to feel with some
anxiety, that all her best manners, all her lately acquired knowledge of
what was practised here, was on the point of being called into action.
Visions of good and ill breeding, of old vulgarisms and new gentilities
were before her ; and she was meditating much upon silver forks, napkins,
and finger glasses. Fanny had been everywhere awake to the difference
of the country since February ; but when they entered the Park her per-
ceptions 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 de-
lightful state when further beauty is known to be at hand, and when,
while much is actually given to the sight, more yet remains for the imagi-
nation. Her enjoyment, however, was for herself alone. Edmund could not
share it. She looked at him, but he was leaning back, sunk in a deeper
gloom than ever, and with eyes closed, as if the view of cheerfulness
oppressed him, and the lovely scenes of home must be shut out.
It made her melancholy again; and the knowledge of what must be
enduring there, invested even the house, modern, airy, and well situated
as it was, with a melancholy aspect.
By one of the suffering party within, they were expected with such
impatience as she had never known before. Fanny had scarcely passed the
solemn-looking servants, when Lady Bertram came from the drawing-
room to meet her ; came with no indolent step ; and falling on her neck,
said: "Dear Fanny! Now I shall be comfortable."
Chapter 47
IT had been a miserable party, each of the three believing themselves
most miserable. Mrs. Norris, however, as most attached to Maria, was
really the greatest sufferer. Maria was her first favourite, the dearest of
all ; the match had been her own contriving, as she had been wont with
such pride of heart to feel and say, and this conclusion of it almost over-
powered her.
She was an altered creature, quieted, stupefied, indifferent to every-
thing 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 sup-
port 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
744 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 demon of the piece. Had Fanny
accepted Mr. Crawford this could not have happened.
Susan, too, was a grievance. She had not spirits to notice her in more
than a few repulsive looks, but she felt her as a spy, and an intruder, and
an indigent niece, and everything most odious. By her other aunt, Susan
was received with quiet kindness. Lady Bertram could not give her much
time, or many words, but she felt her, as Fanny's sister, to have a claim
at Mansfield, and was ready to kiss and like her ; and Susan was more than
satisfied, for she came perfectly aware that nothing but ill humour was to
be expected from Aunt Norris ; and was so provided with happiness, so
strong in that best of blessings, an escape from many certain evils, that
she could have stood against a great deal more indifference than she met
with from the others.
She was now left a good deal to herself, to get acquainted with the house
and grounds as she could, and spent her days very happily in so doing,
while those who might otherwise have attended to her were shut up, or
wholly occupied each with the person quite dependent on them, at this
time, for everything like comfort ; Edmund trying to bury his own feelings
in exertions for the relief of his brother's, and Fanny devoted to her Aunt
Bertram, returning to every former office with more than former zeal,
and thinking she could never do enough for one who seemed so much to
want her.
To talk over the dreadful business with Fanny, talk and lament, was
all Lady Bertram's consolation. To be listened to and borne with, and
hear the voice of kindness and sympathy in return, was everything that
could be done for her. To be otherwise comforted was out of the question.
The case admitted of no comfort. Lady Bertram did not think deeply,
but, guided by Sir Thomas, she thought justly on all important points;
and she saw therefore, in all its enormity, what had happened, and neither
endeavoured herself, nor required Fanny to advise her, to think little of
guilt and infamy.
Her affections were not acute, nor was her mind tenacious. After a time,
Fanny found it not impossible to direct her thoughts to other subjects,
and revive some interest in the usual occupations; but whenever Lady
Bertram was fixed on the event, she could see it only in one light, as com-
prehending the loss of a daughter, and a disgrace never to be wiped off.
Fanny learned from her all the particulars which had yet transpired.
Her aunt was no very methodical narrator, but with the help of some
letters to and from Sir Thomas, and what she already knew herself, and
could reasonably combine, she was soon able to understand quite as much
as she wished of the circumstances attending the story.
Mrs. Rushworth had gone, for the Easter holidays, to Twickenham,
MANSFIELDPARK 745
with a famly 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. Rush worth
had been gone at this time to Bath, to pass a few days with his mother,
and bring her back to town, and Maria was with these friends without
any restraint, without even Julia; for Julia had removed from Wimpole
Street two or three weeks before, on a visit to some relations of Sir
Thomas; a removal which her father and mother were now disposed to
attribute to some view of convenience on Mr. Yates's account. Very
soon after the Rushworths' return to Wimpole Street, Sir Thomas had
received a letter from an old and most particular friend in London, who
hearing and witnessing a good deal to alarm him in that quarter, wrote
to recommend Sir Thomas's coming to London himself, and using his
influence with his daughter to put an end to the intimacy which was
already exposing her to unpleasant remarks, and evidently making Mr.
Rushworth uneasy.
Sir Thomas was preparing to act upon this letter, without communi-
cating 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. Rush-
worth's return, but was so much counteracted in Wimpole Street by the
influence of Mr. Rushworth's mother, that the worst consequences might
be apprehended.
This dreadful communication could not be kept from the rest of the
family. Sir Thomas set off, Edmund would go with him, and the others
had been left in a state of wretchedness, inferior only to what followed
the receipt of the next letters from London. Everything was by that time
public beyond a hope. The servant of Mrs. Rushworth, the mother, had
exposure in her power, and supported by her mistress, was not to be
silenced. The two ladies, even in the short time they had been together,
had disagreed; and the bitterness of the elder against her daughter-in-
law might perhaps arise almost as much from the personal disrespect
with which she had herself been treated as from sensibility for her son.
However that might be, she was unmanageable. But had she been less
obstinate, or of less weight with her son, who was always guided by the
last speaker, by the person who could get hold of and shut him up, the
case would still have been hopeless, for Mrs. Rushworth did not appear
again, and there was every reason to conclude her to be concealed some-
where with Mr. Crawford, who had quitted his uncle's house, as for a
journey, on the very day of her absenting herself.
746 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
Sir Thomas, however, remained yet a little longer in town, in the hope
of discovering and snatching her from further vice, though all was lost
on the side of character.
His present state Fanny could hardly bear to think of. There was but
one of his children who was not at this time a source of misery to him.
Tom's complaints had been greatly heightened by the shock of his sister's
conduct, and his recovery so much thrown back by it, that even Lady
Bertram had been struck by the difference, and all her alarms were regu-
larly 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 circum-
stances it would have been an unwelcome alliance; but to have it so
clandestinely formed, and such a period chosen for its completion, placed
Julia's feelings in a most unfavourable light, and severely aggravated the
folly of her choice. He called it a bad thing, done in the worst manner,
and at the worst time; and though Julia was yet as more pardonable
than Maria as folly than vice, he could not but regard the step she had
taken as opening the worst probabilities of a conclusion hereafter like
her sister's. Such was his opinion of the set into which she had thrown
herself.
Fanny felt for him most acutely. He could have no comfort but in
Edmund. Every other child must be racking his heart. His displeasure
against herself she trusted, reasoning differently from Mrs. Norris, would
now be done away. She should be justified. Mr. Crawford would have
fully acquitted her conduct in refusing him; but this, though most mate-
rial to herself, would be poor consolation to Sir Thomas. Her uncle's
displeasure was terrible to her; but what could her justification or her
gratitude and attachment do for him? His stay must be on Edmund
alone.
She was mistaken, however, in supposing that Edmund gave his father
no present pain. It was of a much less poignant nature than what the
others excited; but Sir Thomas was considering his happiness as very
deeply involved in the offence of his sister and friend ; cut off by it, as he
must be, from the woman whom he had been pursuing with undoubted
attachment and strong probability of success ; and who, in everything but
this despicable brother, would have been so eligible a connection. 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 Craw-
ford had taken place, from which Edmund derived only increased dis-
tress, 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 hi A
MANSFIELDPARK 747
son, he would not have wished her to belong to him, though her twenty
thousand pounds had been forty.
That Edmund must be for ever divided from Miss Crawford did not
admit of a doubt with Fanny; and yet, till she knew that he felt the
same, her own conviction was insufficient. She thought he did, but she
wanted to be assured of it. If he would now speak to her with the unre-
serve which had sometimes been too much for her before, it would be
most consoling; but that she found was not to be. She seldom saw him:
never alone. He probably avoided being alone with her. What was to
be inferred? That his judgment submitted to all his own peculiar and
bitter share of this family affliction, but that it was too keenly felt to
be a subject of the slightest communication. This must be his state.
He yielded, but it was with agonies which did not admit of speech. Long,
long would it be ere Miss Crawford's name passed his lips again, or she
could hope for a renewal of such confidential intercourse as had been.
It was long. They reached Mansfield on Thursday, and it was not till
Sunday evening that Edmund began to talk to her on the subject. Sitting
with her on Sunday evening a wet Sunday evening the very time of
all others when, if a friend is at hand, the heart must be opened, and
everything told; no one else in the room, except his mother, who, after
hearing an affecting sermon, had cried herself to sleep, it was impossible
not to speak; and so, with the usual beginnings, hardly to be traced as to
what came first, and the usual declaration that if she would listen to him
for a few minutes, he should be very brief, and certainly never tax her
kindness in the same way again ; she need not fear a repetition ; it would
be a subject prohibited entirely: he entered upon the luxury of relating
circumstances and sensations of the first interest to himself, to one of
whose affectionate sympathy he was quite convinced.
How Fanny listened, with what curiosity and concern, what pain and
what delight, how the agitation of his voice was watched, and how
carefully her own eyes were fixed on any object but himself, may be
imagined. The opening was alarming. He had seen Miss Crawford. He
had been invited to see her. He had received a note from Lady Storn-
away to beg him to call; and regarding it as what was meant to be the
last, last interview of friendship, and investing her with all the feelings
of shame and wretchedness which Crawford's sister ought to have known,
he had gone to her in such a state of mind, so softened, so devoted, as
made it for a few moments impossible to Fanny's fears that it should
be the last. But as he proceeded in his story, these fears were over.
She had met him, he said, with a serious certainly a serious even an
agitated air; but before he had been able to speak one intelligible sen-
tence, 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
748 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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
jolly of each. She reprobated her brother's folly in being drawn on by
a woman whom he had never cared for, to do what must lose him the
woman he adored; but still more the folly of poor Maria, in sacrificing
such a situation, plunging into such difficulties, under the idea of being
really loved by a man who had long ago made his indifference clear. Guess
what I must have felt. To hear the woman whom No harsher name
than folly given! So voluntarily, so freely, so coolly to canvass it! No
reluctance, no horror, no feminine, shall I say, no modest loathings? This
is what the world does. For where, Fanny, shall we find a woman whom
nature had so richly endowed? Spoilt, spoilt!"
After a little reflection, he went on with a sort of desperate calmness.
"I will tell you everything, and then have done for ever. She saw it only
as folly, and that folly stamped only by exposure. The want of common
discretion, of caution; his going down to Richmond for the whole time
of her being at Twickenham; her putting herself in the power of a
servant; it was the detection, in short oh, Fanny! it was the detection,
not the offence, which she reprobated. It was the imprudence which had
brought things to extremity, and obliged her brother to give up every
dearer plan in order to fly with her."
He stopped. "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, re-
gretting, 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 retro-
spect of what might have been but what never can be now. You do not
wish me to be silent? If you do, give me but a look, a word, and I have
done."
No look or word was given.
"Thank God," said he. "We were all disposed to wonder, but it seems
to have been the merciful appointment of Providence that the heart
which knew no guile should not suffer. She spoke of you with high praise
and warm affection; yet, even here, there was alloy, a dash of evil; fof
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 ac-
cepted 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
MANSFIELD PARK 749
flirtation, in yearly meetings at Sotherton and Everingham.' Could you
have believed it possible? But the charm is broken. My eyes are opened."
"Cruel!" said Fanny, "quite cruel. At such a moment to give way to
gaiety, to speak with lightness, and to you! Absolute cruelty."
"Cruelty, do you call it? We differ there. No, hers is not a cruel nature.
I do not consider her as meaning to wound my feelings. The evil lies yet
deeper ; in her total ignorance, unsuspiciousness of there being such feel-
ings; 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
anyone, and though I may deceive myself, I cannot but think that for
me, for my feelings, she would Hers are faults of principle, Fanny ;
of blunted delicacy and a corrupted, vitiated mind. Perhaps it is best
for me, since it leaves me so little to regret. Not so, however. Gladly
would I submit to all the increased pain of losing her, rather than have
to think of her as I do. I told her so."
"Did you?"
"Yes; when I left her I told her so."
"How long were you together?"
"Five-and-twenty minutes. Well, she went on to say that what re-
mained 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 ad-
mitted, 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 protec-
tion, 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 gets his daughter away, it will be destroying the chief hold.' "
After repeating this, Edmund was so much affected that Fanny, watch-
ing 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
750 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 have 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 ac-
quaintance, been often sensible of some difference in our opinions, on
points, too, of some moment, it had not entered my imagination to con-
ceive 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 to-
gether 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 part-
ing, for the sake of carrying with me the right of tenderness and esteem.
This is what I said, the purport of it; but, as you may imagine, not
spoken so collectedly or methodically as I have repeated it to you. She
was astonished, exceedingly astonished more than astonished. I saw
her change countenance. She turned extremely red. I imagined I saw a
mixture of many feelings: a great, though short struggle; half a wish
of yielding to truths, half a sense of shame, but habit, habit carried it.
She would have laughed if she could. It was a sort of laugh, as she
answered, C A pretty good lecture, upon my word. Was it part of youi
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 mis-
sionary into foreign parts.' She tried to speak carelessly, but she was
not so careless as she wanted to appear. I only said in reply, that from
my heart I wished her well, and earnestly hoped that she might soon
learn to think more justly, and not owe the most valuable knowledge
we could any of us acquire, the knowledge of ourselves and of our duty,
to the lessons of affliction, and immediately left the room. I had gone a
few steps, Fanny, when I heard the door open behind me. 'Mr. Bertram,'
said she, I looked back. 'Mr. Bertram,' said she, with a smile; but it
was a smile ill-suited to the conversation that had passed, a saucy playful
MANSFIELDPARK 7Si
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 acquaint-
ance. And what an acquaintance has it been! How have I been deceived!
Equally in brother and sister deceived! I thank you for your patience,
Fanny. This has been the greatest relief, and now we will have done."
And such was Fanny's dependence on his words, that for five minutes
she thought they had done. Then, however, it all came on again, or
something very like it, and nothing less than Lady Bertram's rousing
thoroughly up, could really close such a conversation. Till that hap-
pened, 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 add-
ing 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 con-
soling thought, that considering the many counteractions of opposing
habits, she had certainly been more attached to him than could have
been expected, and for his sake been more near doing right. Fanny
thought exactly the same; and they were also quite agreed in their
opinion of the lasting effect, the indelible impression, which such a
disappointment must make on his mind. Time would undoubtedly abate
somewhat of his sufferings, but still it was a sort of thing which he
never could get entirely the better of; and as to his ever meeting with
any other woman who could it was too impossible to be named but
with indignation. Fanny's friendship was all that he had to cling to.
Chapter 48
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 know-
ing, 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
752 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
state of spirits, of his perfect approbation and increased regard; and
happy as all this must make her, she would still have been happy without
any of it, for Edmund was no longer the dupe of Miss Crawford.
It is true that Edmund was very far from happy himself. He was suf-
fering 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 re-
ceived 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 gradu-
ally regained his health, without regaining the thoughtlessness and sel-
fishness of his previous habits. He was the better for ever for his illness.
He had suffered, and he had learned to think; two advantages that he
had never known before; and the self-reproach arising from the de-
plorable event in Wimpole Street, to which he felt himself accessory
by all the dangerous intimacy of his unjustifiable theatre, made an
impression on his mind which, at the age of six-and-twenty, with no
want of sense or good companions, was durable in its happy effects.
He became what he ought to be: useful to his father, steady and quiet,
and not living merely for himself.
Here was comfort indeed ! And quite as soon as Sir Thomas could place
dependence on such sources of good, Edmund was contributing to his
father's ease by improvement in the only point in which he had given him
pain before: improvement in his spirits. After wandering about and sitting
under trees with Fanny all the summer evenings, he had so well talked his
mind into submission, as to be very tolerably cheerful again.
These were the circumstances and the hopes which gradually brought
their alleviation to Sir Thomas, deadening his sense of what was lost, and
MANSFIELD PARK 753
in part reconciling him to himself; though Ihe 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 indul-
gence and flattery of their aunt had been continually contrasted with his
own seventy. 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 gradu-
ally 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 under-
standing and manners, not the disposition ; and of the necessity of self-
denial and humility, he feared they had never heard from any lips that
could profit them.
Bitterly did he deplore a deficiency which now he could scarcely com-
prehend to have been possible. Wretchedly did he feel, that with all the
cost and care of an anxious and expensive education, he had brought up
his daughters without their understanding their first duties, or his being
acquainted with their character and temper.
The high spirit and strong passions of Mrs. Rushworth, especially, were
made known to him only in their sad result. She was not to be prevailed
on to leave Mr. Crawford. She hoped to marry him, and they continued
together till she was obliged to be convinced that such hope was vain, and
till the disappointment and wretchedness arising from the conviction
rendered her temper so bad, and her feelings for him so like hatred, as to
make them for a while each other's punishment, and then induce a vol-
untary separation.
She had lived with him to be reproached as the ruin of all his happiness
in Fanny, and carried away no better consolation in leaving him, than
that she had divided them. What can exceed the misery of such a mind
in such a situation?
Mr. Rushworth had no difficulty in procuring a divorce; and so ended
754 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 engage-
ment to be mortified and unhappy, till some other pretty girl could attract
him into matrimony again, and he might set forward on a second, and it
is to be hoped, more prosperous trial of the state: if duped, to be duped
at least with good humour and good luck ; while she must withdraw with
infinitely stronger feelings to a retirement and reproach which could allow
no second spring of hope or character.
Where she could be placed became a subject of most melancholy and
momentous consultation. Mrs. Norris, whose attachment seemed to aug-
ment 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 further 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 intro-
ducing such misery in another man's family, as he had known himself.
It ended in Mrs. Norris's resolving to quit Mansfield, and devote herself
to her unfortunate Maria, and in an establishment being formed for them
in another country, remote and private, where, shut up together with little
society, on one side no affection, on the other no judgment, it may be
reasonably supposed that their tempers became their mutual punishment.
Mrs. Norris's removal from Mansfield was the great supplementary com-
fort of Sir Thomas's life. His opinion of her had been sinking from the day
of his return from Antigua: in every transaction together from that period ;
in their daily intercourse, in business, or in chat, she had been regularly
losing ground in his esteem, and convincing him that either time had done
her much disservice, or that he had considerably over-rated her sense, and
wonderfully borne with her manners before. He had felt her as an hourly
evil, which was so much the worse, as there seemed no chance of its ceasing
but with life ; she seemed a part of himself that must be borne for ever.
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
MANSFIELDPARK ; sa
of his learning almost to approve the evil which produced such a good.
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
self-consequence.
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 choosing 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 cousins. 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 folly.
Henry Crawford, ruined by early independence and bad domestic
example, indulged in the freaks of a cold-blooded 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 tender-
ness of Fanny Price, there would have been every probabilty of success
and felicity for him. His affection had already done something. Her in-
fluence 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 perse-
vered, and uprightly, Fanny must have been his reward, and a reward
very voluntarily bestowed, within a reasonable period from Edmund'-*
756 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
marrying Mary. Had he done as he intended, and as he knew he oughtj
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'Nor-
folk journey, resolved that writing should answer the purpose of it, or that
its purpose was unimportant, and stayed. 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 of himself.
In this spirit he began the attack, and by animated perseverance had
soon re-established the sort of familiar intercourse of gallantry, of flirta-
tion, 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. Rush-
worth 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 self-reproach, and regret to
wretchedness, in having so requited hospitality, so injured family peace,
so forfeited his best, most estimable, and endeared acquaintance, and so
lost the woman whom he had rationally as well as passionately loved.
After what had passed to wound and alienate the two families, the con-
tinuance of the Bertrams and Grants in such close neighbourhood would
MANSFIELD PARK
757
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 West-
minster, 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 those who
stayed.
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 half-year, 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 her-
self to a younger brother again, was long in finding among the dashing
representatives, or idle heir-apparents, who were at the command of her
beauty, and her 20,000, anyone 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 put
Edmund Bertram sufficiently out of her head.
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 observ-
ing 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 possible, a hopeful undertaking to persuade her that her warm
and sisterly regard for him would be foundation enough for wedded love.
I purposely abstain from dates on this occasion, that everyone 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
to marry Fanny as Fanny herself could desire.
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
758 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN
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 anyone 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 pre-eminence.
Having once set out, and felt that he had done so on this road to happi-
ness, 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 half concealment,
no self-deception on the present, no reliance on future improvement. Even
in the midst of this 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 de-
lightful 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 herself to entertain a hope.
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 connections,
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 mutual con-
solation 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' entertainment.
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
MANSFIELDPARK 759
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 com-
fort 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 suc-
ceeded 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 useful-
ness, in Fanny's excellence, in William's continued good conduct and
rising fame, and in the general well-being and success of the other mem-
bers 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 consciousness of
being born to struggle and endure.
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 inconvenience.
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 patronage of Mansfield Park had long been.
FINIS
