CHAPTER XXXIV of Mansfield Park by Jane Austen. Edmund had great things to hear on his return. Many surprises were awaiting him. The first that occurred was not least in interest, the appearance of Henry Crawford and his sister walking together through the village as he rode into it. He had concluded he had meant them to be far distant. His absence had been extended beyond Fortnight purposely to avoid Miss Crawford. He was returning to Mansfield with spirits ready to feed on melancholy remembrances and tender associations, and when her own fair self was before him, leaning on her brother's arm, and he found himself receiving a welcome, unquestionably friendly, from the woman whom, two moments before, he had been thinking of as seventy miles off, and as farther, much farther from him an inclination than any distance 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 unvarying cheerfulness all dinnertime. After dinner, when he and his father were alone, he had Fanny's history, and then all the great events of the last fortnight and the present situation of matters at Mansfield were known to him. Fanny suspected what was going on. They sat so much longer than usual in the dining-parlor that she was sure they must be talking of her, and when tea at last brought them away, and she was to be seen by Edmund again, she felt dreadfully guilty. He came to her, sat down by her, took her hand and pressed it kindly, and at that moment she thought that, but for the occupation and the scene which the 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 anything like a preference, he had always believed it to be rather the reverse, and could imagine her to be taken perfectly unprepared. But Sir Thomas could not regard the 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, considering her in rather stronger terms than Sir Thomas could quite echo, he was most earnest in hoping, and sanguine in believing, that it would be a match at last, and that, united by mutual affection, it would appear that their dispositions were as exactly fitted to make them blessed in each other as he was now beginning seriously to consider them. Crawford had been too precipitated. He had not given her time to attach herself. He had begun at the wrong end. With such powers as his, however, and such a disposition as hers, Edmund trusted that everything would work out a happy conclusion. Meanwhile, he saw enough of Fanny's embarrassment to make him scrupulously guard against exciting it a second time by any word or look or movement. Crawford called the next day, and on the score of Edmund's return Sir Thomas felt himself more than licensed to ask him to stay 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 breathing without something more to warm his courage than his eyes could discern in hers. He was very willing to hope that Crawford saw clearer, and this was the most comfortable conclusion for his friend that he could come to from all 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 near enough to satisfy Lady Bertram, who assured him, as soon as he mentioned the name of Cardinal Woolsey, that he had got the very speech. Not a look or an offer of help had Fanny given, not a syllable for or against, all her attention was for her work. She seemed determined to be interested by nothing else. But taste was too strong in her. She could not abstract her mind five minutes. She was forced to listen. His reading was capital, and her pleasure in good reading extreme. To good reading however she had been long used, her uncle read well, her cousins all, Edmund very well. But in Mr. Crawford's reading there was a variety of excellence beyond what she had ever met with. The King, the Queen, Buckingham, Woolsey, 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 at first taught Fanny what pleasure a play might give, and his reading brought all his acting before her again. Nay, perhaps with greater enjoyment, for it came unexpectedly, and with no such drawback as she had been used to suffer in seeing him on the stage with Miss Bertram. Edmund watched the gradual 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 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 before since I was fifteen. I once saw Henry VIII acted, or I have heard of it from somebody who did. I am not certain which, but Shakespeare one gets acquainted with without knowing how. It is a part of an Englishman's constitution. His thoughts and beauties are so spread abroad that one touches them everywhere. One is intimate with him by instinct. No man of any brain can open 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 everybody. They are in half the books we open, and we all talk Shakespeare, use his similes, and describe with his descriptions. But this is totally distinct from giving his sense as you gave it. To know him in bits and scraps is common enough. To know him pretty thoroughly is perhaps not uncommon, but to read him well aloud is no everyday 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 interference of what her niece, alive and enlightened as she was, must feel, was elevating. You have a great turn for acting, I'm sure, Mr. Crawford. Said her ladyship soon afterwards. And I will tell you what. I think you will have a theatre, sometime whether, at your house in Norfolk. I mean, when you are settled there. I do indeed.  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 farther discussed. The two young men were the only talkers, but they, standing by the fire, talked over the too-common neglect of the qualification, the total inattention to it, in the ordinary 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 management of the voice, of proper modulation and emphasis, of foresight and judgment, all proceeding from the first cause, want of early attention and habit, and Fanny was 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 number to judge by their performance must have thought reading was reading and preaching was preaching. It is different now. The subject is more justly considered. It is felt that distinctness and energy may have weight in recommending the most solid truths, and besides there is more general observation and taste, a more critical knowledge diffused than formally. In every congregation there is a larger proportion who know a little of the matter, and who can judge and criticize. Edmund had already gone through the service once since his ordination, and upon this being understood he had a variety of questions from Crawford as to his feelings and success. Questions which being made, though with the vivacity of friendly interest and quick taste, without any touch of that spirit of banter or air of levity which Edmund knew to be most offensive to Fanny, he had true pleasure in satisfying. And when Crawford proceeded to ask his opinion and give his own as to the properest manner in which particular passages in the service should be delivered, 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 weight of 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 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 not being always so attentive as I ought to be. Here was a glance at Fanny. That nineteen times out of twenty I am thinking how such a prayer ought to be read, and longing to have it to read myself. Did you speak? Stepping eagerly to Fanny, and addressing her in a softened voice, and upon her saying, No, he added. Are you sure you did not speak? I saw your lips move. I fancied you might be going to tell me I ought to be more attentive, and not allow my thoughts to wander. Are not you going to tell me so? No, indeed. You know your duty too well for me to—even supposing. She stopped, felt herself getting into a puzzle, and could not be prevailed on to add another word, not by dint of several minutes of supplication and waiting. He then returned to his former station, and went on as if there 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 oftener a subject of study. A thoroughly good sermon, thoroughly well delivered, is a capital gratification. I could 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 thread-bear 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. I should indeed. I never listen 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, entreating to know her meaning. And as Edmund perceived, by his drawing in a chair and sitting down close by her, that it was to be a very thorough attack, that looks and undertones were to be well tried, he sank as quietly as possible into a corner, turned his back, and took up a newspaper, very sincerely wishing that dear little Fanny might be persuaded into explaining away that shake of the head to the satisfaction of her ardent lover, and as earnestly trying to bury every sound of the business from himself in murmurs of his own, over the various advertisements of a most desirable estate in south Wales, two parents and guardians, and a capital seasoned hunter. Fanny, meanwhile, vexed with herself for not having been as motionless as she was speechless, and grieved to the heart to see Edmund's arrangements, was trying by everything in the power of her modest gentle nature to repulse Mr. Crawford, and avoid both his looks and inquiries, and he, unrepulsable, was persisting 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, irreverently on the subject? Only tell me if I was, only tell me if I was wrong, I want to be set right. Nay, nay, I entreat you, for one moment put down your work. What did that shake of the head mean? Invane 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-erging the same questions 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 entreaty that you do not understand, I will explain to you instantly all that makes me urge you in this manner, all that gives me an interest in what you look and do, and excites my present curiosity. I will not leave you to wonder long. In spite of herself she could not help half a smile, but she said nothing.  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. We read at last into speaking. Perhaps, sir, I thought it was a pity you did not always know yourself as well as you seem 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 entreat the explanation of. The opportunity was too fair. None such had occurred since his seeing her in her uncle's room. None such might occur again before his leaving Mansfield. Lady Bertram's being just on the other side of the table was a trifle, for she might always be considered as only half awake, and Edmund's advertisements 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 opinion, no wonder that. But we shall see. It is not by protestations that I shall endeavour to convince you I am wronged. It is not by telling you that my affections are steady. My conduct shall speak for me. Absence, distance, time shall speak for me. They shall prove that, as far as you can be deserved by anybody, I do deserve you. You are infinitely my superior in merit, and 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 a quality of merit that you can be one. That is out of the question. It is he who sees and worships your merit the strongest, who loves you most devotedly, that has the best right to a return. There I build my confidence. By that right I do and will deserve you, and when once convinced that my attachment is what I declare it, I know you too well not to entertain the warmest hopes. Yes, dearest, sweetest fanny, nay. 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 in my imagination under any other? No, it is fanny that I think of all day and dream of all night. You have given the name such reality of sweetness that nothing else 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 badly, of tea-board, urn, and cake-bears, made its appearance, and delivered her from a grievous imprisonment of body and mind. Mr. Crawford was obliged to move. She was at liberty, she was busy, she was well 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. Edmund had determined that it belonged entirely to Fanny to choose whether her situation with regard to Crawford should be mentioned between them or not, and that if she did not lead the way it should never be touched on by him. But after a day or two of mutual reserve he was induced by his father to change his mind, and try what his influence might do for his friend. A day, and a very early day, was actually fixed for the Crawford's departure, and Sir Thomas thought it might be as well to make one more effort for the young man before he left Mansfield, that all his professions and vows of unshaken attachment might have as much hope to sustain them as possible. Sir Thomas was most cordially anxious for the perfection of Mr. Crawford's character in that point. He wished him to be a model of constancy, and fancied the best means of affecting 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 confidence now. He hoped to be of service to her. He thought he must be of service to her. Whom else had she to open her heart to? If she did not need counsel, she must need the comfort of communication. Fanny estranged from him, silent and reserved, was an unnatural state of things—a state which he must break through and which he could easily learn to think she was wanting him to break through. I will speak to her, sir. I will take the first opportunity of speaking to her alone. Was the result of such thoughts as these, and upon Sir Thomas's information of her being at that very time walking alone in the shrubbery, he instantly joined her. I am come to walk with you, Fanny, said he. Shall I?  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 together. You must talk to me. I know you have something on your mind. I know what you are thinking of. You cannot suppose me uninformed. I might 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 talking of what I feel. Do you suppose that we think differently? I have no idea of it. I dare say that, on a comparison of our opinions, they would be found as much alike as they have been used to be. To the point, I consider Crawford's proposals as most advantageous and desirable if you could return his affection. I consider it as most natural that all your family should wish you could return it. But, that as you cannot, you have done exactly as you ought in refusing him. Can there be any disagreement between us here? Oh, no. But I thought you blamed me. I thought you were against me. This is such a comfort. This comfort you might have had sooner, Fanny, had you sought it. But how could you possibly suppose me against you? How could you imagine me an advocate for marriage without love? Would I even careless in general on such matters? How could you imagine me so worried your happiness was at stake? My uncle thought me wrong, and I knew he had been talking to you. As far as you've 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, proved yourself grateful and tender-hearted, and then you will be the perfect model of a woman which I have always believed you borne for. Oh, never! Never, never! He never will succeed with me. And she spoke with a warmth which quite astonished Edmund, and which she blushed at the recollection of herself when she saw his look and heard him reply. Never! Fanny! So very determined and positive. This is not like yourself, your rational self. I mean— She cried, sorrowfully correcting herself. That I think I never shall, as far as the future can be 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 uphill work, for there are all your early attachments and habits in battle array, and before he can get your heart for his own use he has to unfasten it from all the holds upon things animate and inanimate, which so many years' growth have confirmed, and which are considerably tightened for the moment by the very idea of separation. I know that the apprehension of being forced to quit Mansfield will for a time be arming you against him. I wish he had not been obliged to tell you what he was trying for. I wish he had known you as well as I do, Fanny. Between us I think we should have won you. My theoretical and his practical knowledge together could not have failed. He should have worked upon my plans. I must hope, however, that time proving him, as I firmly believe it will, to deserve you by his steady affection, will give him his reward. I cannot suppose that you have not the wish to love 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 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 temper, as I allow. He is lively. You are serious, but so much the better. His spirits will support yours.  His cheerfulness will counteract this. He sees difficulties nowhere, and his pleasantness and gaiety will be a constant support to you. Your being so far unlike, Fanny, does not in the smallest degree make against the probability of your happiness together. Do not imagine it. I am myself convinced that it is rather a favourable circumstance. I am perfectly persuaded that the tempest 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 these 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 Crawford's power was all returning. He had been speaking of her cheerfully from the hour of his coming home. His avoiding her was quite at an end. He 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, infinitely too great. His spirits often oppress me, but there is something in him which I object to still more. I must say, cousin, that I cannot approve his character. I have not thought well of him from the time of the play. I then saw him behaving as it appeared to me, so very improperly and 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 him, and paying attention to my cousin Mariah 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 time of general folly. The time of the play is a time which I hate to recollect. Mariah was wrong, Crawford was wrong, we were all wrong together, but none so wrong as myself, compared with me all the rest were blameless.  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 Mariah could be capable of it. But if she could undertake the part, we must not be surprised at the rest. Before the play, I am much mistaken if Julia did not think he was paying her attention. Julia! I have heard before from someone 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 sister's 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 attachment. It proves him unspoiled by his uncle. It proves him, in short, everything 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 subjects. Say rather that he is 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, these feelings have generally been good. You will supply the rest, and the most fortunate man he is to attach himself to such a creature. To a woman who, firm as a rock in her own principles, has a gentleness of character so well adapted to recommend them. He has chosen his partner indeed with a 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. 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 Crawford. 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 everything in so just a light. I knew she was very fond of you. But yet I was afraid of her not estimating your worth to her brother quite as it deserved, and of her regretting that he had not rather fixed on some woman of distinction or fortune. I was afraid of the bias of those worldly maxims, which she has been too much used to hear. But it was very different. She spoke of you, Fanny, just as she ought. She desires the 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 sentiments. But I had not been in the room five minutes before she began introducing it with all that openness of heart and sweet peculiarity of manner, that spirit and ingenuousness which are so much a part of herself. Mrs. Grant laughed at her for the 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.  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 resentment. I wish you could have overheard her tribute of praise. I wish you could have seen her countenance when she said that you should be Henry's wife. And I observed that she always spoke of you as Fanny, which she was never used to do. And it had a sound of most sisterly cordiality. And Mrs. Grant, 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 someone 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 behavior 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 desserts, 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 in affection as this seems to imply. My dear, dear Fanny, now I have the truth. I know this to be the truth.  I had attributed them to you before. I thought I could understand you. You have now given exactly the explanation which I have entered 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 the most power and novelty leased, 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 disfavor, 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. Fanny could, with difficulty, give the smile that was here asked for. Her feelings were all in revolt. She feared she'd been doing wrong, saying too much, overacting the caution which she'd 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 farther discussion, and not even to mention the name of Crawford again, except as it might be connected with what must be agreeable to her. On this principle he soon afterwards observed, They go on Monday. You are sure, therefore, of seeing your friend either tomorrow or Sunday. They rarely 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 they are 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 spoiled, 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 attempting it no more, he led her directly, with the kind authority of a privileged guardian, into the house. Jane Austen 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, and recommended there being nothing more said to her, no farther attempts to influence or persuade, but that everything should be left to Crawford's assiduities and the natural workings of her own mind. Sir Thomas promised that it would 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 Crawford, was a formidable threat to Fanny, and she lived in continual terror of it. As a sister, so partial and so angry, and so little scrupulous of what she said, and in another light so triumphant and secure, she was in every way an object of painful alarm. Her displeasure, her penetration, and her happiness were all fearful to encounter, and the dependence of having others present when they met was Fanny's only support in looking forward to it. She absented herself as little as possible from Lady Bertram, kept away from the East Room, and took no solitary walk in the shrubbery in 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 a 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 tolerably soon, in a low voice, I must speak to you for a few minutes somewhere. Words that Fanny felt all over her, in all her pulses and all her nerves, denial was impossible. Her habits of ready submission on the contrary made her almost instantly rise and lead the 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 discretion enough to reserve the rest till they might be secure of having four walls to themselves. Fanny naturally turned upstairs, and took her guest to the apartment which was now always fit for comfortable use, opening the door, however, with a most aching heart, and feeling that she had a more distressing scene before her than ever that spot had yet witnessed. But the evil ready to burst on her was at least delayed by the sudden change in Miss Crawford's ideas, by the strong effect on her mind which the finding herself in the East Room again produced. Ha! she cried with instant animation. Am I here again? The East Room! Only once was I in this room before. And after stopping to look about her, and seemingly to retrace all that had then passed, she added, Only once 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 never 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 recommending matrimony to me. I think I see him now, trying to be as demure and composed as unhold 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 recording 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 is 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 ought to be. Nay, and so besadness. 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 two 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 discoding you, Fanny, which I came fully intending to do, I have not the heart for it when it comes to the point. And embracing her very affectionately. Good, gentle, Fanny, when I think of this being the last time of seeing you, for I do not know how long. I feel it quite impossible to do anything but love you. Fanny was affected. She had not foreseen anything of this, and her feelings could seldom withstand the melancholy influence of the word last. She cried as if she had loved Miss Crawford more than she possibly could, and Miss Crawford, yet farther softened by the sight of such emotion, hung about her with fondness and said, I hate to leave you. I shall see no one half so amiable where I am going. Who says we shall not be sisters? I know we shall. I feel that we are born to be connected, and those tears convince me that you feel it 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. Frazier 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 into course one knows nothing of. I wish I had settled with Mrs. Frazier 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 Staunaway, because she was rather my most particular friend of the two. But I have not cared much for her these three years. After this speech the two girls sat many minutes silent, each thoughtful. Fanny meditating on the different sorts of friendship in the world, marry 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 remembered what I was thinking of as I came along, and my looking in and seeing you sitting here 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. Ho! that I could transport you for a short time into our circle in town, but you might understand how your power over Henry is thought of there. Ho! the enviings and heart-burnings 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 you so courted, and how I am courted for his sake! Now I am well aware that I shall not be half so welcomed to Mrs. Frazier in consequence of his situation with you. When she comes to know the truth, she will very likely wish me in Northamptonshire again. For there is a daughter of Mr. Frazier by a first wife, whom she is wild to get married, and wants Henry to take. Ho! 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 Frazier will be at me forever about your eyes and your teeth, and how you do your hair, and who makes your shoes. I wish Margaret were married, for my poor friend's sake, for I look upon the Frazier's 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 exigent, 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 suddenly 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 Frazier's. I shall be at Mansfield forever, Fanny. My own sister is a wife, so 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, though is 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.  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 Stornoway, who has about as much sense, Fanny, as Mr. Rushworth, but much worse looking, and with a blaggard character. I had my doubt at the time about her being right, for he is not even the heir of a gentleman, and now I am sure she was wrong. By the by, 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.  But are you so insensible as you profess yourself? 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 he not 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 remember it perfectly. Do you mean then that your brother knew of the necklace beforehand? Oh! Miss Crawford, that was not fair. New 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.  But then I considered it as meaning nothing. I put it down as simply being his way, and was as far from supposing as from wishing him to have any serious thoughts of me. I had not, Miss Crawford, been an inattentive observer of what was passing between him and some part of this family in the summer and autumn. I was quiet, but I was not blind. I could not but see that Mr. Crawford allowed himself in gallantries which did me 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 scalded 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 was 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 women'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 standard 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 forever as possible. If any man ever loved a woman forever, I think Henry will do as 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 commission. 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 favours, and there are so many young men's claims to be attended to in the same way that a friendship and energy, not very determined, is easily put by. What a happy creature William must 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 on something else, suddenly called her attention by saying, I should like to sit here talking with you 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 reunion, 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 tet-a-tet so much less painful than her fears had predicted. It was over, and she had escaped without reproaches, and without detection. Her secret was still her own, and while that was the case, she thought she could resign herself to almost everything. In the evening there was another parting. Henry Crawford came and sat some time with them, and her spirit not being previously in the strongest state, her heart was softened for a while towards him, because he really seemed to feel. Quite unlike his usual self, he scarcely said anything. He was evidently oppressed, and Fanny must grieve for him, though hoping she might never see him again till he were the husband of some other 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 Crawford's were gone. End of Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Of Mansfield Park by Jane Austen This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. 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 and 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 save 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 brothers 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 from Miss Crawford's marrying Edmund than it had ever been before. On his side the inclination was stronger, on hers less equivocal. His objections, the scruples of his integrity, seemed all done away, nobody could tell how, and the doubts and hesitations of her ambition were equally got over and equally without apparent reason. It could only be imputed to increasing attachment. His good and her bad feelings yielded to love, and such love must unite them. He was to go to town as soon as some business relative to Thornton Lacy 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 Edmond by any other sentiment. Fanny believed there was scarcely a second feeling in common between them, and she may be forgiven by older sages for looking on the chance of Miss Crawford's future improvement as nearly desperate, for thinking that if Edmond'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 circumstanced, and impartiality would not have denied to Miss Crawford's nature that participation of the general nature of women which would lead her to adopt the opinions of the man she loved and respected as her own. But as such were Fanny's persuasions, she suffered very much from them, and could never speak of Miss Crawford without pain. Sir Thomas meanwhile went on with his own hopes and his own observations, still feeling a right, by all his knowledge of human nature, to expect to see the effect of the loss of power and consequence on his niece's spirits, and the past attentions of the lover producing a craving for their return, and he was soon afterwards able to account for his not yet completely and indubitably seeing all this by the prospect of another visitor, whose approach he could allow to be quite enough to support the spirits he was watching. William had obtained a ten days leave of absence, to be given to Northamptonshire, and was coming, the happiest of lieutenants, because the latest maid, 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 HMS Thrush in all his glory in another light. This scheme was that she should accompany her brother back to Portsmouth, and spend a little time with her own family. It had occurred to Sir Thomas, in one of his dignified musings, as a right and desirable measure. But before he absolutely made up his mind he consulted his son. Edmund considered it every way, and saw nothing but what was right. The thing was good in itself, and could not be done at a better time, and had he no doubt of its being highly agreeable to Fanny. This was enough to determine Sir Thomas. And a decisive— Then so it shall be. Closed that stage of the business, Sir Thomas retiring from it with some feelings of satisfaction, and views of good over and above what he had communicated to his son, for his prime motive in sending her away had very little to do with the propriety of her seeing her parents again, and nothing at all with any idea of making her happy. He certainly wished her to go willingly, but he as certainly wished her to be heartily sick of home before her visit ended, and that a little abstinence from the elegancies and luxuries of Mansfield Park would bring her mind into a sober state, and incline her to adjust her estimate of the value of that home of greater permanence 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 delighted. 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 familiarized with the visions of enjoyment so suddenly opened, she could speak more largely to William and Edmund of what she felt. But still there were emotions of tenderness that could not be clothed in words. The remembrance of all her earliest pleasures, and of what she had suffered in being torn from them, came over her with renewed strength, and it seemed as if to be at home again would heal every pain that had since grown out of the separation. To be in the centre of such a circle, loved by so many, and more loved by all than she had ever been before, to feel affection without fear or restraint, to feel herself the equal of those who surrounded her, to be at peace from all mention of the Crawford's, 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 could be but half acknowledged. Edmund, too, to be two months from him, and perhaps she might be allowed to make her absence three, must do her good. At a distance unassailed by his looks or his kindness, and safe from the perpetual irritation of knowing his heart, and striving to avoid his confidence, she should be able to reason herself into a proper state. She should be able to think of him as in London, and arranging everything there, without wretchedness. What might have been hard to bear at Mansfield was to become a slight evil at Portsmouth. The only drawback was the doubt of her aunt Bertram's being comfortable without her. She was of use to no one else, but there she might be missed to a degree that she did not like to think of, and that part of the arrangement was, indeed, the hardest for Sir Thomas to accomplish, and what only he could have 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. Obtaining it rather from submission, however, than conviction, for Lady Bertram was convinced of very little more than that Sir Thomas thought Fanny ought to go, and that therefore she must. In the calmness of her own dressing-room, in the impartial flow of her own meditations, unbiased by her's bewildering statements, she could not acknowledge any necessity for Fanny's ever going near a father and mother who had done without her for so long, while she was so useful to herself. And as the knot 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'm 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 remarkable fondness for her formerly, but this she could easily suppose to have been her own fault or her own fancy. She had probably alienated love by the helplessness and fretfulness of a fearful temper, or been unreasonable in wanting a larger share than any one among so many could deserve. Now, when she knew better how to be useful and how to forbear, and when her mother could be no longer occupied by the incessant demands of a house full of little children, there would be leisure and inclination for every comfort, 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 dockyard, too, which he quite longed to show her. He did not scruple to add that her being at home for a while would be a great advantage to everybody. I don't know how it is, said he. But we seem to want some of your nice ways and orderliness at my father's. The house is always in confusion. You will set things going in a better way, I am sure.  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 motive 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 for 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 their being roomed 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 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 suspense lasted an hour or two. No one interfered to encourage or dissuade. Mrs. Norris was left to settle the matter by herself, and it ended, to the infinite joy of her nephew and niece, in the recollection that she could not possibly be spared from Mansfield Park at present, that she was a great deal too necessary to Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram for her to be able to answer it to herself to leave them even for a week, and therefore must certainly sacrifice every other pleasure to that of being useful to them. It had in fact occurred to her, that though taken to Portsmouth for nothing, it would be hardly possible for her to avoid paying her own expenses back again. So her poor dear sister Price was left to all the disappointment of her missing such an opportunity, and another twenty years' absence perhaps begun. Edmunds plans were affected by this Portsmouth journey, this absence of Fanny's. He too had a sacrifice to make to Mansfield Park as well as his aunt. He had intended about this time to be going to London, but he could not leave his father and mother, just when everybody else of most importance to their comfort was leaving them, and with an effort, felt but not boasted of, he delayed for a week or two longer a journey which he 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 mentioned between them with any remains of liberty. Once afterward she was alluded to by him. Lady Bertram had been telling her niece in the evening to write to her soon and often, and promising to be a good correspondent herself, and Edmund at a convenient moment then added in a whisper, And I shall write to you, Fanny, when I have anything worth writing about, anything to say that I think you will like to hear, and that you will not hear so soon from any other quarter. Had she doubted his meaning while she listened, the glow in his face when she looked up at him 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 exhausted 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 completely sad at parting. She had tears for every room in the house, much more for every beloved inhabitant. She clung to her aunt because she would miss her. She kissed the hand of her uncle with struggling sobs because she had displeased him, and as for Edmund she could neither speak nor look nor think when the last moment came with him, and it was not till it was over that she knew he was 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 XXXVIII of Mansfield Park by Jane Austen. 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. Everything supplied an amusement to the high glee of William's mind, and he was full of frolic and joke in the intervals of their higher-toned subjects, all of which ended, if they did not begin, in praise of the thrush, conjectures how she would be employed, schemes for an action with some superior force, which, supposing the first lieutenant out of the way, and William was not very merciful to the first lieutenant, was to give himself the next step as soon as possible, or speculations upon 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 later 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 knowing her wish on the subject, he would not distress her by the slightest illusion. 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. This 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 illusion, of recollection, so much of Mansfield in every letter, that Fanny could not but suppose it meant for him to hear. And to find herself forced into a purpose of that kind, compelled into a correspondence which was bringing her the addresses of the man she did not love, and obliging her to administer to the adverse passion of the man she did, was cruelly mortifying. Here, too, her present removal promised advantage. When no longer under the same roof with Edmund, she trusted that Miss Crawford would have no motive for writing strong enough to overcome the trouble, and that, at Portsmouth, their correspondence would dwindle into nothing. With such thoughts as these, among ten hundred others, Fanny proceeded in her journey safely and cheerfully, and as expeditiously as could rationally be hoped, in the dirty month of February. They entered Oxford, but she could take only a hasty glimpse of Edmund's college as they passed along, and made no stop anywhere till they reached Newbury, where a comfortable meal, uniting dinner and supper, wound up the enjoyment 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 entered the town, and the light was only beginning to fail as, guided by William's powerful voice, they were rattled into a narrow street, leading from the high street, and drawn up before the door of a small house now inhabited by Mr. Price. Fanny was all agitation and flutter, all hope and apprehension. The moment they stopped, a trolley-looking maid-servant, seemingly in wait 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 too. 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 shea's door himself, called out, You are just in time! We have been looking for you this half hour. The thrush went out of Harbour this morning, I saw her. It was a beautiful sight, and they think she will have her orders in a day or two, and Mr. Campbell was here at four o'clock to ask for you. He has got one of the thrush's boats, and is going off to her at six, and hope you'd 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 objection to her kissing him, though still entirely engaged in detailing farther particulars of the thrushes 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. She was in a well-grown fine girl of fourteen, and Betsy, 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 parlor, 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's 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 an a-wares. And now you must be off for spit-head, too. Campbell has been here quite in a worry about you. And now what shall we do? I thought to have had such a comfortable evening with you, and here everything comes upon me at once. Her son answered cheerfully, telling her that everything was always for the best, and making light of his own 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 lay at spit-head? Near the Canopus? But no matter, here's Fanny in the parlor, and why should we stay in the passage? Come, mother, you have hardly looked at your own dear Fanny yet. When 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 both must be! And now what will you have? I began to think you would never come. Betsy 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'm 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 Betsy, 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 Betsy is a very handy little messenger. Betsy went with alacrity, proud to show her abilities before her fine new sister. Dear me! continued the anxious mother.  And I dare say you are both starved with cold. Draw your chair, Nera, my dear. I cannot think what Rebecca has been about. I am sure I told her to bring some calls half an hour ago. Susan, you should have taken care of the fire. I was upstairs, Mala, moving my things," said Susan, in a fearless, self-defending tone which startled Fanny. You know you had just but settled that my sister Fanny and I should have the other room, and I could not get Rebecca to give me any help. Farther discussion was prevented by various bustles. First the driver came to be paid, then there was a squabble between Sam and Rebecca about the manner of carrying up his sister's trunk, which he would manage all his own way. And lastly, in walked Mr. Price himself, his own loud voice preceding him, as with something of the oath kind he kicked away his son's portmanteau and his daughter's bandbox in the passage, and called out for a candle. No candle was brought, however, and he walked into the room. Fanny with doubting feelings had risen to meet him, but sank down again on finding herself undistinguished in the dusk and unthought of. With a friendly shake of his son's hand and an eager voice, he instantly began. Ha!  Glad to see you. Have you heard the news? The thrush went out of harbor this morning. Sharp as the word you see. By God, you are just in time. The doctor has been here inquiring for you. He has one of those boats, and is to be all for spithead by sick, so you had better go with him. I had been to Turner's about your mess, and it is all in a way to be done. I should not wonder if you had your orders tomorrow, but you cannot sail with this wind if you are to cruise to the westward, and Captain Walsh thinks you will certainly have a cruise to the westward with the elephant. By God, I wish you may. But old Scowley was saying just now that he thought you would be sent first to the Texel. Well, well, we are ready whatever happens. But by God, you lost a fine sight by not being here in the morning to see the thrush go out of the harbor. I would not have been out of the way for a thousand pounds. Old Scowley 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 for 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 birth 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 acknowledgement that he had quite forgot her, Mr. Price now received his daughter, and having given her a cordial hug and observed that she was grown into a woman, and he supposed would be wanting a husband soon, seemed very much inclined to forget her again. Fanny shrunk back into her seat, with feelings sadly pained by his language and his smell of spirits, and he talked on only to his son, and only of the thrush. Though William, warmly interested as he was in that subject, more than once tried to make his father think of 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 Betsy's reports from the kitchen, much hope of any under a considerable period, William determined to go and change his dress, and make the necessary preparations for his removal on board directly, that he might 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 harbour. Tom and Charles. Charles had been born since Fanny's going away, but Tom she had often helped to nurse, and now felt a particular pleasure in seeing again. Both were kissed very tenderly, but Tom she wanted to keep by her, to try to trace the features of the baby she had loved and talked to, of his infant preference of herself. Tom however had no mind for such treatment. He came home not to stand and be talked to, but to run about and make a noise, and both boys had soon burst from her, and slammed the parlor 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 Indian man. 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 mislaid, Betsy 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 Betsy 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 Betsy down again or keep her from being troublesome where she was, the whole of which, as almost every door in the house was open, could be plainly distinguished in the parlor, 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 hallowing. 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 customary loan of a neighbor, 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 screen from her aching head as she sat in bewildered, 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. Sometimes concerns must be dearest, they always had been, and he had every right. Yet to have so little said or asked about herself, to have scarcely an inquiry made after Mansfield. It did pain her to have Mansfield forgotten, the friends who had done so 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 preeminently interesting. A day or two might show the difference. She only was to blame. Yet she thought it would not have been so at Mansfield. No, in her uncle's house there would have been a consideration of times and seasons, a regulation of subject, a propriety, an attention towards everybody which there was not here. The only interruption which thoughts like these received for nearly half an hour was from a sudden burst of her father's, not at all calculated to compose them. At a more than ordinary pitch of thumping and hallowing in the passage, he exclaimed, Devote those young dogs how they are singing out, aye, Sam's voice louder than all the rest, that boy's fit for a boatswing. Hala! You there! Sam, stop your confounded pipe or I shall be after you! This threat was so palpably disregarded, that though within five minutes afterwards the three boys all burst into the room together and sat down, Fanny could not consider it as a proof of anything more than there 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 hallowing 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 between 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 her 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 unnecessary bustle, and some few injudicious attempts at keeping her brothers in better order than she could, acquitted herself very well. Fanny's spirit was as much refreshed as her body. Her head and heart were soon the better for such well-timed kindness. Susan had an open, sensible countenance. She was like William. And Fanny hoped to find her like him in disposition and goodwill towards herself. In this more placid state of things William re-entered, followed not far behind by his mother and Betsy. Fanny, complete in his lieutenants' uniform, looking and moving all the taller, firmer and more graceful for it, and with the happiest smile over his face, walked directly up to Fanny, who rising from her seat, looked at him for a moment in speechless admiration, and then threw her arms round his neck to sob out her various 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 shore some part of every day before they sailed, and even of getting her to spit-head 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 team-makers, a cup and saucer. And after another quarter of an hour of earnest talk between the gentlemen, noise rising upon noise and bustle upon bustle, men and boys at last all in motion together, the moment came for setting off. Everything was ready, William took leave, and all of them were gone. For the three boys, in spite of their mother's entreaty, determined to see their brother and Mr. Campbell to the Sally Port, and Mr. Price walked off at the same time to carry back his neighbor's newspaper. Something like tranquility 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 Betsy 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 inquiries began, but one of the earliest. How did Sister Bircher manage about her servants? Was she as much plagued as herself to get tolerable servants? Soon let her mind away from Northamptonshire, and fixed it on her own domestic grievances, and the shocking character of all the Portsmouth servants, of whom she believed her own two were the very worst, engrossed her completely. The birterms were all forgotten and detailing the faults of Rebecca, against whom Susan had also much to depose, and little Betsy 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 the year was up. Her year? 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. Servants are come to such a pass, my dear, and Portsmouth, that it is quite a miracle if one keeps them for more than half a year. I have no hope of ever being settled, and if I was to part with Rebecca, I should only get something worse. And yet, I do not think I am a very difficult mistress to please, and I am sure the place is easy enough, for there is always a girl under her, and I often do half the work myself. Fanny was silent, but not from being convinced that there might not be a remedy found for some of these evils. As she now sat looking at Betsy, she could not but think particularly of another sister, a very pretty little girl, whom she had left there not much younger when she went into Northamptonshire, who had died a few years afterwards. There had been something remarkably amiable about her. Fanny in those early days had preferred her to Susan, and when the news of her death had at last reached Mansfield, had for a short time been quite afflicted. The sight of Betsy brought the image of little Mary back again, but she would not have pained her mother by alluding to her for the world. While considering her with these ideas, Betsy, 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 Mama kept it from her, and was always letting Betsy get hold of it. And the end of it would be that Betsy would spoil it, and get it for her own, though Mama had promised her that Betsy should not have it in her own hands. Fanny was quite shocked. Every feeling of duty, honour, and tenderness 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 quarreling about that knife. I wish you would not be so quarrelsome. Poor little Betsy, 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, Betsy. Poor Mary, little thought it would be such a bone of contention when she gave it to me to keep only two hours before she died. Poor little soul. She could but just speak to be heard, and she said so pridly, Let sister Susan have my nice Mama when I am dead and buried. Poor little dear. She was so fond of it, Fanny, that she would have it lay by her in bed, all through her illness. It was the gift of her good godmother, old Mrs. Admiral Maxwell, only six weeks before she was taken for death.  Well, she was taken away from evil to come. My own Betsy. 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 goddaughter was a good girl and learned 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.  One was found to have too small a print for child's eyes, and the other to be far too cumbersome for her to carry about. Fanny, fatigued and fatigued again, was thankful to accept the first invitation of going to bed, and before Betsy had finished her cry at being allowed to sit up only one hour extraordinary in honor 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, reckoned too small for anybody's comfort. CHAPTER XXXVIII. Could Sir Thomas have seen all his niece's feelings when she wrote her first letter to her aunt, he would not have disbared, for though a good night's rest, a pleasant morning, the hope of soon seeing William again, and the comparatively quiet state of the house, from Tom and Charles being gone to school, Sam on some project of his own, and her father on his usual lounges, enabled her to express herself cheerfully on the subject of home, there were still, to her own perfect consciousness, many drawbacks suppressed. Could he have seen only half that she felt before the end of a week, he would have thought Mr. Crawford sure of her, and being 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 Portsmouth, and during those days she had seen him only twice, in a short and hurried way, when he had come ashore on duty. There had been no free conversation, no walk on the ramparts, no visit to the dockyard, no acquaintance with the thrush, nothing of all that they had planned and depended on. Everything in that quarter failed her, except William's affection. His last thought on leaving home was for her. He stepped back again to the door to say, Take care of Fanny, mother.  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 impropriety. Nobody was in their right place. Nothing was done as it ought to be. She could not respect her parents as she had hoped. On her father her confidence had not been sanguine, but he was more negligent of his family, his habits were worse, and his manners coarser than she had been prepared for. He did not want abilities, but he had no curiosity, and no information beyond his profession. He read only the newspaper and the navy-list, he talked only of the dockyard, the harbour, spit-head, and the mother-bank, 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 of William, but Betsy was the first of her girls whom she had ever much regarded. To her she was most injudiciously indulgent. William was her pride, Betsy her darling, and John, Richard, Sam, Tom, and Charles occupied all the rest of her maternal solicitude, alternately her worries and her comforts. These shared her heart. Her time was given chiefly to her house and her servants. Her days were spent in a kind of slow bustle, all was busy without getting on, always 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 indulging 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 similar affluence and due nothingness would have been much more suited to her capacity than the exertions and self-denials of the one which her imprudent marriage had placed her in. She might have made just as good a woman of consequence as Lady Bertram, but Mrs. Norris would have been a more respectable mother of nine children on a small income. Much of all this Fanny could not but be sensible of. She might scruple to make use of the words, but she must and did feel that her mother was a partial, ill-judging parent, a doddle, a slattern, who neither taught nor restrained her children, whose house was the scene of mismanagement and discomfort from beginning to end, and who had no talent, no conversation, no affection towards herself, no curiosity to know her better, no desire of her friendship, and no inclination for her company that could lessen her sense of such feelings. Fanny was very anxious to be useful, and not to appear above her home or in any way disqualified or disinclined by her foreign education, from contributing her help to its comforts, and therefore set about working for Sam immediately, and by working early and late, with perseverance and great dispatch, did so much that the boy was shipped off at last with more than half his linen ready. She had great pleasure in feeling her usefulness, but could not conceive how they would have managed without her. Sam, loud and overbearing as he was, she rather regretted when he went, for he was clever and intelligent, and glad to be employed in any errand in the town, and though spurning the remonstrances of Susan, given as they were, though very reasonable in themselves, with 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 sisters soon despaired of making the smallest impression on them. They were quite untameable by any means of address which she had spirits or time to attempt. Every afternoon brought a return of their riotous games all over the house, and she very early learned to sigh at the approach of Saturday's constant half-holiday. Betsy, 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 Betsy, were at least so distressing to Fanny that, though admitting they were by no means without provocation, she feared the disposition that could push them to such length must be far from amiable and from affording any repose to herself. Such was the home which was to put Mansfield out of her head, and teach her to think of her cousin Edmund with moderated feelings. On the contrary, she could think of nothing but Mansfield, its beloved inmates, its happy ways—everything where she now was in full contrast to it. The elegance, propriety, regularity, harmony, and perhaps above all the peace and tranquility 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 Mansfield no sounds of contention, no raised voice, no abrupt bursts, no tread of violence was ever heard. All proceeded in a regular course of cheerful orderliness. Everybody had their due importance. Everybody's feelings were consulted. If tenderness could be ever supposed wanting, good sense and good breeding supplied its place. And as to the little irritations sometimes introduced by Aunt Norris, they were short, they were trifling, they were as a drop of water to the ocean, compared with the ceaseless tumult of her present abode. Here everybody was ready, every voice was loud, accepting perhaps her mother's, which resembled the soft monotony of Lady Bertram's, only worn into fretfulness. Whatever was wanted was hallowed for, and the servants hallowed 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.