Nearly half an hour had passed, and she was growing very comfortable, when suddenly the sound of a step in regular approach was heard; a heavy step, an unusual step in that part of the house: it was her uncle's; she knew it as well as his voice; she had trembled at it as often, and began to tremble again, at the idea of his coming up to speak to her, whatever might be the subject. It was indeed Sir Thomas who opened the door and asked if she were there, and if he might come in. The terror of his former occasional visits to that room seemed all renewed, and she felt as if he were going to examine her again in French and English.
She was all attention, however, in placing a chair for him, and trying to appear honoured; and, in her agitation, had quite overlooked the deficiencies of her apartment, till he, stopping short as he entered, said, with much surprise, "Why have you no fire to-day?"
There was snow on the ground, and she was sitting in a shawl. She hesitated.
"I am not cold, sir: I never sit here long at this time of year."
"But you have a fire in general?"
"No, sir."

Nearly half an hour had passed, and she was growing very comfortable, when suddenly the sound of a heavy step was heard, an unusual step in that part of the house. It was her uncle's; and she began to tremble at the idea of his coming up to speak to her.
It was indeed Sir Thomas who opened the door and asked if he might come in. The terror of his former occasional visits to that room seemed all renewed, and she felt as if he were going to examine her again in French and English.
She was all attention, however, in placing a chair for him, and trying to appear honoured. Stopping short as he entered, he said, with much surprise, "Why have you no fire to-day?"
There was snow on the ground, and she was sitting in a shawl. She hesitated.
"I am not cold, sir: I never sit here long at this time of year."
"But you have a fire in general?"
"No, sir."


"How comes this about? Here must be some mistake. I understood that you had the use of this room by way of making you perfectly comfortable. In your bedchamber I know you _cannot_ have a fire. Here is some great misapprehension which must be rectified. It is highly unfit for you to sit, be it only half an hour a day, without a fire. You are not strong. You are chilly. Your aunt cannot be aware of this."
Fanny would rather have been silent; but being obliged to speak, she could not forbear, in justice to the aunt she loved best, from saying something in which the words "my aunt Norris" were distinguishable.

"How comes this about? Here must be some mistake. I understood that you had the use of this room by way of making you comfortable. It is highly unfit for you to sit, be it only half an hour a day, without a fire. You are not strong. You are chilly. Your aunt cannot be aware of this."
Fanny would rather have been silent; but being obliged to speak, she could not refrain, in justice to the aunt she loved best, from saying something about "my aunt Norris".


"I understand," cried her uncle, recollecting himself, and not wanting to hear more: "I understand. Your aunt Norris has always been an advocate, and very judiciously, for young people's being brought up without unnecessary indulgences; but there should be moderation in everything. She is also very hardy herself, which of course will influence her in her opinion of the wants of others. And on another account, too, I can perfectly comprehend. I know what her sentiments have always been. The principle was good in itself, but it may have been, and I believe _has_ _been_, carried too far in your case. I am aware that there has been sometimes, in some points, a misplaced distinction; but I think too well of you, Fanny, to suppose you will ever harbour resentment on that account. You have an understanding which will prevent you from receiving things only in part, and judging partially by the event. You will take in the whole of the past, you will consider times, persons, and probabilities, and you will feel that _they_ were not least your friends who were educating and preparing you for that mediocrity of condition which _seemed_ to be your lot. Though their caution may prove eventually unnecessary, it was kindly meant; and of this you may be assured, that every advantage of affluence will be doubled by the little privations and restrictions that may have been imposed.

"I understand," cried her uncle, recollecting himself, and not wanting to hear more: "I understand. Your aunt Norris has always advised young people's being brought up without unnecessary indulgences; but there should be moderation in everything. She is also very hardy herself, and so course expects others to be likewise. And on another account, too, I can perfectly comprehend her sentiments. I am aware that there has been sometimes a misplaced distinction between you and your cousins; but I think too well of you, Fanny, to suppose you will ever harbour resentment on that account. You know that your friends were preparing you for that mediocrity of condition which seemed to be your lot. Though their caution may prove eventually unnecessary, it was kindly meant.


I am sure you will not disappoint my opinion of you, by failing at any time to treat your aunt Norris with the respect and attention that are due to her. But enough of this. Sit down, my dear. I must speak to you for a few minutes, but I will not detain you long."
Fanny obeyed, with eyes cast down and colour rising. After a moment's pause, Sir Thomas, trying to suppress a smile, went on.
"You are not aware, perhaps, that I have had a visitor this morning. I had not been long in my own room, after breakfast, when Mr. Crawford was shewn in. His errand you may probably conjecture."
Fanny's colour grew deeper and deeper; and her uncle, perceiving that she was embarrassed to a degree that made either speaking or looking up quite impossible, turned away his own eyes, and without any farther pause proceeded in his account of Mr. Crawford's visit.

But enough of this. Sit down, my dear. I must speak to you, but I will not detain you long."
Fanny obeyed, with eyes cast down and colour rising. Sir Thomas, trying to suppress a smile, went on.
"I have had a visitor this morning. Not long after breakfast, Mr. Crawford was shown in. His errand you may probably conjecture."
Fanny's colour grew deeper; and her uncle, perceiving her great embarrassment, turned away his own eyes, and proceeded in his account of Mr. Crawford's visit.


Mr. Crawford's business had been to declare himself the lover of Fanny, make decided proposals for her, and entreat the sanction of the uncle, who seemed to stand in the place of her parents; and he had done it all so well, so openly, so liberally, so properly, that Sir Thomas, feeling, moreover, his own replies, and his own remarks to have been very much to the purpose, was exceedingly happy to give the particulars of their conversation; and little aware of what was passing in his niece's mind, conceived that by such details he must be gratifying her far more than himself. He talked, therefore, for several minutes without Fanny's daring to interrupt him. She had hardly even attained the wish to do it. Her mind was in too much confusion. She had changed her position; and, with her eyes fixed intently on one of the windows, was listening to her uncle in the utmost perturbation and dismay. For a moment he ceased, but she had barely become conscious of it, when, rising from his chair, he said, "And now, Fanny, having performed one part of my commission, and shewn you everything placed on a basis the most assured and satisfactory, I may execute the remainder by prevailing on you to accompany me downstairs, where, though I cannot but presume on having been no unacceptable companion myself, I must submit to your finding one still better worth listening to. Mr. Crawford, as you have perhaps foreseen, is yet in the house. He is in my room, and hoping to see you there."

Mr. Crawford's business had been to declare himself the lover of Fanny, make decided proposals for her, and ask the blessing of the uncle, who seemed to stand in the place of her parents; and he had done it all so well, so properly, that Sir Thomas was happy to give the details of their conversation. Unaware of what was passing in his niece's mind, he thought that he must be gratifying her. He talked, therefore, for several minutes without Fanny's daring to interrupt him. With her eyes fixed intently on one of the windows, she listened to her uncle in the utmost perturbation and dismay.
Rising from his chair, he said, "And now, Fanny, having performed one part of my commission, I may execute the remainder by asking you to accompany me downstairs, where you may find a companion still better worth listening to. Mr. Crawford is in my room, and hoping to see you there."


There was a look, a start, an exclamation on hearing this, which astonished Sir Thomas; but what was his increase of astonishment on hearing her exclaim-"Oh! no, sir, I cannot, indeed I cannot go down to him. Mr. Crawford ought to know-he must know that: I told him enough yesterday to convince him; he spoke to me on this subject yesterday, and I told him without disguise that it was very disagreeable to me, and quite out of my power to return his good opinion."
"I do not catch your meaning," said Sir Thomas, sitting down again. "Out of your power to return his good opinion? What is all this? I know he spoke to you yesterday, and (as far as I understand) received as much encouragement to proceed as a well-judging young woman could permit herself to give. I was very much pleased with what I collected to have been your behaviour on the occasion; it shewed a discretion highly to be commended. But now, when he has made his overtures so properly, and honourably-what are your scruples _now_?"

There was a look, a start on hearing this, which astonished Sir Thomas; but his astonishment increased on hearing her exclaim-"Oh! no, sir, indeed I cannot go down to him. Mr. Crawford must know that: he spoke to me on this subject yesterday, and I told him that it was very disagreeable to me, and quite out of my power to return his good opinion."
"I do not catch your meaning," said Sir Thomas, sitting down again. "What is all this? I know he spoke to you yesterday, and (as I understand) received as much encouragement as a well-judging young woman could permit herself to give. I was very much pleased with your behaviour on the occasion; it showed a commendable discretion. But now, when he has made his overtures so properly-what are your scruples now?"


"You are mistaken, sir," cried Fanny, forced by the anxiety of the moment even to tell her uncle that he was wrong; "you are quite mistaken. How could Mr. Crawford say such a thing? I gave him no encouragement yesterday. On the contrary, I told him, I cannot recollect my exact words, but I am sure I told him that I would not listen to him, that it was very unpleasant to me in every respect, and that I begged him never to talk to me in that manner again. I am sure I said as much as that and more; and I should have said still more, if I had been quite certain of his meaning anything seriously; but I did not like to be, I could not bear to be, imputing more than might be intended. I thought it might all pass for nothing with _him_."
She could say no more; her breath was almost gone.
"Am I to understand," said Sir Thomas, after a few moments' silence, "that you mean to _refuse_ Mr. Crawford?"
"Yes, sir."
"Refuse him?"

"You are mistaken, sir," cried Fanny, forced by her anxiety even to tell her uncle that he was wrong; "you are quite mistaken. How could Mr. Crawford say such a thing? I gave him no encouragement yesterday. On the contrary, I told him, I cannot recollect my exact words, but I am sure I told him that I would not listen to him, that it was very unpleasant to me in every respect, and that I begged him never to talk to me in that manner again. I should have said more, if I had been quite certain of his meaning anything seriously; but I did not like to be imputing more than might be intended. I thought it might all pass for nothing with him."
She could say no more.
"Am I to understand," said Sir Thomas, after a few moments' silence, "that you mean to refuse Mr. Crawford?"
"Yes, sir."
"Refuse him?"


"Yes, sir."
"Refuse Mr. Crawford! Upon what plea? For what reason?"
"I-I cannot like him, sir, well enough to marry him."


"This is very strange!" said Sir Thomas, in a voice of calm displeasure. "There is something in this which my comprehension does not reach. Here is a young man wishing to pay his addresses to you, with everything to recommend him: not merely situation in life, fortune, and character, but with more than common agreeableness, with address and conversation pleasing to everybody. And he is not an acquaintance of to-day; you have now known him some time. His sister, moreover, is your intimate friend, and he has been doing _that_ for your brother, which I should suppose would have been almost sufficient recommendation to you, had there been no other. It is very uncertain when my interest might have got William on. He has done it already."
"Yes," said Fanny, in a faint voice, and looking down with fresh shame; and she did feel almost ashamed of herself, after such a picture as her uncle had drawn, for not liking Mr. Crawford.

"This is very strange!" said Sir Thomas, in a voice of calm displeasure. "Here is a young man wishing to pay his addresses to you, with everything to recommend him: situation, fortune, and character, with more than common agreeableness, with address and conversation pleasing to everybody. His sister, moreover, is your intimate friend, and he has done that for your brother, which might have been almost sufficient recommendation to you, had there been no other."
"Yes," said Fanny, in a faint voice, and looking down with fresh shame.


"You must have been aware," continued Sir Thomas presently, "you must have been some time aware of a particularity in Mr. Crawford's manners to you. This cannot have taken you by surprise. You must have observed his attentions; and though you always received them very properly (I have no accusation to make on that head), I never perceived them to be unpleasant to you. I am half inclined to think, Fanny, that you do not quite know your own feelings."
"Oh yes, sir! indeed I do. His attentions were always-what I did not like."

"You must have been aware," continued Sir Thomas, "of a particularity in Mr. Crawford's manners to you. This cannot have taken you by surprise. You must have observed his attentions; and though you always received them very properly, I never perceived them to be unpleasant to you. I am half inclined to think, Fanny, that you do not know your own feelings."
"Oh yes, sir! indeed I do. His attentions were always-what I did not like."


Sir Thomas looked at her with deeper surprise. "This is beyond me," said he. "This requires explanation. Young as you are, and having seen scarcely any one, it is hardly possible that your affections-"
He paused and eyed her fixedly. He saw her lips formed into a _no_, though the sound was inarticulate, but her face was like scarlet. That, however, in so modest a girl, might be very compatible with innocence; and chusing at least to appear satisfied, he quickly added, "No, no, I know _that_ is quite out of the question; quite impossible. Well, there is nothing more to be said."

Sir Thomas looked at her with deeper surprise. "This is beyond me," said he. "This requires explanation. Young as you are, and having seen scarcely any one, it is hardly possible that your affections-"
He paused and eyed her fixedly. He saw her lips formed into a no, though the sound was inarticulate, but her face was like scarlet. That, however, in so modest a girl, might be very compatible with innocence; and choosing at least to appear satisfied, he quickly added, "No, no, I know that is quite out of the question. Well, there is nothing more to be said."


And for a few minutes he did say nothing. He was deep in thought. His niece was deep in thought likewise, trying to harden and prepare herself against farther questioning. She would rather die than own the truth; and she hoped, by a little reflection, to fortify herself beyond betraying it.

And for a few minutes he did say nothing. He was deep in thought. His niece was deep in thought likewise, trying to harden and prepare herself against farther questioning. She would rather die than own the truth; and she hoped to fortify herself beyond betraying it.


"Independently of the interest which Mr. Crawford's _choice_ seemed to justify" said Sir Thomas, beginning again, and very composedly, "his wishing to marry at all so early is recommendatory to me. I am an advocate for early marriages, where there are means in proportion, and would have every young man, with a sufficient income, settle as soon after four-and-twenty as he can. This is so much my opinion, that I am sorry to think how little likely my own eldest son, your cousin, Mr. Bertram, is to marry early; but at present, as far as I can judge, matrimony makes no part of his plans or thoughts. I wish he were more likely to fix." Here was a glance at Fanny. "Edmund, I consider, from his dispositions and habits, as much more likely to marry early than his brother. _He_, indeed, I have lately thought, has seen the woman he could love, which, I am convinced, my eldest son has not. Am I right? Do you agree with me, my dear?"
"Yes, sir."

"Quite apart from Mr. Crawford's choice," said Sir Thomas, beginning again, very composedly, "his wishing to marry so early is commendable. I am an advocate for early marriages, and would have every young man, with a sufficient income, settle as soon after four-and-twenty as he can. I am sorry to think how unlikely my own eldest son, Mr. Bertram, is to marry early; but at present, as far as I can judge, matrimony makes no part of his plans. I wish he were more likely to fix." Here was a glance at Fanny. "Edmund, I consider as much more likely to marry early than his brother. He, indeed, I have lately thought, has seen the woman he could love, which, I am convinced, my eldest son has not. Am I right? Do you agree with me, my dear?"
"Yes, sir."


It was gently, but it was calmly said, and Sir Thomas was easy on the score of the cousins. But the removal of his alarm did his niece no service: as her unaccountableness was confirmed his displeasure increased; and getting up and walking about the room with a frown, which Fanny could picture to herself, though she dared not lift up her eyes, he shortly afterwards, and in a voice of authority, said, "Have you any reason, child, to think ill of Mr. Crawford's temper?"
"No, sir."
She longed to add, "But of his principles I have"; but her heart sunk under the appalling prospect of discussion, explanation, and probably non-conviction. Her ill opinion of him was founded chiefly on observations, which, for her cousins' sake, she could scarcely dare mention to their father. Maria and Julia, and especially Maria, were so closely implicated in Mr. Crawford's misconduct, that she could not give his character, such as she believed it, without betraying them. She had hoped that, to a man like her uncle, so discerning, so honourable, so good, the simple acknowledgment of settled _dislike_ on her side would have been sufficient. To her infinite grief she found it was not.

It was gently, but it was calmly said, and Sir Thomas was easy on the score of the cousins. But with the removal of his alarm, his displeasure increased; and getting up and walking about with a frown, he said in a voice of authority, "Have you any reason, child, to think ill of Mr. Crawford's temper?"
"No, sir."
She longed to add, "But of his principles I have"; but her heart sunk under the appalling prospect of discussion, explanation, and probably non-conviction. Her ill opinion of him was founded chiefly on observations, which, for her cousins' sake, she could scarcely mention to their father. Maria and Julia, especially Maria, were so closely implicated in Mr. Crawford's misconduct, that she could not speak of it without betraying them. She had hoped that, to a man like her uncle, so discerning, so honourable, so good, the simple acknowledgment of settled dislike on her side would have been sufficient. To her infinite grief she found it was not.


Sir Thomas came towards the table where she sat in trembling wretchedness, and with a good deal of cold sternness, said, "It is of no use, I perceive, to talk to you. We had better put an end to this most mortifying conference. Mr. Crawford must not be kept longer waiting. I will, therefore, only add, as thinking it my duty to mark my opinion of your conduct, that you have disappointed every expectation I had formed, and proved yourself of a character the very reverse of what I had supposed. For I _had_, Fanny, as I think my behaviour must have shewn, formed a very favourable opinion of you from the period of my return to England. I had thought you peculiarly free from wilfulness of temper, self-conceit, and every tendency to that independence of spirit which prevails so much in modern days, even in young women, and which in young women is offensive and disgusting beyond all common offence. But you have now shewn me that you can be wilful and perverse; that you can and will decide for yourself, without any consideration or deference for those who have surely some right to guide you, without even asking their advice. You have shewn yourself very, very different from anything that I had imagined. The advantage or disadvantage of your family, of your parents, your brothers and sisters, never seems to have had a moment's share in your thoughts on this occasion. How _they_ might be benefited, how _they_ must rejoice in such an establishment for you, is nothing to _you_.

Sir Thomas came towards the table where she sat trembling, and with cold sternness, said, "It is of no use, I perceive, to talk to you. We had better put an end to this mortifying conference. Mr. Crawford must not be kept longer waiting. I will, therefore, only add that you have disappointed every expectation I had formed, and proved your character the very reverse of what I had supposed. For I had, Fanny, formed a very favourable opinion of you since my return to England. I had thought you free from wilfulness of temper, self-conceit, and that modern independence of spirit which is so disgusting in young women. But you have now shown me that you can be wilful and perverse; that you can and will decide for yourself, without any deference to those who have surely some right to guide you, without even asking their advice. You have shown yourself very, very different from anything that I had imagined. Your brothers and sisters seem never to have had a moment's share in your thoughts. How they might be benefited is nothing to you.


You think only of yourself, and because you do not feel for Mr. Crawford exactly what a young heated fancy imagines to be necessary for happiness, you resolve to refuse him at once, without wishing even for a little time to consider of it, a little more time for cool consideration, and for really examining your own inclinations; and are, in a wild fit of folly, throwing away from you such an opportunity of being settled in life, eligibly, honourably, nobly settled, as will, probably, never occur to you again. Here is a young man of sense, of character, of temper, of manners, and of fortune, exceedingly attached to you, and seeking your hand in the most handsome and disinterested way; and let me tell you, Fanny, that you may live eighteen years longer in the world without being addressed by a man of half Mr. Crawford's estate, or a tenth part of his merits. Gladly would I have bestowed either of my own daughters on him. Maria is nobly married; but had Mr. Crawford sought Julia's hand, I should have given it to him with superior and more heartfelt satisfaction than I gave Maria's to Mr. Rushworth." After half a moment's pause: "And I should have been very much surprised had either of my daughters, on receiving a proposal of marriage at any time which might carry with it only _half_ the eligibility of _this_, immediately and peremptorily, and without paying my opinion or my regard the compliment of any consultation, put a decided negative on it. I should have been much surprised and much hurt by such a proceeding. I should have thought it a gross violation of duty and respect. _You_ are not to be judged by the same rule. You do not owe me the duty of a child. But, Fanny, if your heart can acquit you of _ingratitude_-"

You think only of yourself, and because you do not feel for Mr. Crawford exactly what a young heated fancy imagines to be necessary for happiness, you resolve to refuse him at once, without wishing even for a little time to consider. You are, in a wild fit of folly, throwing away such an opportunity as will probably never occur to you again. Here is a young man of sense, of character, of manners, and of fortune, exceedingly attached to you, and seeking your hand in the most handsome way; and let me tell you, Fanny, that you may live eighteen years longer without being addressed by a man of half Mr. Crawford's estate, or a tenth part of his merits. Gladly would I have bestowed either of my own daughters on him. Maria is nobly married; but had Mr. Crawford sought Julia's hand, I should have given it to him with more heartfelt satisfaction than I gave Maria's to Mr. Rushworth." After half a moment's pause: "And I should have been very much surprised had either of my daughters, on receiving a proposal of marriage half as eligible as this, peremptorily decided against it without any consultation. I should have been much hurt by such a proceeding. I should have thought it a gross violation of duty and respect. You are not to be judged by the same rule. You do not owe me the duty of a child. But, Fanny, if your heart can acquit you of ingratitude-"


He ceased. Fanny was by this time crying so bitterly that, angry as he was, he would not press that article farther. Her heart was almost broke by such a picture of what she appeared to him; by such accusations, so heavy, so multiplied, so rising in dreadful gradation! Self-willed, obstinate, selfish, and ungrateful. He thought her all this. She had deceived his expectations; she had lost his good opinion. What was to become of her?
"I am very sorry," said she inarticulately, through her tears, "I am very sorry indeed."
"Sorry! yes, I hope you are sorry; and you will probably have reason to be long sorry for this day's transactions."

He ceased. Fanny was by this time crying so bitterly that, angry as he was, he would not press farther. Her heart was almost broke by such accusations, so heavy, so multiplied, so dreadful! Self-willed, obstinate, selfish, and ungrateful. He thought her all this. She had lost his good opinion. What was to become of her?
"I am very sorry," said she inarticulately, through her tears, "I am very sorry indeed."
"Sorry! yes, I hope you are sorry; and you will probably have reason to be long sorry for this day's transactions."


"If it were possible for me to do otherwise" said she, with another strong effort; "but I am so perfectly convinced that I could never make him happy, and that I should be miserable myself."
Another burst of tears; but in spite of that burst, and in spite of that great black word _miserable_, which served to introduce it, Sir Thomas began to think a little relenting, a little change of inclination, might have something to do with it; and to augur favourably from the personal entreaty of the young man himself. He knew her to be very timid, and exceedingly nervous; and thought it not improbable that her mind might be in such a state as a little time, a little pressing, a little patience, and a little impatience, a judicious mixture of all on the lover's side, might work their usual effect on. If the gentleman would but persevere, if he had but love enough to persevere, Sir Thomas began to have hopes; and these reflections having passed across his mind and cheered it, "Well," said he, in a tone of becoming gravity, but of less anger, "well, child, dry up your tears. There is no use in these tears; they can do no good. You must now come downstairs with me. Mr. Crawford has been kept waiting too long already. You must give him your own answer: we cannot expect him to be satisfied with less; and you only can explain to him the grounds of that misconception of your sentiments, which, unfortunately for himself, he certainly has imbibed. I am totally unequal to it."

"If it were possible for me to do otherwise" said she, with another strong effort; "but I am so perfectly convinced that I could never make him happy, and that I should be miserable myself."
Another burst of tears; but in spite of that burst, Sir Thomas began to think a little relenting might have something to do with it. He knew her to be very timid, and exceedingly nervous; and thought a little pressing and patience on the lover's side might work their effect on her, if the gentleman would but persevere.
These reflections having cheered Sir Thomas, "Well," said he, with gravity, but less anger, "well, child, dry up your tears. They can do no good. You must now come downstairs with me. Mr. Crawford has been kept waiting too long already. You must give him your own answer. I am totally unequal to it."


But Fanny shewed such reluctance, such misery, at the idea of going down to him, that Sir Thomas, after a little consideration, judged it better to indulge her. His hopes from both gentleman and lady suffered a small depression in consequence; but when he looked at his niece, and saw the state of feature and complexion which her crying had brought her into, he thought there might be as much lost as gained by an immediate interview. With a few words, therefore, of no particular meaning, he walked off by himself, leaving his poor niece to sit and cry over what had passed, with very wretched feelings.

But Fanny showed such reluctance, such misery, at the idea of going down to him, that Sir Thomas judged it better to indulge her. When he looked at his niece, and saw the state which her crying had brought her into, he thought there might be as much lost as gained by an immediate interview. He walked off by himself, therefore, leaving his poor niece to sit and cry over what had passed, with very wretched feelings.


Her mind was all disorder. The past, present, future, everything was terrible. But her uncle's anger gave her the severest pain of all. Selfish and ungrateful! to have appeared so to him! She was miserable for ever. She had no one to take her part, to counsel, or speak for her. Her only friend was absent. He might have softened his father; but all, perhaps all, would think her selfish and ungrateful. She might have to endure the reproach again and again; she might hear it, or see it, or know it to exist for ever in every connexion about her.

Her mind was all disorder. Everything was terrible. But her uncle's anger gave her the severest pain of all. Selfish and ungrateful! to have appeared so to him! She had no one to speak for her. Her only friend was absent. Edmund might have softened his father; but perhaps all would think her selfish and ungrateful. She might have to endure the reproach again and again.


She could not but feel some resentment against Mr. Crawford; yet, if he really loved her, and were unhappy too! It was all wretchedness together.
In about a quarter of an hour her uncle returned; she was almost ready to faint at the sight of him. He spoke calmly, however, without austerity, without reproach, and she revived a little. There was comfort, too, in his words, as well as his manner, for he began with, "Mr. Crawford is gone: he has just left me. I need not repeat what has passed. I do not want to add to anything you may now be feeling, by an account of what he has felt. Suffice it, that he has behaved in the most gentlemanlike and generous manner, and has confirmed me in a most favourable opinion of his understanding, heart, and temper. Upon my representation of what you were suffering, he immediately, and with the greatest delicacy, ceased to urge to see you for the present."

She could not help feeling some resentment against Mr. Crawford; yet, if he really loved her, and were unhappy too! It was all wretchedness together.
In about a quarter of an hour her uncle returned; she was almost ready to faint at the sight of him. He spoke calmly, however, without reproach, and she revived a little. There was comfort, too, in his words, for he began with, "Mr. Crawford has just left me. I need not repeat what has passed. Suffice it, that he has behaved in the most gentlemanlike manner, and has confirmed me in a most favourable opinion of his heart and temper. Upon hearing what you were suffering, he immediately ceased to urge to see you for the present."


Here Fanny, who had looked up, looked down again. "Of course," continued her uncle, "it cannot be supposed but that he should request to speak with you alone, be it only for five minutes; a request too natural, a claim too just to be denied. But there is no time fixed; perhaps to-morrow, or whenever your spirits are composed enough. For the present you have only to tranquillise yourself. Check these tears; they do but exhaust you. If, as I am willing to suppose, you wish to shew me any observance, you will not give way to these emotions, but endeavour to reason yourself into a stronger frame of mind. I advise you to go out: the air will do you good; go out for an hour on the gravel; you will have the shrubbery to yourself, and will be the better for air and exercise. And, Fanny" (turning back again for a moment), "I shall make no mention below of what has passed; I shall not even tell your aunt Bertram. There is no occasion for spreading the disappointment; say nothing about it yourself."

Here Fanny looked down again. "Of course," continued her uncle, "he requested to speak with you alone, if only for five minutes; a request too natural to be denied. But there is no time fixed; perhaps to-morrow, or whenever your spirits are composed enough. For the present you have only to tranquillise yourself. If you wish to please me, you will not give way to these emotions, but try to reason yourself into a stronger frame of mind. I advise you to go out for an hour: the air will do you good; you will have the shrubbery to yourself, and will be the better for exercise. And, Fanny, I shall make no mention below of what has passed; I shall not even tell your aunt Bertram. Say nothing about it yourself."


This was an order to be most joyfully obeyed; this was an act of kindness which Fanny felt at her heart. To be spared from her aunt Norris's interminable reproaches! he left her in a glow of gratitude. Anything might be bearable rather than such reproaches. Even to see Mr. Crawford would be less overpowering.
She walked out directly, as her uncle recommended, and followed his advice throughout, as far as she could; did check her tears; did earnestly try to compose her spirits and strengthen her mind. She wished to prove to him that she did desire his comfort, and sought to regain his favour; and he had given her another strong motive for exertion, in keeping the whole affair from the knowledge of her aunts. Not to excite suspicion by her look or manner was now an object worth attaining; and she felt equal to almost anything that might save her from her aunt Norris.

This was a kindness which Fanny felt at her heart. To be spared from her aunt Norris's interminable reproaches! he left her in a glow of gratitude.
She walked out as her uncle recommended, and followed his advice; did check her tears; did earnestly try to compose her spirits and strengthen her mind. She wished to prove to him that she sought to regain his favour; and he had given her another strong motive for exertion, in keeping the whole affair from the knowledge of her aunts. Not to excite suspicion by her manner was an object worth attaining; and she felt equal to almost anything that might save her from her aunt Norris.


She was struck, quite struck, when, on returning from her walk and going into the East room again, the first thing which caught her eye was a fire lighted and burning. A fire! it seemed too much; just at that time to be giving her such an indulgence was exciting even painful gratitude. She wondered that Sir Thomas could have leisure to think of such a trifle again; but she soon found, from the voluntary information of the housemaid, who came in to attend it, that so it was to be every day. Sir Thomas had given orders for it.
"I must be a brute, indeed, if I can be really ungrateful!" said she, in soliloquy. "Heaven defend me from being ungrateful!"
She saw nothing more of her uncle, nor of her aunt Norris, till they met at dinner. Her uncle's behaviour to her was then as nearly as possible what it had been before; she was sure he did not mean there should be any change, and that it was only her own conscience that could fancy any; but her aunt was soon quarrelling with her; and when she found how much and how unpleasantly her having only walked out without her aunt's knowledge could be dwelt on, she felt all the reason she had to bless the kindness which saved her from the same spirit of reproach, exerted on a more momentous subject.

She was struck, when, on returning from her walk and going into the East room, the first thing which caught her eye was a fire burning. A fire! to be giving her such an indulgence at that time was too much. She wondered that Sir Thomas could have leisure to think of such a trifle; but she soon found, from the housemaid, that so it was to be every day. Sir Thomas had given orders for it.
"I must be a brute, indeed, if I can be really ungrateful!" said she. "Heaven defend me from being ungrateful!"
She saw nothing more of her uncle, nor her aunt Norris, till dinner. Her uncle's behaviour to her was then as nearly as possible what it had been before; but her aunt was soon quarrelling with her; and when Fanny found how much and how unpleasantly her having only walked out without her aunt's knowledge could be dwelt on, she blessed the kindness which saved her from the same reproaches on a more momentous subject.


"If I had known you were going out, I should have got you just to go as far as my house with some orders for Nanny," said she, "which I have since, to my very great inconvenience, been obliged to go and carry myself. I could very ill spare the time, and you might have saved me the trouble, if you would only have been so good as to let us know you were going out. It would have made no difference to you, I suppose, whether you had walked in the shrubbery or gone to my house."
"I recommended the shrubbery to Fanny as the driest place," said Sir Thomas.
"Oh!" said Mrs. Norris, with a moment's check, "that was very kind of you, Sir Thomas; but you do not know how dry the path is to my house. Fanny would have had quite as good a walk there, I assure you, with the advantage of being of some use, and obliging her aunt: it is all her fault. If she would but have let us know she was going out but there is a something about Fanny, I have often observed it before-she likes to go her own way to work; she does not like to be dictated to; she takes her own independent walk whenever she can; she certainly has a little spirit of secrecy, and independence, and nonsense, about her, which I would advise her to get the better of."
As a general reflection on Fanny, Sir Thomas thought nothing could be more unjust, though he had been so lately expressing the same sentiments himself, and he tried to turn the conversation: tried repeatedly before he could succeed; for Mrs. Norris had not discernment enough to perceive, either now, or at any other time, to what degree he thought well of his niece, or how very far he was from wishing to have his own children's merits set off by the depreciation of hers. She was talking _at_ Fanny, and resenting this private walk half through the dinner.

"If I had known you were going out, I should have got you to go to my house with some orders," said her aunt, "which I have since, to my very great inconvenience, been obliged to go and carry myself. I could very ill spare the time, and you might have saved me the trouble, if you would only have been so good as to let us know you were going out. It would have made no difference to you, I suppose, whether you had walked in the shrubbery or gone to my house."
"I recommended the shrubbery to Fanny as the driest place," said Sir Thomas.
"Oh!" said Mrs. Norris, with a moment's check, "that was very kind of you, Sir Thomas; but you do not know how dry the path is to my house. Fanny would have had quite as good a walk there, I assure you, with the advantage of being of some use, and obliging her aunt: it is all her fault. If she would only have let us know she was going out-but there is a something about Fanny, I have often observed it before-she likes to go her own way; she does not like to be dictated to; she takes her own independent walk whenever she can; she certainly has a little spirit of secrecy, and nonsense, about her, which I would advise her to get the better of."
Sir Thomas thought nothing could be more unjust to Fanny, though he had been so lately expressing the same sentiments himself, and he tried repeatedly to turn the conversation: but Mrs. Norris had not discernment enough to perceive how well he thought of his niece. She was talking at Fanny, and resenting this private walk through half the dinner.


It was over, however, at last; and the evening set in with more composure to Fanny, and more cheerfulness of spirits than she could have hoped for after so stormy a morning; but she trusted, in the first place, that she had done right: that her judgment had not misled her. For the purity of her intentions she could answer; and she was willing to hope, secondly, that her uncle's displeasure was abating, and would abate farther as he considered the matter with more impartiality, and felt, as a good man must feel, how wretched, and how unpardonable, how hopeless, and how wicked it was to marry without affection.
When the meeting with which she was threatened for the morrow was past, she could not but flatter herself that the subject would be finally concluded, and Mr. Crawford once gone from Mansfield, that everything would soon be as if no such subject had existed. She would not, could not believe, that Mr. Crawford's affection for her could distress him long; his mind was not of that sort. London would soon bring its cure. In London he would soon learn to wonder at his infatuation, and be thankful for the right reason in her which had saved him from its evil consequences.

It was over, however, at last; and the evening brought more composure to Fanny than she could have hoped for. She trusted that she had done right: that her judgment had not misled her. She was sure of the purity of her intentions; and she hoped that her uncle's displeasure was abating, and would abate farther as he considered the matter, and felt, as a good man must feel, how wretched, how unpardonable, how hopeless, and how wicked it was to marry without affection.
When the threatened meeting with Mr Crawford was past, the subject would be finally concluded, and once Mr. Crawford was gone from Mansfield, everything would soon be as if no such subject had existed. She could not believe that Mr. Crawford's affection for her could distress him long. London would soon bring its cure. In London he would learn to wonder at his infatuation.


While Fanny's mind was engaged in these sort of hopes, her uncle was, soon after tea, called out of the room; an occurrence too common to strike her, and she thought nothing of it till the butler reappeared ten minutes afterwards, and advancing decidedly towards herself, said, "Sir Thomas wishes to speak with you, ma'am, in his own room." Then it occurred to her what might be going on; a suspicion rushed over her mind which drove the colour from her cheeks; but instantly rising, she was preparing to obey, when Mrs. Norris called out, "Stay, stay, Fanny! what are you about? where are you going? don't be in such a hurry. Depend upon it, it is not you who are wanted; depend upon it, it is me" (looking at the butler); "but you are so very eager to put yourself forward. What should Sir Thomas want you for? It is me, Baddeley, you mean; I am coming this moment. You mean me, Baddeley, I am sure; Sir Thomas wants me, not Miss Price."

While Fanny's mind was engaged in these hopes, her uncle was called out of the room; she thought nothing of it till the butler reappeared, and advancing towards her, said, "Sir Thomas wishes to speak with you, ma'am, in his own room." Then a suspicion rushed over her mind which drove the colour from her cheeks.
Instantly rising, she was preparing to obey, when Mrs. Norris called out, "Stay, Fanny! where are you going? don't be in such a hurry. Depend upon it, it is not you who are wanted, but me. You are very eager to put yourself forward. What should Sir Thomas want you for? You mean me, Baddeley, I am sure; not Miss Price."


But Baddeley was stout. "No, ma'am, it is Miss Price; I am certain of its being Miss Price." And there was a half-smile with the words, which meant, "I do not think you would answer the purpose at all."
Mrs. Norris, much discontented, was obliged to compose herself to work again; and Fanny, walking off in agitating consciousness, found herself, as she anticipated, in another minute alone with Mr. Crawford.

But Baddeley was stout. "No, ma'am, I am certain of its being Miss Price." And there was a half-smile with the words, which meant, "I do not think you would answer the purpose at all."
Mrs. Norris was much discontented; and Fanny, walking off in agitation, found herself in another minute alone with Mr. Crawford.


Henry Crawford had quite made up his mind by the next morning to give another fortnight to Mansfield, and having sent for his hunters, and written a few lines of explanation to the Admiral, he looked round at his sister as he sealed and threw the letter from him, and seeing the coast clear of the rest of the family, said, with a smile, "And how do you think I mean to amuse myself, Mary, on the days that I do not hunt? I am grown too old to go out more than three times a week; but I have a plan for the intermediate days, and what do you think it is?"
"To walk and ride with me, to be sure."
"Not exactly, though I shall be happy to do both, but _that_ would be exercise only to my body, and I must take care of my mind. Besides, _that_ would be all recreation and indulgence, without the wholesome alloy of labour, and I do not like to eat the bread of idleness. No, my plan is to make Fanny Price in love with me."
"Fanny Price! Nonsense! No, no. You ought to be satisfied with her two cousins."

Henry Crawford had made up his mind by the next morning to give another fortnight to Mansfield. Having sent for his hunters, he looked round at his sister, and said, with a smile, "How do you think I mean to amuse myself, Mary, on the days that I do not hunt?"
"To walk and ride with me, to be sure."
"Not exactly, though I shall be happy to do both, but that would be all recreation, without the wholesome alloy of labour, and I do not like to eat the bread of idleness. No, my plan is to make Fanny Price in love with me."
"Fanny Price! Nonsense! No, no. You ought to be satisfied with her two cousins."


"But I cannot be satisfied without Fanny Price, without making a small hole in Fanny Price's heart. You do not seem properly aware of her claims to notice. When we talked of her last night, you none of you seemed sensible of the wonderful improvement that has taken place in her looks within the last six weeks. You see her every day, and therefore do not notice it; but I assure you she is quite a different creature from what she was in the autumn. She was then merely a quiet, modest, not plain-looking girl, but she is now absolutely pretty. I used to think she had neither complexion nor countenance; but in that soft skin of hers, so frequently tinged with a blush as it was yesterday, there is decided beauty; and from what I observed of her eyes and mouth, I do not despair of their being capable of expression enough when she has anything to express. And then, her air, her manner, her _tout_ _ensemble_, is so indescribably improved! She must be grown two inches, at least, since October."

"But I cannot be satisfied without making a small hole in Fanny Price's heart. You do not seem properly aware of the wonderful improvement that has taken place in her looks. You see her every day, and therefore do not notice it; but I assure you she is quite a different creature from what she was in the autumn. She was then merely a quiet, modest girl, but she is now absolutely pretty. I used to think she had neither complexion nor countenance; but in that soft skin of hers, there is decided beauty; and I do not despair of her eyes being capable of expression when she has anything to express. And then, her air is so indescribably improved! She must be grown two inches since October."


"Phoo! phoo! This is only because there were no tall women to compare her with, and because she has got a new gown, and you never saw her so well dressed before. She is just what she was in October, believe me. The truth is, that she was the only girl in company for you to notice, and you must have a somebody. I have always thought her pretty-not strikingly pretty-but 'pretty enough,' as people say; a sort of beauty that grows on one. Her eyes should be darker, but she has a sweet smile; but as for this wonderful degree of improvement, I am sure it may all be resolved into a better style of dress, and your having nobody else to look at; and therefore, if you do set about a flirtation with her, you never will persuade me that it is in compliment to her beauty, or that it proceeds from anything but your own idleness and folly."

"Phoo! phoo! This is only because there were no tall women to compare her with, and because she has got a new gown, and you never saw her so well dressed before. She is just what she was in October, believe me. The truth is, that she was the only girl in company for you to notice, and you must have a somebody. I have always thought her pretty enough; but as for this wonderful improvement, it may all be resolved into a better style of dress, and your having nobody else to look at. If you do set about a flirtation with her, it will proceed from nothing but your own idleness and folly."


Her brother gave only a smile to this accusation, and soon afterwards said, "I do not quite know what to make of Miss Fanny. I do not understand her. I could not tell what she would be at yesterday. What is her character? Is she solemn? Is she queer? Is she prudish? Why did she draw back and look so grave at me? I could hardly get her to speak. I never was so long in company with a girl in my life, trying to entertain her, and succeed so ill!

Her brother only smiled, and said, "I do not quite know what to make of Miss Fanny. Is she solemn? Is she prudish? Why did she look so grave at me? I could hardly get her to speak.


Never met with a girl who looked so grave on me! I must try to get the better of this. Her looks say, 'I will not like you, I am determined not to like you'; and I say she shall."
"Foolish fellow! And so this is her attraction after all! This it is, her not caring about you, which gives her such a soft skin, and makes her so much taller, and produces all these charms and graces! I do desire that you will not be making her really unhappy; a _little_ love, perhaps, may animate and do her good, but I will not have you plunge her deep, for she is as good a little creature as ever lived, and has a great deal of feeling."

I never met with a girl who looked so grave on me! I must try to get the better of this. Her looks say, 'I will not like you, I am determined not to like you'; and I say she shall."
"Foolish fellow! So this is her attraction! It is her not caring about you, which produces all these charms! You must not make her really unhappy; a little love, perhaps, may animate her, but I will not have you plunge her deep, for she is a good little creature, and has a great deal of feeling."


"It can be but for a fortnight," said Henry; "and if a fortnight can kill her, she must have a constitution which nothing could save. No, I will not do her any harm, dear little soul! I only want her to look kindly on me, to give me smiles as well as blushes, to keep a chair for me by herself wherever we are, and be all animation when I take it and talk to her; to think as I think, be interested in all my possessions and pleasures, try to keep me longer at Mansfield, and feel when I go away that she shall be never happy again. I want nothing more."
"Moderation itself!" said Mary. "I can have no scruples now. Well, you will have opportunities enough of endeavouring to recommend yourself, for we are a great deal together."

"It can be but for a fortnight," said Henry; "and if a fortnight can kill her, she must have a constitution which nothing could save. No, I will not do her any harm, dear little soul! I only want her to look kindly on me, to give me smiles, to keep a chair for me wherever we are, and be all animation when I take it; to think as I think, be interested in all my pleasures, and feel when I go away that she shall be never happy again. I want nothing more."
"Moderation itself!" said Mary. "I can have no scruples now."


And without attempting any farther remonstrance, she left Fanny to her fate, a fate which, had not Fanny's heart been guarded in a way unsuspected by Miss Crawford, might have been a little harder than she deserved; for although there doubtless are such unconquerable young ladies of eighteen (or one should not read about them) as are never to be persuaded into love against their judgment by all that talent, manner, attention, and flattery can do, I have no inclination to believe Fanny one of them, or to think that with so much tenderness of disposition, and so much taste as belonged to her, she could have escaped heart-whole from the courtship (though the courtship only of a fortnight) of such a man as Crawford, in spite of there being some previous ill opinion of him to be overcome, had not her affection been engaged elsewhere. With all the security which love of another and disesteem of him could give to the peace of mind he was attacking, his continued attentions-continued, but not obtrusive, and adapting themselves more and more to the gentleness and delicacy of her character-obliged her very soon to dislike him less than formerly. She had by no means forgotten the past, and she thought as ill of him as ever; but she felt his powers: he was entertaining; and his manners were so improved, so polite, so seriously and blamelessly polite, that it was impossible not to be civil to him in return.
A very few days were enough to effect this; and at the end of those few days, circumstances arose which had a tendency rather to forward his views of pleasing her, inasmuch as they gave her a degree of happiness which must dispose her to be pleased with everybody. William, her brother, the so long absent and dearly loved brother, was in England again. She had a letter from him herself, a few hurried happy lines, written as the ship came up Channel, and sent into Portsmouth with the first boat that left the Antwerp at anchor in Spithead; and when Crawford walked up with the newspaper in his hand, which he had hoped would bring the first tidings, he found her trembling with joy over this letter, and listening with a glowing, grateful countenance to the kind invitation which her uncle was most collectedly dictating in reply.
It was but the day before that Crawford had made himself thoroughly master of the subject, or had in fact become at all aware of her having such a brother, or his being in such a ship, but the interest then excited had been very properly lively, determining him on his return to town to apply for information as to the probable period of the Antwerp's return from the Mediterranean, etc.; and the good luck which attended his early examination of ship news the next morning seemed the reward of his ingenuity in finding out such a method of pleasing her, as well as of his dutiful attention to the Admiral, in having for many years taken in the paper esteemed to have the earliest naval intelligence. He proved, however, to be too late. All those fine first feelings, of which he had hoped to be the exciter, were already given. But his intention, the kindness of his intention, was thankfully acknowledged: quite thankfully and warmly, for she was elevated beyond the common timidity of her mind by the flow of her love for William.

And without any farther remonstrance, she left Fanny to her fate, a fate which, had not Fanny's heart been guarded in a way unsuspected by Miss Crawford, might have been a little harder than she deserved; for although there doubtless are such unconquerable young ladies of eighteen as can never be persuaded into love by talent, attention, and flattery, I have no inclination to believe Fanny one of them, or to think that she could have escaped heart-whole from the courtship of such a man as Crawford, if her affection had not been engaged elsewhere. His continued attentions, adapted to the gentleness of her character, obliged her soon to dislike him less than formerly. She had not forgotten the past, and she thought as ill of him as ever; but she felt his powers: he was entertaining; and his manners were so improved that it was impossible not to be civil to him in return.
A few days were enough to effect this; and then happy circumstances arose which disposed her to be pleased with everybody. William, the long absent and dearly loved brother, was in England. She had a letter from him, written as the ship came up the Channel; and when Crawford walked up with the newspaper in his hand, which he had hoped would bring the first tidings, he found her trembling with joy over this letter, and listening with a glowing countenance to the kind invitation to her brother which her uncle was dictating.
It was but the day before that Crawford had become aware of her having such a brother, or his being in such a ship; but he had hunted for information as to the probable date of the ship's return; and had found it in the newspaper the next morning. He proved, however, to be too late. All those fine first feelings, of which he hoped to be the exciter, were already given. But the kindness of his intention was thankfully acknowledged: for she was elevated beyond her usual timidity by her love for William.


This dear William would soon be amongst them. There could be no doubt of his obtaining leave of absence immediately, for he was still only a midshipman; and as his parents, from living on the spot, must already have seen him, and be seeing him perhaps daily, his direct holidays might with justice be instantly given to the sister, who had been his best correspondent through a period of seven years, and the uncle who had done most for his support and advancement; and accordingly the reply to her reply, fixing a very early day for his arrival, came as soon as possible; and scarcely ten days had passed since Fanny had been in the agitation of her first dinner-visit, when she found herself in an agitation of a higher nature, watching in the hall, in the lobby, on the stairs, for the first sound of the carriage which was to bring her a brother.
It came happily while she was thus waiting; and there being neither ceremony nor fearfulness to delay the moment of meeting, she was with him as he entered the house, and the first minutes of exquisite feeling had no interruption and no witnesses, unless the servants chiefly intent upon opening the proper doors could be called such. This was exactly what Sir Thomas and Edmund had been separately conniving at, as each proved to the other by the sympathetic alacrity with which they both advised Mrs. Norris's continuing where she was, instead of rushing out into the hall as soon as the noises of the arrival reached them.
William and Fanny soon shewed themselves; and Sir Thomas had the pleasure of receiving, in his protg, certainly a very different person from the one he had equipped seven years ago, but a young man of an open, pleasant countenance, and frank, unstudied, but feeling and respectful manners, and such as confirmed him his friend.
It was long before Fanny could recover from the agitating happiness of such an hour as was formed by the last thirty minutes of expectation, and the first of fruition; it was some time even before her happiness could be said to make her happy, before the disappointment inseparable from the alteration of person had vanished, and she could see in him the same William as before, and talk to him, as her heart had been yearning to do through many a past year. That time, however, did gradually come, forwarded by an affection on his side as warm as her own, and much less encumbered by refinement or self-distrust. She was the first object of his love, but it was a love which his stronger spirits, and bolder temper, made it as natural for him to express as to feel. On the morrow they were walking about together with true enjoyment, and every succeeding morrow renewed a _tte--tte_ which Sir Thomas could not but observe with complacency, even before Edmund had pointed it out to him.

This dear William would soon be amongst them. His reply came, fixing an early day for his arrival; and scarcely ten days later, Fanny found herself watching in the hall, in the lobby, on the stairs, for the first sound of the carriage which was to bring her a brother.
It came; and their meeting, and first minutes of exquisite feeling, had no interruption and no witnesses. This was exactly what Sir Thomas and Edmund had been conniving at, and why they both advised Mrs. Norris's staying where she was, instead of rushing out into the hall as soon as the noises of arrival reached them.
William and Fanny soon showed themselves; and Sir Thomas had the pleasure of receiving, in his protg, a young man of an open, pleasant countenance, and frank, unstudied, but respectful manners.
It was long before Fanny could recover from the agitating happiness of such an hour; it was some time even before her happiness could be said to make her happy, and she could talk to him as her heart had been yearning to do through many a past year. That time, however, did come, aided by an affection on his side as warm as her own, and much less encumbered by self-distrust. She was the first object of his love, a love which his bolder temper made it natural for him to express. On the morrow they were walking about together with true enjoyment, and every succeeding morrow renewed a tte--tte which Sir Thomas observed with complacency.


Excepting the moments of peculiar delight, which any marked or unlooked-for instance of Edmund's consideration of her in the last few months had excited, Fanny had never known so much felicity in her life, as in this unchecked, equal, fearless intercourse with the brother and friend who was opening all his heart to her, telling her all his hopes and fears, plans, and solicitudes respecting that long thought of, dearly earned, and justly valued blessing of promotion; who could give her direct and minute information of the father and mother, brothers and sisters, of whom she very seldom heard; who was interested in all the comforts and all the little hardships of her home at Mansfield; ready to think of every member of that home as she directed, or differing only by a less scrupulous opinion, and more noisy abuse of their aunt Norris, and with whom (perhaps the dearest indulgence of the whole) all the evil and good of their earliest years could be gone over again, and every former united pain and pleasure retraced with the fondest recollection. An advantage this, a strengthener of love, in which even the conjugal tie is beneath the fraternal. Children of the same family, the same blood, with the same first associations and habits, have some means of enjoyment in their power, which no subsequent connexions can supply; and it must be by a long and unnatural estrangement, by a divorce which no subsequent connexion can justify, if such precious remains of the earliest attachments are ever entirely outlived. Too often, alas! it is so. Fraternal love, sometimes almost everything, is at others worse than nothing. But with William and Fanny Price it was still a sentiment in all its prime and freshness, wounded by no opposition of interest, cooled by no separate attachment, and feeling the influence of time and absence only in its increase.
An affection so amiable was advancing each in the opinion of all who had hearts to value anything good. Henry Crawford was as much struck with it as any. He honoured the warm-hearted, blunt fondness of the young sailor, which led him to say, with his hands stretched towards Fanny's head, "Do you know, I begin to like that queer fashion already, though when I first heard of such things being done in England, I could not believe it; and when Mrs. Brown, and the other women at the Commissioner's at Gibraltar, appeared in the same trim, I thought they were mad; but Fanny can reconcile me to anything"; and saw, with lively admiration, the glow of Fanny's cheek, the brightness of her eye, the deep interest, the absorbed attention, while her brother was describing any of the imminent hazards, or terrific scenes, which such a period at sea must supply.

Except for the moments of delight caused by any instance of Edmund's consideration of her, Fanny had never known so much joy, as in this unchecked, equal, fearless intercourse with the brother and friend who was opening all his heart to her, telling her all his hopes, fears and plans respecting his promotion; who could give her information of the family of whom she very seldom heard; who was interested in all the comforts and little hardships of her home at Mansfield; ready to think of every member of that home as she directed, or differing only by more noisy abuse of their aunt Norris, and with whom (perhaps the dearest indulgence of all) all their earliest years could be gone over again, and every former pain and pleasure fondly recollected. It must be by a long and unnatural estrangement, if such precious memories shared by members of a family are outlived. Too often, alas! it is so. Fraternal love is at times worse than nothing. But with William and Fanny Price it was still in its prime and freshness.
Henry Crawford was much struck with their mutual affection. He honoured the warm-hearted, blunt fondness of the young sailor, which led him to say, with his hands stretched towards Fanny's head, "Do you know, I begin to like that queer fashion, though when the women at the Commissioner's at Gibraltar appeared in the same trim, I thought they were mad; but Fanny can reconcile me to anything". He saw, with admiration, the glow of Fanny's cheek, the brightness of her eye, the absorbed attention, while her brother was describing the hazards of his life at sea.


It was a picture which Henry Crawford had moral taste enough to value. Fanny's attractions increased-increased twofold; for the sensibility which beautified her complexion and illumined her countenance was an attraction in itself. He was no longer in doubt of the capabilities of her heart. She had feeling, genuine feeling. It would be something to be loved by such a girl, to excite the first ardours of her young unsophisticated mind! She interested him more than he had foreseen. A fortnight was not enough. His stay became indefinite.

It was a picture which Henry Crawford had moral taste enough to value. Fanny's attractions increased twofold; for he no longer doubted the capabilities of her heart. She had feeling, genuine feeling. It would be something to be loved by such a girl, to excite the first ardours of her unsophisticated mind! She interested him more than he had foreseen. A fortnight was not enough. His stay became indefinite.


William was often called on by his uncle to be the talker. His recitals were amusing in themselves to Sir Thomas, but the chief object in seeking them was to understand the reciter, to know the young man by his histories; and he listened to his clear, simple, spirited details with full satisfaction, seeing in them the proof of good principles, professional knowledge, energy, courage, and cheerfulness, everything that could deserve or promise well. Young as he was, William had already seen a great deal. He had been in the Mediterranean; in the West Indies; in the Mediterranean again; had been often taken on shore by the favour of his captain, and in the course of seven years had known every variety of danger which sea and war together could offer. With such means in his power he had a right to be listened to; and though Mrs. Norris could fidget about the room, and disturb everybody in quest of two needlefuls of thread or a second-hand shirt button, in the midst of her nephew's account of a shipwreck or an engagement, everybody else was attentive; and even Lady Bertram could not hear of such horrors unmoved, or without sometimes lifting her eyes from her work to say, "Dear me! how disagreeable! I wonder anybody can ever go to sea."

William was often called on by his uncle to be the talker. His recitals were amusing to Sir Thomas, but the chief object in seeking them was to understand the reciter, to know the young man; and he listened to his clear, simple, spirited details with satisfaction, seeing in them the proof of good principles, professional knowledge, energy, courage, and cheerfulness. Young as he was, William had already seen a great deal. He had been in the Mediterranean and the West Indies; had been often taken on shore by the favour of his captain, and in seven years had known every danger which sea and war could offer.
Though Mrs. Norris could fidget about the room, and disturb everybody in quest of thread or a shirt button in the midst of her nephew's account of a shipwreck, everybody else was attentive; and even Lady Bertram could not hear of such horrors without sometimes lifting her eyes from her work to say, "How disagreeable! I wonder anybody can ever go to sea."


To Henry Crawford they gave a different feeling. He longed to have been at sea, and seen and done and suffered as much. His heart was warmed, his fancy fired, and he felt the highest respect for a lad who, before he was twenty, had gone through such bodily hardships and given such proofs of mind. The glory of heroism, of usefulness, of exertion, of endurance, made his own habits of selfish indulgence appear in shameful contrast; and he wished he had been a William Price, distinguishing himself and working his way to fortune and consequence with so much self-respect and happy ardour, instead of what he was!
The wish was rather eager than lasting. He was roused from the reverie of retrospection and regret produced by it, by some inquiry from Edmund as to his plans for the next day's hunting; and he found it was as well to be a man of fortune at once with horses and grooms at his command. In one respect it was better, as it gave him the means of conferring a kindness where he wished to oblige. With spirits, courage, and curiosity up to anything, William expressed an inclination to hunt; and Crawford could mount him without the slightest inconvenience to himself, and with only some scruples to obviate in Sir Thomas, who knew better than his nephew the value of such a loan, and some alarms to reason away in Fanny. She feared for William; by no means convinced by all that he could relate of his own horsemanship in various countries, of the scrambling parties in which he had been engaged, the rough horses and mules he had ridden, or his many narrow escapes from dreadful falls, that he was at all equal to the management of a high-fed hunter in an English fox-chase; nor till he returned safe and well, without accident or discredit, could she be reconciled to the risk, or feel any of that obligation to Mr. Crawford for lending the horse which he had fully intended it should produce. When it was proved, however, to have done William no harm, she could allow it to be a kindness, and even reward the owner with a smile when the animal was one minute tendered to his use again; and the next, with the greatest cordiality, and in a manner not to be resisted, made over to his use entirely so long as he remained in Northamptonshire.

To Henry Crawford they gave a different feeling. He longed to have seen and done as much. His heart was warmed, his fancy fired, and he felt the highest respect for a lad who, before he was twenty, had gone through such hardships. The glory of heroism, of usefulness, of exertion, of endurance, made his own habits appear in shameful contrast; and he wished he had been a William Price, instead of what he was!
The wish was not lasting. He was roused from his regret by some inquiry from Edmund as to the next day's hunting; and he found it was as well to be a man of fortune with horses and grooms at his command. In one respect it was better, as it gave him the means of conferring a kindness to William, who expressed a wish to hunt. Crawford could mount him without inconvenience to himself, and with only some alarms to reason away in Fanny. She feared for William; by no means convinced by all that he could relate of his own horsemanship in various rough countries, that he was at all equal to the management of a high-fed hunter in an English fox-chase. Till he returned safe and well, she could not feel any gratitude to Mr. Crawford for lending the horse.
When it was proved, however, to have done William no harm, she could reward the owner with a smile. With the greatest cordiality, Mr Crawford gave William the horse for his use so long as he remained in Northamptonshire.


Edmund's first object the next morning was to see his father alone, and give him a fair statement of the whole acting scheme, defending his own share in it as far only as he could then, in a soberer moment, feel his motives to deserve, and acknowledging, with perfect ingenuousness, that his concession had been attended with such partial good as to make his judgment in it very doubtful. He was anxious, while vindicating himself, to say nothing unkind of the others: but there was only one amongst them whose conduct he could mention without some necessity of defence or palliation. "We have all been more or less to blame," said he, "every one of us, excepting Fanny. Fanny is the only one who has judged rightly throughout; who has been consistent. _Her_ feelings have been steadily against it from first to last. She never ceased to think of what was due to you. You will find Fanny everything you could wish."
Sir Thomas saw all the impropriety of such a scheme among such a party, and at such a time, as strongly as his son had ever supposed he must; he felt it too much, indeed, for many words; and having shaken hands with Edmund, meant to try to lose the disagreeable impression, and forget how much he had been forgotten himself as soon as he could, after the house had been cleared of every object enforcing the remembrance, and restored to its proper state. He did not enter into any remonstrance with his other children: he was more willing to believe they felt their error than to run the risk of investigation. The reproof of an immediate conclusion of everything, the sweep of every preparation, would be sufficient.

Edmund's first object the next morning was to see his father alone, and give him a fair statement of the whole acting scheme, defending his own share in it as far only as he could feel his motives to deserve. He was anxious to say nothing unkind of the others: but there was only one whose conduct he could mention without necessity of defence.
"We have all been to blame," said he, "excepting Fanny. Fanny has judged rightly throughout. Her feelings have been steadily against it from first to last. She never ceased to think of what was due to you. You will find Fanny everything you could wish."
Sir Thomas saw all the impropriety of the scheme as strongly as his son had supposed. Having shaken hands with Edmund, he meant to try to lose the disagreeable impression as soon as the house had been restored to its proper state. He did not remonstrate with his other children: he was willing to believe they felt their error.


There was one person, however, in the house, whom he could not leave to learn his sentiments merely through his conduct. He could not help giving Mrs. Norris a hint of his having hoped that her advice might have been interposed to prevent what her judgment must certainly have disapproved. The young people had been very inconsiderate in forming the plan; they ought to have been capable of a better decision themselves; but they were young; and, excepting Edmund, he believed, of unsteady characters; and with greater surprise, therefore, he must regard her acquiescence in their wrong measures, her countenance of their unsafe amusements, than that such measures and such amusements should have been suggested. Mrs. Norris was a little confounded and as nearly being silenced as ever she had been in her life; for she was ashamed to confess having never seen any of the impropriety which was so glaring to Sir Thomas, and would not have admitted that her influence was insufficient-that she might have talked in vain. Her only resource was to get out of the subject as fast as possible, and turn the current of Sir Thomas's ideas into a happier channel. She had a great deal to insinuate in her own praise as to _general_ attention to the interest and comfort of his family, much exertion and many sacrifices to glance at in the form of hurried walks and sudden removals from her own fireside, and many excellent hints of distrust and economy to Lady Bertram and Edmund to detail, whereby a most considerable saving had always arisen, and more than one bad servant been detected. But her chief strength lay in Sotherton. Her greatest support and glory was in having formed the connexion with the Rushworths. _There_ she was impregnable. She took to herself all the credit of bringing Mr. Rushworth's admiration of Maria to any effect.

There was one person, however, to whom he must speak. He hinted to Mrs. Norris that he hoped she might have advised the young people against the play. They ought to have been capable of a better decision themselves; but they were young; and, excepting Edmund, of unsteady characters. He was greatly surprised at her allowing their unsafe amusements.
Mrs. Norris was a little confounded and as close to being silenced as ever she had been in her life; for she was ashamed to confess to having never seen any of the impropriety which was so glaring to Sir Thomas. Her only resource was to get out of the subject as fast as possible. She had a great deal to say in her own praise as to her exertion and many sacrifices and economies, whereby a considerable saving had arisen.
But her chief strength lay in Sotherton. Her greatest glory was in having formed the connexion with the Rushworths. There she was impregnable. She took all the credit.


"If I had not been active," said she, "and made a point of being introduced to his mother, and then prevailed on my sister to pay the first visit, I am as certain as I sit here that nothing would have come of it; for Mr. Rushworth is the sort of amiable modest young man who wants a great deal of encouragement, and there were girls enough on the catch for him if we had been idle. But I left no stone unturned. I was ready to move heaven and earth to persuade my sister, and at last I did persuade her. You know the distance to Sotherton; it was in the middle of winter, and the roads almost impassable, but I did persuade her."
"I know how great, how justly great, your influence is with Lady Bertram and her children, and am the more concerned that it should not have been-"

"If I had not been active," said she, "and prevailed on my sister to pay the first visit, nothing would have come of it; for Mr. Rushworth is a modest young man who wants encouragement. But I left no stone unturned. I was ready to move heaven and earth to persuade my sister. You know the distance to Sotherton; it was in the middle of winter, and the roads almost impassable, but I did persuade her."
"I know how great your influence is with Lady Bertram and her children, and am the more concerned that it should not have been on the occasion of the play."


"My dear Sir Thomas, if you had seen the state of the roads _that_ day! I thought we should never have got through them, though we had the four horses of course; and poor old coachman would attend us, out of his great love and kindness, though he was hardly able to sit the box on account of the rheumatism which I had been doctoring him for ever since Michaelmas. I cured him at last; but he was very bad all the winter-and this was such a day, I could not help going to him up in his room before we set off to advise him not to venture: he was putting on his wig; so I said, 'Coachman, you had much better not go; your Lady and I shall be very safe; you know how steady Stephen is, and Charles has been upon the leaders so often now, that I am sure there is no fear.' But, however, I soon found it would not do; he was bent upon going, and as I hate to be worrying and officious, I said no more; but my heart quite ached for him at every jolt, and when we got into the rough lanes about Stoke, where, what with frost and snow upon beds of stones, it was worse than anything you can imagine, I was quite in an agony about him. And then the poor horses too! To see them straining away! You know how I always feel for the horses. And when we got to the bottom of Sandcroft Hill, what do you think I did? You will laugh at me; but I got out and walked up. I did indeed.

"My dear Sir Thomas, if you had seen the state of the roads that day! I thought we should never have got through, though we had the four horses; and poor old coachman would attend us, though he was hardly able to sit on account of the rheumatism which I had been doctoring him for ever since Michaelmas. I cured him at last; but he was very bad all the winter, and I said to him, 'Coachman, you had much better not go.' But he was bent upon going, and as I hate to be officious, I said no more; but my heart quite ached for him at every jolt, and when we got into the rough lanes about Stoke, I was quite in an agony about him. And then the poor horses too! You know how I always feel for the horses. When we got to the bottom of Sandcroft Hill, what do you think I did? You will laugh at me; but I got out and walked up. I did indeed.


It might not be saving them much, but it was something, and I could not bear to sit at my ease and be dragged up at the expense of those noble animals. I caught a dreadful cold, but _that_ I did not regard. My object was accomplished in the visit."
"I hope we shall always think the acquaintance worth any trouble that might be taken to establish it. There is nothing very striking in Mr. Rushworth's manners, but I was pleased last night with what appeared to be his opinion on one subject: his decided preference of a quiet family party to the bustle and confusion of acting. He seemed to feel exactly as one could wish."
"Yes, indeed, and the more you know of him the better you will like him. He is not a shining character, but he has a thousand good qualities; and is so disposed to look up to you, that I am quite laughed at about it, for everybody considers it as my doing. 'Upon my word, Mrs. Norris,' said Mrs. Grant the other day, 'if Mr. Rushworth were a son of your own, he could not hold Sir Thomas in greater respect.'"
Sir Thomas gave up the point, foiled by her evasions, disarmed by her flattery; and was obliged to rest satisfied with the conviction that where the present pleasure of those she loved was at stake, her kindness did sometimes overpower her judgment.

It might not be saving them much, but it was something, and I could not bear to sit at my ease and be dragged up at the expense of those noble animals. I caught a dreadful cold, but that I did not regard. My object was accomplished in the visit."
"I hope we shall always think the acquaintance worth any trouble that might be taken to establish it. There is nothing very striking in Mr. Rushworth's manners, but I was pleased last night with his opinion on one subject: his decided preference of a quiet family party to the bustle of acting."
"Yes, indeed. He is not a shining character, but he has a thousand good qualities; and is so disposed to look up to you, that I am quite laughed at about it, for everybody considers it as my doing. 'Upon my word, Mrs. Norris,' said Mrs. Grant the other day, 'if Mr. Rushworth were a son of your own, he could not hold Sir Thomas in greater respect.'"
Sir Thomas gave up, foiled by her evasions and disarmed by her flattery; and was obliged to be satisfied with the conviction that her kindness sometimes overpowered her judgment.


It was a busy morning with him. Conversation with any of them occupied but a small part of it. He had to reinstate himself in all the wonted concerns of his Mansfield life: to see his steward and his bailiff; to examine and compute, and, in the intervals of business, to walk into his stables and his gardens, and nearest plantations; but active and methodical, he had not only done all this before he resumed his seat as master of the house at dinner, he had also set the carpenter to work in pulling down what had been so lately put up in the billiard-room, and given the scene-painter his dismissal long enough to justify the pleasing belief of his being then at least as far off as Northampton. The scene-painter was gone, having spoilt only the floor of one room, ruined all the coachman's sponges, and made five of the under-servants idle and dissatisfied; and Sir Thomas was in hopes that another day or two would suffice to wipe away every outward memento of what had been, even to the destruction of every unbound copy of Lovers' Vows in the house, for he was burning all that met his eye.

It was a busy morning for him. He had to reinstate himself in all the concerns of his Mansfield life: to see his steward and his bailiff; to visit his stables, gardens and plantations; but, active and methodical, he had not only done all this before dinner, he had also set the carpenter to work in pulling down the theatre. The scene-painter was gone, having only spoilt the floor of one room, ruined all the coachman's sponges, and made five of the under-servants idle and dissatisfied; and Sir Thomas hoped that another day or two would suffice to wipe away every outward memento of what had been, even to the destruction of every copy of Lovers' Vows in the house, for he was burning all that met his eye.


Mr. Yates was beginning now to understand Sir Thomas's intentions, though as far as ever from understanding their source. He and his friend had been out with their guns the chief of the morning, and Tom had taken the opportunity of explaining, with proper apologies for his father's particularity, what was to be expected. Mr. Yates felt it as acutely as might be supposed. To be a second time disappointed in the same way was an instance of very severe ill-luck; and his indignation was such, that had it not been for delicacy towards his friend, and his friend's youngest sister, he believed he should certainly attack the baronet on the absurdity of his proceedings, and argue him into a little more rationality. He believed this very stoutly while he was in Mansfield Wood, and all the way home; but there was a something in Sir Thomas, when they sat round the same table, which made Mr. Yates think it wiser to let him pursue his own way, and feel the folly of it without opposition. He had known many disagreeable fathers before, and often been struck with the inconveniences they occasioned, but never, in the whole course of his life, had he seen one of that class so unintelligibly moral, so infamously tyrannical as Sir Thomas. He was not a man to be endured but for his children's sake, and he might be thankful to his fair daughter Julia that Mr. Yates did yet mean to stay a few days longer under his roof.

Mr. Yates was beginning now to understand Sir Thomas's intentions. He and his friend had been out with their guns, and Tom had explained what was to be expected. Mr. Yates felt it acutely. To be a second time disappointed in the same way was severe ill-luck; and had it not been for delicacy towards his friend, and his friend's youngest sister, he believed he should certainly attack the baronet on the absurdity of his proceedings.
He believed this very stoutly all the way home; but there was a something in Sir Thomas, when they sat round the table, which made Mr. Yates think it wiser to let him pursue his own way. He had known many disagreeable fathers before, but never had he seen one so tyrannical as Sir Thomas. He might be thankful to his fair daughter Julia that Mr. Yates meant to stay a few days longer under his roof.


The evening passed with external smoothness, though almost every mind was ruffled; and the music which Sir Thomas called for from his daughters helped to conceal the want of real harmony. Maria was in a good deal of agitation. It was of the utmost consequence to her that Crawford should now lose no time in declaring himself, and she was disturbed that even a day should be gone by without seeming to advance that point. She had been expecting to see him the whole morning, and all the evening, too, was still expecting him. Mr. Rushworth had set off early with the great news for Sotherton; and she had fondly hoped for such an immediate _eclaircissement_ as might save him the trouble of ever coming back again. But they had seen no one from the Parsonage, not a creature, and had heard no tidings beyond a friendly note of congratulation and inquiry from Mrs. Grant to Lady Bertram. It was the first day for many, many weeks, in which the families had been wholly divided. Four-and-twenty hours had never passed before, since August began, without bringing them together in some way or other. It was a sad, anxious day; and the morrow, though differing in the sort of evil, did by no means bring less. A few moments of feverish enjoyment were followed by hours of acute suffering.

The evening passed with external smoothness, though every mind was ruffled; and the music which Sir Thomas called for from his daughters helped to conceal the want of real harmony. Maria was in a good deal of agitation. It was of the utmost consequence to her that Crawford should now lose no time in declaring himself, and she was disturbed that even a day should go by without seeming to advance that point. She had been expecting to see him the whole day, and was still expecting him. Mr. Rushworth had set off for Sotherton; and she had fondly hoped for such an immediate declaration as might save him the trouble of ever coming back again. But they had seen no one from the Parsonage, and had heard no tidings beyond a friendly note from Mrs. Grant to Lady Bertram.
It was a sad, anxious day; and the morrow brought more evil for Maria. A few moments of feverish enjoyment were followed by hours of acute suffering.


Henry Crawford was again in the house: he walked up with Dr. Grant, who was anxious to pay his respects to Sir Thomas, and at rather an early hour they were ushered into the breakfast-room, where were most of the family. Sir Thomas soon appeared, and Maria saw with delight and agitation the introduction of the man she loved to her father. Her sensations were indefinable, and so were they a few minutes afterwards upon hearing Henry Crawford, who had a chair between herself and Tom, ask the latter in an undervoice whether there were any plans for resuming the play after the present happy interruption (with a courteous glance at Sir Thomas), because, in that case, he should make a point of returning to Mansfield at any time required by the party: he was going away immediately, being to meet his uncle at Bath without delay; but if there were any prospect of a renewal of Lovers' Vows, he should hold himself positively engaged, he should break through every other claim, he should absolutely condition with his uncle for attending them whenever he might be wanted. The play should not be lost by _his_ absence.
"From Bath, Norfolk, London, York, wherever I may be," said he; "I will attend you from any place in England, at an hour's notice."

Henry Crawford was again in the house: he walked up with Dr. Grant, and they were ushered into the breakfast-room.
Sir Thomas appeared, and Maria saw with delight and agitation the introduction of the man she loved to her father. Her sensations were indefinable, and so were they a few minutes afterwards upon hearing Henry Crawford ask Tom in an undervoice whether there were any plans for resuming the play, because, in that case, he should make a point of returning to Mansfield at any time required by the party. He was going away immediately to meet his uncle at Bath; but if there were any prospect of a renewal of Lovers' Vows, he should hold himself engaged, and break through every other claim.
"From Bath, Norfolk, London, wherever I may be," said he; "I will attend you at an hour's notice."


It was well at that moment that Tom had to speak, and not his sister. He could immediately say with easy fluency, "I am sorry you are going; but as to our play, _that_ is all over-entirely at an end" (looking significantly at his father). "The painter was sent off yesterday, and very little will remain of the theatre to-morrow. I knew how _that_ would be from the first. It is early for Bath. You will find nobody there."
"It is about my uncle's usual time."
"When do you think of going?"
"I may, perhaps, get as far as Banbury to-day."

Tom said, "I am sorry you are going; but our play is entirely at an end. The painter was sent off yesterday, and little will remain of the theatre tomorrow. It is early for Bath. You will find nobody there."
"It is my uncle's usual time."
"When do you think of going?"
"I may, perhaps, get as far as Banbury to-day."


"Whose stables do you use at Bath?" was the next question; and while this branch of the subject was under discussion, Maria, who wanted neither pride nor resolution, was preparing to encounter her share of it with tolerable calmness.

"Whose stables do you use at Bath?" was the next question; and while this was under discussion, Maria, who wanted neither pride nor resolution, prepared herself with tolerable calmness.


To her he soon turned, repeating much of what he had already said, with only a softened air and stronger expressions of regret. But what availed his expressions or his air? He was going, and, if not voluntarily going, voluntarily intending to stay away; for, excepting what might be due to his uncle, his engagements were all self-imposed. He might talk of necessity, but she knew his independence. The hand which had so pressed hers to his heart! the hand and the heart were alike motionless and passive now! Her spirit supported her, but the agony of her mind was severe. She had not long to endure what arose from listening to language which his actions contradicted, or to bury the tumult of her feelings under the restraint of society; for general civilities soon called his notice from her, and the farewell visit, as it then became openly acknowledged, was a very short one. He was gone-he had touched her hand for the last time, he had made his parting bow, and she might seek directly all that solitude could do for her. Henry Crawford was gone, gone from the house, and within two hours afterwards from the parish; and so ended all the hopes his selfish vanity had raised in Maria and Julia Bertram.

To her he soon turned, repeating what he had already said, with only a softened air and stronger expressions of regret. But what availed his expressions or his air? He was going, and intending to stay away; for, excepting what might be due to his uncle, his engagements were all self-imposed. He might talk of necessity, but she knew his independence. The hand which had so pressed hers to his heart! hand and heart were alike motionless and passive now! Her spirit supported her, but the agony of her mind was severe. She had not long to bury the tumult of her feelings; for the farewell visit was a very short one. He was gone-he had touched her hand for the last time. Henry Crawford was gone, gone from the house, and two hours afterwards from the parish; and so ended all the hopes his selfish vanity had raised in Maria and Julia Bertram.


Julia could rejoice that he was gone. His presence was beginning to be odious to her; and if Maria gained him not, she was now cool enough to dispense with any other revenge. She did not want exposure to be added to desertion. Henry Crawford gone, she could even pity her sister.
With a purer spirit did Fanny rejoice in the intelligence. She heard it at dinner, and felt it a blessing. By all the others it was mentioned with regret; and his merits honoured with due gradation of feeling-from the sincerity of Edmund's too partial regard, to the unconcern of his mother speaking entirely by rote. Mrs. Norris began to look about her, and wonder that his falling in love with Julia had come to nothing; and could almost fear that she had been remiss herself in forwarding it; but with so many to care for, how was it possible for even _her_ activity to keep pace with her wishes?

Julia could rejoice that he was gone. His presence was beginning to be odious to her. Henry Crawford gone, she could even pity her sister.
With a purer spirit did Fanny rejoice in the news. She heard it at dinner, and felt it a blessing. By all the others it was mentioned with regret; Mrs. Norris began to wonder that his falling in love with Julia had come to nothing.