No More Learning

You will see her,
however, before she goes. She is very angry with you, Fanny; you must be
prepared for that. She calls herself very angry, but you can imagine her
anger. It is the regret and disappointment of a sister, who thinks her
brother has a right to everything he may wish for, at the first moment.
She is hurt, as you would be for William; but she loves and esteems you
with all her heart. ”

“I knew she would be very angry with me. ”

“My dearest Fanny,” cried Edmund, pressing her arm closer to him, “do
not let the idea of her anger distress you. It is anger to be talked
of rather than felt. Her heart is made for love and kindness, not for
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 say--did she speak; was she there all the
time? ”

“Yes, she was agreeing exactly with her sister. The surprise of your
refusal, Fanny, seems to have been unbounded. That you could refuse such
a man as Henry Crawford seems more than they can understand. I said what
I could for you; but in good truth, as they stated the case--you must
prove yourself to be in your senses as soon as you can by a different
conduct; nothing else will satisfy them. But this is teasing you. I have
done. Do not turn away from me. ”

“I _should_ have thought,” said Fanny, after a pause of recollection and
exertion, “that every woman must have felt the possibility of a man’s
not being approved, not being loved by some one of her sex at least, let
him be ever so generally agreeable. Let him have all the perfections
in the world, I think it ought not to be set down as certain that a man
must be acceptable to every woman he may happen to like himself. But,
even supposing it is so, allowing Mr. Crawford to have all the claims
which his sisters think he has, how was I to be prepared to meet him
with any feeling answerable to his own? He took me wholly by surprise.
I had not an idea that his behaviour to me before had any meaning; and
surely I was not to be teaching myself to like him only because he was
taking what seemed very idle notice of me. In my situation, it would
have been the extreme of vanity to be forming expectations on Mr.
Crawford. I am sure his sisters, rating him as they do, must have
thought it so, supposing he had meant nothing. How, then, was I to
be--to be in love with him the moment he said he was with me? How was I
to have an attachment at his service, as soon as it was asked for? His
sisters should consider me as well as him. The higher his deserts, the
more improper for me ever to have thought of him. And, and--we think
very differently of the nature of women, if they can imagine a woman so
very soon capable of returning an affection as this seems to imply. ”

“My dear, dear Fanny, now I have the truth. I know this to be the truth;
and most worthy of you are such feelings. I had attributed them to you
before. I thought I could understand you. You have now given exactly
the explanation which I ventured to make for you to your friend and Mrs.
Grant, and they were both better satisfied, though your warm-hearted
friend was still run away with a little by the enthusiasm of her
fondness for Henry. I told them that you were of all human creatures the
one over whom habit had most power and novelty least; and that the very
circumstance of the novelty of Crawford’s addresses was against him.
Their being so new and so recent was all in their disfavour; that you
could tolerate nothing that you were not used to; and a great deal more
to the same purpose, to give them a knowledge of your character. Miss
Crawford made us laugh by her plans of encouragement for her brother.
She meant to urge him to persevere in the hope of being loved in time,
and of having his addresses most kindly received at the end of about ten
years’ happy marriage. ”

Fanny could with difficulty give the smile that was here asked for. Her
feelings were all in revolt. She feared she had been doing wrong: saying
too much, overacting the caution which she had been fancying necessary;
in guarding against one evil, laying herself open to another; and to
have Miss Crawford’s liveliness repeated to her at such a moment, and on
such a subject, was a bitter aggravation.

Edmund saw weariness and distress in her face, and immediately resolved
to forbear all 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
to-morrow or Sunday. They really go on Monday; and I was within a trifle
of being persuaded to stay at Lessingby till that very day! I had almost
promised it. What a difference it might have made! Those five or six
days more at Lessingby might have been felt all my life. ”

“You were near staying there? ”

“Very. I was most kindly pressed, and had nearly consented. Had I
received any letter from Mansfield, to tell me how you were all going
on, I believe I should certainly have staid; but I knew nothing that
had happened here for a fortnight, and felt that I had been away long
enough. ”

“You spent your time pleasantly there? ”

“Yes; that is, it was the fault of my own mind if I did not. They were
all very pleasant. I doubt their finding me so. I took uneasiness with
me, and there was no getting rid of it till I was in Mansfield again. ”

“The Miss Owens--you liked them, did not you? ”

“Yes, very well. Pleasant, good-humoured, unaffected girls. But I am
spoilt, Fanny, for common female society. Good-humoured, unaffected
girls will not do for a man who has been used to sensible women. They
are two distinct orders of being. You and Miss Crawford have made me too
nice. ”

Still, however, Fanny was oppressed and wearied; he saw it in her looks,
it could not be talked away; and attempting it no more, he led her
directly, with the kind authority of a privileged guardian, into the
house.



CHAPTER XXXVI

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 should be so. Edmund’s account of Fanny’s
disposition he could believe to be just; he supposed she had all those
feelings, but he must consider it as very unfortunate that she _had_;
for, less willing than his son to trust to the future, he could not
help fearing that if such very long allowances of time and habit were
necessary for her, she might not have persuaded herself into receiving
his addresses properly before the young man’s inclination for paying
them were over. There was nothing to be done, however, but to submit
quietly and hope the best.

The promised visit from “her friend,” as Edmund called Miss 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! Once only was I in this room before”; and after stopping to look
about her, and seemingly to retrace all that had then passed, she added,
“Once only before. Do you remember it? I came to rehearse. Your cousin
came too; and we had a rehearsal. You were our audience and prompter.
A delightful rehearsal. I shall never forget it. Here we were, just in
this part of the room: here was your cousin, here was I, here were the
chairs. Oh! why will such things ever pass away? ”

Happily for her companion, she wanted no answer. Her mind was entirely
self-engrossed. She was in a reverie of sweet remembrances.

“The scene we were rehearsing was so very remarkable! The subject of
it so very--very--what shall I say? He was to be describing and
recommending matrimony to me. I think I see him now, trying to be as
demure and composed as Anhalt ought, through the two long speeches.
‘When two sympathetic hearts meet in the marriage state, matrimony
may be called a happy life. ’ I suppose no time can ever wear out the
impression I have of his looks and voice as he said those words. It was
curious, very curious, that we should have such a scene to play! If I
had the power of recalling any one week of my existence, it should be
that week--that acting week. Say what you would, Fanny, it should be
_that_; for I never knew such exquisite happiness in any other. His
sturdy spirit to bend as it did! Oh! it was sweet beyond expression. But
alas, that very evening destroyed it all. That very evening brought your
most unwelcome uncle. Poor Sir Thomas, who was glad to see you? Yet,
Fanny, do not imagine I would now speak disrespectfully of Sir Thomas,
though I certainly did hate him for many a week. No, I do him justice
now. He is just what the head of such a family should be. Nay, in sober
sadness, I believe I now love you all. ” And having said so, with a
degree of tenderness and consciousness which Fanny had never seen in her
before, and now thought only too becoming, she turned away for a moment
to recover herself. “I have had a little fit since I came into this
room, as you may perceive,” said she presently, with a playful smile,
“but it is over now; so let us sit down and be comfortable; for as to
scolding you, Fanny, which I came fully intending to do, I have not
the heart for it when it comes to the point. ” And embracing her very
affectionately, “Good, gentle Fanny! when I think of this being the
last time of seeing you for I do not know how long, I feel it quite
impossible to do anything but love you. ”

Fanny was affected. She had not foreseen anything of this, and her
feelings could seldom withstand the melancholy influence of the word
“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. Fraser has been my intimate friend for years. But
I have not the least inclination to go near her. I can think only of the
friends I am leaving: my excellent sister, yourself, and the Bertrams in
general. You have all so much more _heart_ among you than one finds in
the world at large. You all give me a feeling of being able to trust and
confide in you, which in common intercourse one knows nothing of. I wish
I had settled with Mrs. Fraser not to go to her till after Easter, a
much better time for the visit, but now I cannot put her off. And when
I have done with her I must go to her sister, Lady Stornaway, because
_she_ was rather my most particular friend of the two, but I have not
cared much for _her_ these three years. ”

After this speech the two girls sat many minutes silent, each
thoughtful: Fanny meditating on the different sorts of friendship in the
world, Mary on something of less philosophic tendency. _She_ first spoke
again.

“How perfectly I remember my resolving to look for you upstairs, and
setting off to find my way to the East room, without having an idea
whereabouts it was! How well I remember what I was thinking of as I came
along, and my looking in and seeing you here sitting at this table at
work; and then your cousin’s astonishment, when he opened the door, at
seeing me here! To be sure, your uncle’s returning that very evening!
There never was anything quite like it. ”

Another short fit of abstraction followed, when, shaking it off, she
thus attacked her companion.

“Why, Fanny, you are absolutely in a reverie. Thinking, I hope, of one
who is always thinking of you. Oh! that I could transport you for a
short time into our circle in town, that you might understand how your
power over Henry is thought of there! Oh! the envyings and heartburnings
of dozens and dozens; the wonder, the incredulity that will be felt at
hearing what you have done! For as to secrecy, Henry is quite the hero
of an old romance, and glories in his chains. You should come to London
to know how to estimate your conquest. If you were to see how he is
courted, and how I am courted for his sake! Now, I am well aware that
I shall not be half so welcome to Mrs. Fraser in consequence of his
situation with you. When she comes to know the truth she will, very
likely, wish me in Northamptonshire again; for there is a daughter of
Mr. Fraser, by a first wife, whom she is wild to get married, and
wants Henry to take. Oh! she has been trying for him to such a degree.
Innocent and quiet as you sit here, you cannot have an idea of the
_sensation_ that you will be occasioning, of the curiosity there will
be to see you, of the endless questions I shall have to answer! Poor
Margaret Fraser will be at me for ever about your eyes and your teeth,
and how you do your hair, and who makes your shoes. I wish Margaret were
married, for my poor friend’s sake, for I look upon the Frasers to be
about as unhappy as most other married people. And yet it was a most
desirable match for Janet at the time. We were all delighted. She could
not do otherwise than accept him, for he was rich, and she had nothing;
but he turns out ill-tempered and _exigeant_, and wants a young woman,
a beautiful young woman of five-and-twenty, to be as steady as himself.
And my friend does not manage him well; she does not seem to know how
to make the best of it. There is a spirit of irritation which, to say
nothing worse, is certainly very ill-bred. In their house I shall call
to mind the conjugal manners of Mansfield Parsonage with respect. Even
Dr. Grant does shew a thorough confidence in my sister, and a certain
consideration for her judgment, which makes one feel there _is_
attachment; but of that I shall see nothing with the Frasers. I shall
be at Mansfield for ever, Fanny. My own sister as a wife, Sir Thomas
Bertram as a husband, are my standards of perfection. Poor Janet has
been sadly taken in, and yet there was nothing improper on her side:
she did not run into the match inconsiderately; there was no want of
foresight. She took three days to consider of his proposals, and during
those three days asked the advice of everybody connected with her whose
opinion was worth having, and especially applied to my late dear aunt,
whose knowledge of the world made her judgment very generally and
deservedly looked up to by all the young people of her acquaintance, and
she was decidedly in favour of Mr. Fraser. This seems as if nothing were
a security for matrimonial comfort. I have not so much to say for my
friend Flora, who jilted a very nice young man in the Blues for the sake
of that horrid Lord Stornaway, who has about as much sense, Fanny, as
Mr. Rushworth, but much worse-looking, and with a blackguard character.
I _had_ my doubts at the time about her being right, for he has not even
the air of a gentleman, and now I am sure she was wrong. By the bye,
Flora Ross was dying for Henry the first winter she came out. But were I
to attempt to tell you of all the women whom I have known to be in love
with him, I should never have done. It is you, only you, insensible
Fanny, who can think of him with anything like indifference. But are you
so insensible as you profess 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 not he devoted to you
at the ball? And then before the ball, the necklace! Oh! you received
it just as it was meant. You were as conscious as heart could desire. I
remember it perfectly. ”

“Do you mean, then, that your brother knew of the necklace beforehand?
Oh! Miss Crawford, _that_ was not fair. ”

“Knew of it! It was his own doing entirely, his own thought. I am
ashamed to say that it had never entered my head, but I was delighted to
act on his proposal for both your sakes. ”

“I will not say,” replied Fanny, “that I was not half afraid at the time
of its being so, for there was something in your look that frightened
me, but not at first; I was as unsuspicious of it at first--indeed,
indeed I was. It is as true as that I sit here. And had I had an idea
of it, nothing should have induced me to accept the necklace. As to your
brother’s behaviour, certainly I was sensible of a particularity: I had
been sensible of it some little time, perhaps two or three weeks; but
then I considered it as 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 mean
nothing. ”

“Ah! I cannot deny it. He has now and then been a sad flirt, and
cared very little for the havoc he might be making in young ladies’
affections. I have often scolded him for it, but it is his only fault;
and there is this to be said, that very few young ladies have any
affections worth caring for. And then, Fanny, the glory of fixing one
who has been shot at by so many; of having it in one’s power to pay off
the debts of one’s sex! Oh! I am sure it is not in woman’s nature to
refuse such a triumph. ”

Fanny shook her head. “I cannot think well of a man who sports with any
woman’s feelings; and there may often be a great deal more suffered than
a stander-by can judge of. ”

“I do not defend him. I leave him entirely to your mercy, and when he
has got you at Everingham, I do not care how much you lecture him. But
this I will say, that his fault, the liking to make girls a little
in love with him, is not half so dangerous to a wife’s happiness as a
tendency to fall in love himself, which he has never been addicted to.
And I do seriously and truly believe that he is attached to you in a way
that he never was to any woman before; that he loves you with all his
heart, and will love you as nearly for ever as possible. If any man ever
loved a woman for ever, I 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 talking with you here all
day, but we must not forget the ladies below, and so good-bye, my dear,
my amiable, my excellent Fanny, for though we shall nominally part in
the breakfast-parlour, I must take leave of you here. And I do take
leave, longing for a happy 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 _tete-a-tete_ 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 spirits not being previously in the
strongest state, her heart was softened for a while towards him, because
he really seemed to feel. Quite unlike his usual self, he scarcely said
anything. He was evidently oppressed, and Fanny must grieve for him,
though hoping she might never see him again till he were the husband of
some other woman.

When it came to the moment of parting, he would take her hand, he would
not be denied it; he said nothing, however, or nothing that she heard,
and when he had left the room, she was better pleased that such a token
of friendship had passed.

On the morrow the Crawfords were gone.



CHAPTER XXXVII

Mr. Crawford gone, Sir Thomas’s next object was that he should be
missed; and he entertained great hope that his niece would find a blank
in the loss of those attentions which at the time she had felt, or
fancied, an evil. She had tasted of consequence in its most flattering
form; and he did hope that the loss of it, the sinking again into
nothing, would awaken very wholesome regrets in her mind. He watched her
with this idea; but he could hardly tell with what success. He hardly
knew whether there were any difference in her spirits or not. She
was always so gentle and retiring that her emotions were beyond his
discrimination. He did not understand her: he felt that he did not; and
therefore applied to Edmund to tell him how she stood affected on the
present occasion, and whether she were more or less happy than she had
been.

Edmund did not discern any symptoms of regret, and thought his father
a little unreasonable in supposing the first three or four days could
produce any.

What chiefly surprised Edmund was, that Crawford’s sister, the friend
and companion who had been so much to her, should not be more visibly
regretted. He wondered that Fanny spoke so seldom of _her_, and had so
little voluntarily to say of her concern at this separation.

Alas! it was this sister, this friend and companion, who was now the
chief bane of Fanny’s comfort. If she could have believed Mary’s future
fate as unconnected with Mansfield as she was determined the brother’s
should be, if she could have hoped her return thither to be as distant
as she was much inclined to think his, she would have been light of
heart indeed; but the more she recollected and observed, the more deeply
was she convinced that everything was now in a fairer train for Miss
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 Lacey were completed--perhaps within a
fortnight; he talked of going, he loved to talk of it; and when once
with her again, Fanny could not doubt the rest. Her acceptance must be
as certain as his offer; and yet there were bad feelings still remaining
which made the prospect of it most sorrowful to her, independently, she
believed, independently of self.

In their very last conversation, Miss Crawford, in spite of some amiable
sensations, and much personal kindness, had still been Miss Crawford;
still shewn a mind led astray and bewildered, and without any suspicion
of being so; darkened, yet fancying itself light. She might love, but
she did not deserve Edmund by any other sentiment. Fanny believed there
was scarcely a second feeling in common between them; and she may be
forgiven by older sages for looking on the chance of Miss Crawford’s
future improvement as nearly desperate, for thinking that if Edmund’s
influence in this season of love had already done so little in clearing
her judgment, and regulating her notions, his worth would be finally
wasted on her even in years of 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 made, to shew his happiness
and describe his uniform.

He came; and he would have been delighted to shew his uniform there too,
had not cruel custom prohibited its appearance except on duty. So the
uniform remained at Portsmouth, and Edmund conjectured that before Fanny
had any chance of seeing it, all its own freshness and all the freshness
of its wearer’s feelings must be worn away. It would be sunk into a
badge of disgrace; for what can be more unbecoming, or more worthless,
than the uniform of a lieutenant, who has been a lieutenant a year or
two, and sees others made commanders before him? So reasoned Edmund,
till his father made him the confidant of a scheme which placed Fanny’s
chance of seeing the second lieutenant of H. M. S. Thrush in all his glory
in another light.

This scheme was that she should accompany her brother back to
Portsmouth, and spend a little time with her own family. It had occurred
to Sir Thomas, in one of his dignified musings, as a right and desirable
measure; but before he absolutely made up his mind, he consulted his
son. Edmund considered it every way, and saw nothing but what was right.
The thing was good in itself, and could not be done at a better time;
and he had no doubt of it being highly agreeable to Fanny. This was
enough to determine Sir Thomas; and a decisive “then so it shall be”
closed that stage of the business; Sir Thomas retiring from it with some
feelings of satisfaction, and views of good over and above what he had
communicated to his son; for his prime motive in sending her away had
very little to do with the propriety of her seeing her parents again,
and nothing at all with any idea of making her happy. He certainly
wished her to go willingly, but he as certainly wished her to be
heartily sick of home before her visit ended; and that a little
abstinence from the elegancies and luxuries of Mansfield Park would
bring her mind into a sober state, and incline her to a juster estimate
of the value of 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 familiarised with the
visions of enjoyment so suddenly opened, she could speak more largely
to William and Edmund of what she felt; but still there were emotions
of tenderness that could not be clothed in words. The remembrance of all
her earliest pleasures, and of what she had suffered in being torn from
them, came over her with renewed strength, and it seemed as if to be
at home again would heal every pain that had since grown out of the
separation. To be in the centre of such a circle, loved by so many,
and more loved by all than she had ever been before; to feel affection
without fear or restraint; to feel herself the equal of those who
surrounded her; to be at peace from all mention of the Crawfords, safe
from every look which could be fancied a reproach on their account. This
was 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 properer state; she should
be able to think of him as in London, and arranging everything there,
without wretchedness. What might have been hard to bear at Mansfield was
to become a slight evil at Portsmouth.

The only drawback was the doubt of her aunt Bertram’s being comfortable
without her. She was of use to no one else; but _there_ she might be
missed to a degree that she did not like to think of; and that part of
the arrangement was, indeed, the hardest for Sir Thomas to accomplish,
and what only _he_ could have 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 therefore that she must. In the calmness of
her own dressing-room, in the impartial flow of her own meditations,
unbiassed by his bewildering statements, she could not acknowledge any
necessity for Fanny’s ever going near a father and mother who had done
without her so long, while she was so useful to herself. And as to the
not missing her, which under Mrs. Norris’s discussion was the point
attempted to be proved, she set herself very steadily against admitting
any such thing.

Sir Thomas had appealed to her reason, conscience, and dignity. He
called it a sacrifice, and demanded it of her goodness and self-command
as such. But Mrs. Norris wanted to persuade her that Fanny could be very
well spared--_she_ being ready to give up all her own time to her as
requested--and, in short, could not really be wanted or missed.

“That may be, sister,” was all Lady Bertram’s reply. “I dare say you are
very right; but I am sure I shall miss her very much. ”

The next step was to communicate with Portsmouth. Fanny wrote to offer
herself; and her mother’s answer, though short, was so kind--a few
simple lines expressed so natural and motherly a joy in the prospect
of seeing her child again, as to confirm all the daughter’s views of
happiness in being with her--convincing her that she should now find a
warm and affectionate friend in the “mama” who had certainly shewn no
remarkable fondness for her formerly; but this she could easily suppose
to have been her own fault or her own fancy. She had probably alienated
love by the helplessness and fretfulness of a fearful temper, or been
unreasonable in wanting a larger share than any one among so many could
deserve. Now, when she knew better how to be useful, and how to forbear,
and when her mother could be no longer occupied by the incessant
demands of a house full of little children, there would be leisure and
inclination for every comfort, 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 shew her.

He did not scruple to add that her being at home for a while would be a
great advantage to everybody.

“I do not know how it is,” said he; “but we seem to want some of
your nice ways and orderliness at my father’s. The house is always in
confusion. You will set things going in a better way, I am sure. You
will tell my mother how it all ought to be, and you will be so useful to
Susan, and you will teach Betsey, and make the boys love and mind you.
How right and comfortable it will all be! ”

By the time Mrs. Price’s answer arrived, there remained but a very few
days more to be spent at Mansfield; and for part of one of those days
the young travellers were in a good deal of alarm on the subject of
their journey, for when the mode of it came to be talked of, and Mrs.
Norris found that all her anxiety to save her brother-in-law’s money
was vain, and that in spite of her wishes and hints for a less expensive
conveyance of Fanny, they were to travel post; when she saw Sir Thomas
actually give William notes for the purpose, she was struck with the
idea of there being room for a third in the carriage, and suddenly
seized with a strong inclination to go with them, to go and see her poor
dear sister Price. She proclaimed her thoughts. She must say that she
had more than half a mind to go with the young people; it would be such
an indulgence to her; she had not seen her poor dear sister Price for
more than twenty years; and it would be a help to the young people in
their journey to have her older head to manage for them; and she could
not help thinking her poor dear sister Price would feel it very unkind
of her not to come by such an opportunity.

William and Fanny were horror-struck at the idea.

All the comfort of their comfortable journey would be destroyed at
once. With woeful countenances they looked at each other. Their suspense
lasted an hour or two. No one interfered to encourage or dissuade. Mrs.
Norris was left to settle the matter by herself; and it ended, to the
infinite joy of her nephew and niece, in the recollection that she could
not possibly be spared from Mansfield Park at present; that she was a
great deal too necessary to Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram for her to
be able to answer it to herself to leave them even for a week, and
therefore must certainly sacrifice every other pleasure to that of being
useful to them.

It had, in fact, occurred to her, that though taken to Portsmouth for
nothing, it would be hardly possible for her to avoid paying her own
expenses back again. So her poor dear sister Price was left to all the
disappointment of her missing such an opportunity, and another twenty
years’ absence, perhaps, begun.

Edmund’s plans were affected by this Portsmouth journey, this absence of
Fanny’s. He too had a sacrifice to make to Mansfield Park as well as his
aunt. He had intended, about this time, to be going to London; but he
could not leave his father and mother just when everybody else of most
importance to their comfort was leaving them; and with an effort, felt
but not boasted of, he delayed for a week or two longer a journey which
he 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 afterwards she was
alluded to by him. Lady Bertram had been telling her niece in the
evening to write to her soon and often, and promising to be a good
correspondent herself; and Edmund, at a convenient moment, then added
in a whisper, “And _I_ shall write to you, Fanny, when I have anything
worth writing about, anything to say that I think you will like to hear,
and that you will not hear so soon from any other quarter. ” Had she
doubted his meaning while she listened, the glow in his face, when she
looked up at him, 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

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
allusion.

She had reason to suppose herself not yet forgotten by Mr. Crawford. She
had heard repeatedly from his sister within the three weeks which had
passed since their leaving Mansfield, and in each letter there had been
a few lines from himself, warm and determined like his speeches. It
was a correspondence which Fanny found quite as unpleasant as she had
feared. Miss Crawford’s style of writing, lively and affectionate, was
itself an evil, independent of what she was thus forced into reading
from the brother’s pen, for Edmund would never rest till she had read
the chief of the letter to him; and then she had to listen to his
admiration of her language, and the warmth of her attachments. There
had, in fact, been so much of message, of allusion, of recollection, so
much of Mansfield in every letter, that Fanny could not but suppose it
meant for him to hear; and to find herself forced into a purpose of
that kind, compelled into a correspondence which was bringing her the
addresses of the man she did not love, and obliging her to administer
to the adverse passion of the man she did, was cruelly mortifying. Here,
too, her present removal promised advantage. When no longer under the
same roof with Edmund, she trusted that Miss Crawford would have no
motive for writing strong enough to overcome the trouble, and that at
Portsmouth their correspondence would dwindle into nothing.

With such thoughts as these, among ten hundred others, Fanny 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 enjoyments
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.