The young people were pleased with each other from the first. On each side there was much to attract, and their acquaintance soon promised as early an intimacy as good manners would warrant. Miss Crawford's beauty did her no disservice with the Miss Bertrams. They were too handsome themselves to dislike any woman for being so too, and were almost as much charmed as their brothers with her lively dark eye, clear brown complexion, and general prettiness. Had she been tall, full formed, and fair, it might have been more of a trial: but as it was, there could be no comparison; and she was most allowably a sweet, pretty girl, while they were the finest young women in the country.
Her brother was not handsome: no, when they first saw him he was absolutely plain, black and plain; but still he was the gentleman, with a pleasing address. The second meeting proved him not so very plain: he was plain, to be sure, but then he had so much countenance, and his teeth were so good, and he was so well made, that one soon forgot he was plain; and after a third interview, after dining in company with him at the Parsonage, he was no longer allowed to be called so by anybody. He was, in fact, the most agreeable young man the sisters had ever known, and they were equally delighted with him. Miss Bertram's engagement made him in equity the property of Julia, of which Julia was fully aware; and before he had been at Mansfield a week, she was quite ready to be fallen in love with.
Maria's notions on the subject were more confused and indistinct. She did not want to see or understand. "There could be no harm in her liking an agreeable man-everybody knew her situation-Mr. Crawford must take care of himself." Mr. Crawford did not mean to be in any danger! the Miss Bertrams were worth pleasing, and were ready to be pleased; and he began with no object but of making them like him. He did not want them to die of love; but with sense and temper which ought to have made him judge and feel better, he allowed himself great latitude on such points.
"I like your Miss Bertrams exceedingly, sister," said he, as he returned from attending them to their carriage after the said dinner visit; "they are very elegant, agreeable girls."
"So they are indeed, and I am delighted to hear you say it. But you like Julia best."
"Oh yes! I like Julia best."
"But do you really? for Miss Bertram is in general thought the handsomest."
"So I should suppose. She has the advantage in every feature, and I prefer her countenance; but I like Julia best; Miss Bertram is certainly the handsomest, and I have found her the most agreeable, but I shall always like Julia best, because you order me."
"I shall not talk to you, Henry, but I know you _will_ like her best at last."
"Do not I tell you that I like her best _at_ _first_?"
"And besides, Miss Bertram is engaged. Remember that, my dear brother. Her choice is made."
"Yes, and I like her the better for it. An engaged woman is always more agreeable than a disengaged. She is satisfied with herself. Her cares are over, and she feels that she may exert all her powers of pleasing without suspicion. All is safe with a lady engaged: no harm can be done."
"Why, as to that, Mr. Rushworth is a very good sort of young man, and it is a great match for her."
"But Miss Bertram does not care three straws for him; _that_ is your opinion of your intimate friend. _I_ do not subscribe to it. I am sure Miss Bertram is very much attached to Mr. Rushworth. I could see it in her eyes, when he was mentioned. I think too well of Miss Bertram to suppose she would ever give her hand without her heart."
"Mary, how shall we manage him?"
"We must leave him to himself, I believe. Talking does no good. He will be taken in at last."
"But I would not have him _taken_ _in_; I would not have him duped; I would have it all fair and honourable."
"Oh dear! let him stand his chance and be taken in. It will do just as well. Everybody is taken in at some period or other."
"Not always in marriage, dear Mary."
"In marriage especially. With all due respect to such of the present company as chance to be married, my dear Mrs. Grant, there is not one in a hundred of either sex who is not taken in when they marry. Look where I will, I see that it _is_ so; and I feel that it _must_ be so, when I consider that it is, of all transactions, the one in which people expect most from others, and are least honest themselves."
"Ah! You have been in a bad school for matrimony, in Hill Street."
"My poor aunt had certainly little cause to love the state; but, however, speaking from my own observation, it is a manoeuvring business. I know so many who have married in the full expectation and confidence of some one particular advantage in the connexion, or accomplishment, or good quality in the person, who have found themselves entirely deceived, and been obliged to put up with exactly the reverse. What is this but a take in?"
"My dear child, there must be a little imagination here. I beg your pardon, but I cannot quite believe you. Depend upon it, you see but half. You see the evil, but you do not see the consolation. There will be little rubs and disappointments everywhere, and we are all apt to expect too much; but then, if one scheme of happiness fails, human nature turns to another; if the first calculation is wrong, we make a second better: we find comfort somewhere-and those evil-minded observers, dearest Mary, who make much of a little, are more taken in and deceived than the parties themselves."
"Well done, sister! I honour your _esprit_ _du_ _corps_. When I am a wife, I mean to be just as staunch myself; and I wish my friends in general would be so too. It would save me many a heartache."
"You are as bad as your brother, Mary; but we will cure you both. Mansfield shall cure you both, and without any taking in. Stay with us, and we will cure you."
The Crawfords, without wanting to be cured, were very willing to stay. Mary was satisfied with the Parsonage as a present home, and Henry equally ready to lengthen his visit. He had come, intending to spend only a few days with them; but Mansfield promised well, and there was nothing to call him elsewhere. It delighted Mrs. Grant to keep them both with her, and Dr. Grant was exceedingly well contented to have it so: a talking pretty young woman like Miss Crawford is always pleasant society to an indolent, stay-at-home man; and Mr. Crawford's being his guest was an excuse for drinking claret every day.
The Miss Bertrams' admiration of Mr. Crawford was more rapturous than anything which Miss Crawford's habits made her likely to feel. She acknowledged, however, that the Mr. Bertrams were very fine young men, that two such young men were not often seen together even in London, and that their manners, particularly those of the eldest, were very good. _He_ had been much in London, and had more liveliness and gallantry than Edmund, and must, therefore, be preferred; and, indeed, his being the eldest was another strong claim. She had felt an early presentiment that she _should_ like the eldest best. She knew it was her way.
Tom Bertram must have been thought pleasant, indeed, at any rate; he was the sort of young man to be generally liked, his agreeableness was of the kind to be oftener found agreeable than some endowments of a higher stamp, for he had easy manners, excellent spirits, a large acquaintance, and a great deal to say; and the reversion of Mansfield Park, and a baronetcy, did no harm to all this. Miss Crawford soon felt that he and his situation might do. She looked about her with due consideration, and found almost everything in his favour: a park, a real park, five miles round, a spacious modern-built house, so well placed and well screened as to deserve to be in any collection of engravings of gentlemen's seats in the kingdom, and wanting only to be completely new furnished-pleasant sisters, a quiet mother, and an agreeable man himself-with the advantage of being tied up from much gaming at present by a promise to his father, and of being Sir Thomas hereafter. It might do very well; she believed she should accept him; and she began accordingly to interest herself a little about the horse which he had to run at the B-- races.
These races were to call him away not long after their acquaintance began; and as it appeared that the family did not, from his usual goings on, expect him back again for many weeks, it would bring his passion to an early proof. Much was said on his side to induce her to attend the races, and schemes were made for a large party to them, with all the eagerness of inclination, but it would only do to be talked of.
And Fanny, what was _she_ doing and thinking all this while? and what was _her_ opinion of the newcomers? Few young ladies of eighteen could be less called on to speak their opinion than Fanny. In a quiet way, very little attended to, she paid her tribute of admiration to Miss Crawford's beauty; but as she still continued to think Mr. Crawford very plain, in spite of her two cousins having repeatedly proved the contrary, she never mentioned _him_. The notice, which she excited herself, was to this effect. "I begin now to understand you all, except Miss Price," said Miss Crawford, as she was walking with the Mr. Bertrams. "Pray, is she out, or is she not? I am puzzled. She dined at the Parsonage, with the rest of you, which seemed like being _out_; and yet she says so little, that I can hardly suppose she _is_."
Edmund, to whom this was chiefly addressed, replied, "I believe I know what you mean, but I will not undertake to answer the question. My cousin is grown up. She has the age and sense of a woman, but the outs and not outs are beyond me."
"And yet, in general, nothing can be more easily ascertained. The distinction is so broad. Manners as well as appearance are, generally speaking, so totally different. Till now, I could not have supposed it possible to be mistaken as to a girl's being out or not. A girl not out has always the same sort of dress: a close bonnet, for instance; looks very demure, and never says a word. You may smile, but it is so, I assure you; and except that it is sometimes carried a little too far, it is all very proper. Girls should be quiet and modest. The most objectionable part is, that the alteration of manners on being introduced into company is frequently too sudden. They sometimes pass in such very little time from reserve to quite the opposite-to confidence! _That_ is the faulty part of the present system. One does not like to see a girl of eighteen or nineteen so immediately up to every thing-and perhaps when one has seen her hardly able to speak the year before. Mr. Bertram, I dare say _you_ have sometimes met with such changes."
"I believe I have, but this is hardly fair; I see what you are at. You are quizzing me and Miss Anderson."
"No, indeed. Miss Anderson! I do not know who or what you mean. I am quite in the dark. But I _will_ quiz you with a great deal of pleasure, if you will tell me what about."
"Ah! you carry it off very well, but I cannot be quite so far imposed on. You must have had Miss Anderson in your eye, in describing an altered young lady. You paint too accurately for mistake. It was exactly so. The Andersons of Baker Street. We were speaking of them the other day, you know. Edmund, you have heard me mention Charles Anderson. The circumstance was precisely as this lady has represented it. When Anderson first introduced me to his family, about two years ago, his sister was not _out_, and I could not get her to speak to me. I sat there an hour one morning waiting for Anderson, with only her and a little girl or two in the room, the governess being sick or run away, and the mother in and out every moment with letters of business, and I could hardly get a word or a look from the young lady-nothing like a civil answer-she screwed up her mouth, and turned from me with such an air! I did not see her again for a twelvemonth. She was then _out_. I met her at Mrs. Holford's, and did not recollect her. She came up to me, claimed me as an acquaintance, stared me out of countenance; and talked and laughed till I did not know which way to look. I felt that I must be the jest of the room at the time, and Miss Crawford, it is plain, has heard the story."
"And a very pretty story it is, and with more truth in it, I dare say, than does credit to Miss Anderson. It is too common a fault. Mothers certainly have not yet got quite the right way of managing their daughters. I do not know where the error lies. I do not pretend to set people right, but I do see that they are often wrong."
"Those who are showing the world what female manners _should_ be," said Mr. Bertram gallantly, "are doing a great deal to set them right."
"The error is plain enough," said the less courteous Edmund; "such girls are ill brought up. They are given wrong notions from the beginning. They are always acting upon motives of vanity, and there is no more real modesty in their behaviour _before_ they appear in public than afterwards."
"I do not know," replied Miss Crawford hesitatingly. "Yes, I cannot agree with you there. It is certainly the modestest part of the business. It is much worse to have girls not out give themselves the same airs and take the same liberties as if they were, which I have seen done. That is worse than anything-quite disgusting!"
"Yes, _that_ is very inconvenient indeed," said Mr. Bertram. "It leads one astray; one does not know what to do. The close bonnet and demure air you describe so well (and nothing was ever juster), tell one what is expected; but I got into a dreadful scrape last year from the want of them. I went down to Ramsgate for a week with a friend last September, just after my return from the West Indies. My friend Sneyd-you have heard me speak of Sneyd, Edmund-his father, and mother, and sisters, were there, all new to me. When we reached Albion Place they were out; we went after them, and found them on the pier: Mrs. and the two Miss Sneyds, with others of their acquaintance. I made my bow in form; and as Mrs. Sneyd was surrounded by men, attached myself to one of her daughters, walked by her side all the way home, and made myself as agreeable as I could; the young lady perfectly easy in her manners, and as ready to talk as to listen. I had not a suspicion that I could be doing anything wrong. They looked just the same: both well-dressed, with veils and parasols like other girls; but I afterwards found that I had been giving all my attention to the youngest, who was not _out_, and had most excessively offended the eldest. Miss Augusta ought not to have been noticed for the next six months; and Miss Sneyd, I believe, has never forgiven me."
"That was bad indeed. Poor Miss Sneyd. Though I have no younger sister, I feel for her. To be neglected before one's time must be very vexatious; but it was entirely the mother's fault. Miss Augusta should have been with her governess. Such half-and-half doings never prosper. But now I must be satisfied about Miss Price. Does she go to balls? Does she dine out every where, as well as at my sister's?"
"No," replied Edmund; "I do not think she has ever been to a ball. My mother seldom goes into company herself, and dines nowhere but with Mrs. Grant, and Fanny stays at home with _her_."
"Oh! then the point is clear. Miss Price is not out."

The young people were pleased with each other from the first. The Miss Bertrams were too handsome themselves to dislike any woman for being so too, and were as much charmed as their brothers with Miss Crawford's lively dark eye, clear brown complexion, and general prettiness. Had she been tall, full formed, and fair, it might have been more of a trial: but as it was, there could be no comparison; and she was allowably a sweet, pretty girl, while they were the finest young women in the country.
Her brother was not handsome: no, he was absolutely plain; but still a gentleman, with a pleasing address. The second meeting proved him not so very plain: he was so expressive, and so well made, that one soon forgot he was plain; and after a third interview, he was no longer allowed to be called so by anybody. He was, in fact, the most agreeable young man the sisters had ever known. Miss Bertram's engagement made him the property of Julia, of which Julia was fully aware; and before he had been at Mansfield a week, she was quite ready to be fallen in love with.
Maria's notions on the subject were more confused. She did not want to see or understand. "There could be no harm in her liking an agreeable man-everybody knew her situation-Mr. Crawford must take care of himself." Mr. Crawford did not mean to be in any danger! the Miss Bertrams were worth pleasing, and he began with no object but of making them like him. He did not want them to die of love; but he allowed himself great latitude on such points.
"I like your Miss Bertrams exceedingly, sister," said he, as they returned from a dinner visit; "very elegant, agreeable girls."
"I am delighted to hear you say it. But you like Julia best."
"Oh yes! I like Julia best."
"But do you really? for Miss Bertram is in general thought the handsomest."
"Miss Bertram is certainly the handsomest, and I have found her the most agreeable, but I shall always like Julia best, because you order me."
"I shall not talk to you, Henry, but I know you will like her best at last."
"Do not I tell you that I like her best at first?"
"And besides, Miss Bertram is engaged. Remember that, my dear brother."
"Yes, and I like her the better for it. An engaged woman is always more agreeable. She feels that she may exert her powers of pleasing without suspicion. All is safe with her: no harm can be done."
"Mr. Rushworth is a very good sort of man, and it is a great match."
"But Miss Bertram does not care three straws for him; that is your opinion. I do not subscribe to it. I am sure Miss Bertram is very much attached to Mr. Rushworth. I could see it in her eyes, when he was mentioned. I think too well of Miss Bertram to suppose she would ever give her hand without her heart."
"Mary, how shall we manage him?"
"Talking does no good. He will be taken in at last."
"But I would not have him taken in; I would not have him duped."
"Oh dear! let him stand his chance and be taken in. Everybody is taken in at some time or other."
"Not always in marriage, dear Mary."
"In marriage especially. With all due respect, my dear Mrs. Grant, there is not one in a hundred who is not taken in when they marry. It is, of all transactions, the one in which people expect most from others, and are least honest themselves."
"Ah! You have been in a bad school for matrimony, in Hill Street."
"My poor aunt had certainly little cause to love the state; but I know many who have married in the expectation of some good quality in the person, who have found themselves entirely deceived, and been obliged to put up with exactly the reverse. What is this but a take in?"
"My dear child, I cannot quite believe you. You see but half. You see the evil, but you do not see the consolation. There will be little disappointments everywhere, and we are all apt to expect too much; but those evil-minded observers, dearest Mary, who make much of a little, are more deceived than the parties themselves."
"Well done, sister! When I am a wife, I mean to be just as staunch myself."
"You are as bad as your brother, Mary; but stay with us, and Mansfield shall cure you both, without any taking in."
The Crawfords were very willing to stay. Mary was satisfied with the Parsonage as a home, and Henry equally ready to lengthen his visit. He had come, intending to spend only a few days; but Mansfield promised well. It delighted Mrs. Grant to keep them both, and Dr. Grant was well contented to have the society of a pretty young woman like Miss Crawford; while Mr. Crawford's being his guest was an excuse for drinking claret every day.
Miss Crawford acknowledged that the Mr. Bertrams were very fine young men, and their manners, particularly those of the eldest, were very good. He had been much in London, and had more liveliness and gallantry than Edmund, and must, therefore, be preferred; and, indeed, his being the eldest was another strong claim. She had felt a presentiment that she should like the eldest best. She knew it was her way.
Tom Bertram was the sort of young man to be generally liked, for he had easy manners, excellent spirits, a large acquaintance, and a great deal to say; and the reversion of Mansfield Park, and a baronetcy, did no harm to all this. Miss Crawford soon felt that he and his situation might do. She looked about her, and found almost everything in his favour: a real park, five miles round, a spacious modern-built house, well placed and well-screened, and wanting only to be completely new furnished-pleasant sisters, a quiet mother, and an agreeable man himself-with the advantages of being prevented from gambling by a promise to his father, and of being Sir Thomas hereafter. It might do very well; she believed she should accept him; and she began accordingly to interest herself about the horse which he was going to run at the races.
These races were to call him away soon; and as the family did not expect him back for many weeks, it would bring his passion to an early proof. Much was said on his side to induce her to attend the races, and eager schemes were made for a large party, but it was no more than talk.
And Fanny, what was she doing all this while? and what was her opinion of the newcomers? Few young ladies of eighteen could be less called on to speak their opinion than Fanny. In a quiet way, she paid her tribute to Miss Crawford's beauty; but she continued to think Mr. Crawford very plain, in spite of her two cousins having proved the contrary.
"Pray, is Miss Price out, or not?" said Miss Crawford, as she was walking with the Mr. Bertrams. "I am puzzled. She dined at the Parsonage, with the rest of you, which seemed like being out; and yet she says so little, that I can hardly suppose she is."
Edmund replied, "I will not undertake to answer. My cousin has the age and sense of a woman, but the outs and not outs are beyond me."
"And yet, in general, nothing can be more easily ascertained. Till now, I could not have supposed it possible to be mistaken as to a girl's being out or not. A girl not out has always the same sort of dress: looks very demure, and never says a word. You may smile, but it is so, I assure you; and it is very proper. Girls should be quiet and modest. But the alteration of manners on being introduced into company is frequently too sudden. They sometimes pass in such very little time from reserve to confidence! One does not like to see a girl of eighteen so immediately up to everything when she was hardly able to speak the year before. Mr. Bertram, I dare say you have met with such changes."
"I have, but this is hardly fair. You are quizzing me and Miss Anderson."
"No, indeed. I do not know who you mean. But I will quiz you gladly, if you will tell me what about."
"Ah! You must have had Miss Anderson in your eye, in describing an altered young lady. You paint too accurately for mistake. Edmund, you have heard me mention Charles Anderson. When he first introduced me to his family, his sister was not out, and I could not get her to speak to me. I sat an hour one morning waiting for Anderson, with the mother in and out every moment, and I could hardly get a word from the young lady-she screwed up her mouth, and turned from me with such an air! I did not see her again for a twelvemonth. She was then out. She came up to me, claimed me as an acquaintance, and talked and laughed till I did not know which way to look. I felt that I must be the jest of the room, and Miss Crawford, it is plain, has heard the story."
"A very pretty story. It is too common a fault. Mothers certainly have not got quite the right way of managing their daughters. I do not know where the error lies. I do not pretend to set people right, but I do see that they are often wrong."
"Those who show the world what female manners should be," said Mr. Bertram gallantly, "are doing much to set them right."
"The error is plain enough," said the less courteous Edmund; "such girls are ill brought up. They are given wrong notions from the beginning. There is no more real modesty in their behaviour before they appear in public than afterwards."
"I do not know," replied Miss Crawford hesitatingly. "I cannot agree. It is much worse to have girls not out give themselves the same airs as if they were. That is quite disgusting!"
"Yes, very inconvenient indeed," said Mr. Bertram. "It leads one astray. The demure air tells one what is expected; but I got into a dreadful scrape last year. I went down to Ramsgate with a friend last September. My friend Sneyd-you have heard me speak of Sneyd, Edmund-his father, mother, and sisters were there, all new to me. We went to meet them, and found them on the pier: I made my bow, and attached myself to one of Mrs Sneyd's daughters, walked by her side, and made myself agreeable; the young lady perfectly easy in her manners, and as ready to talk as to listen. I had not a suspicion that I was doing anything wrong. They looked just the same: but I afterwards found that I had been giving all my attention to the youngest, who was not out, and had excessively offended the eldest. Miss Sneyd has never forgiven me."
"Poor Miss Sneyd. I feel for her; but it was the mother's fault. But now I must be satisfied about Miss Price. Does she go to balls? Does she dine out everywhere?"
"No," replied Edmund; "I do not think Fanny has ever been to a ball. She stays at home with my mother."
"Oh! then the point is clear. Miss Price is not out."


The day at Sotherton, with all its imperfections, afforded the Miss Bertrams much more agreeable feelings than were derived from the letters from Antigua, which soon afterwards reached Mansfield. It was much pleasanter to think of Henry Crawford than of their father; and to think of their father in England again within a certain period, which these letters obliged them to do, was a most unwelcome exercise.
November was the black month fixed for his return. Sir Thomas wrote of it with as much decision as experience and anxiety could authorise. His business was so nearly concluded as to justify him in proposing to take his passage in the September packet, and he consequently looked forward with the hope of being with his beloved family again early in November.
Maria was more to be pitied than Julia; for to her the father brought a husband, and the return of the friend most solicitous for her happiness would unite her to the lover, on whom she had chosen that happiness should depend. It was a gloomy prospect, and all she could do was to throw a mist over it, and hope when the mist cleared away she should see something else. It would hardly be _early_ in November, there were generally delays, a bad passage or _something_; that favouring _something_ which everybody who shuts their eyes while they look, or their understandings while they reason, feels the comfort of. It would probably be the middle of November at least; the middle of November was three months off. Three months comprised thirteen weeks. Much might happen in thirteen weeks.
Sir Thomas would have been deeply mortified by a suspicion of half that his daughters felt on the subject of his return, and would hardly have found consolation in a knowledge of the interest it excited in the breast of another young lady. Miss Crawford, on walking up with her brother to spend the evening at Mansfield Park, heard the good news; and though seeming to have no concern in the affair beyond politeness, and to have vented all her feelings in a quiet congratulation, heard it with an attention not so easily satisfied. Mrs. Norris gave the particulars of the letters, and the subject was dropt; but after tea, as Miss Crawford was standing at an open window with Edmund and Fanny looking out on a twilight scene, while the Miss Bertrams, Mr. Rushworth, and Henry Crawford were all busy with candles at the pianoforte, she suddenly revived it by turning round towards the group, and saying, "How happy Mr. Rushworth looks! He is thinking of November."
Edmund looked round at Mr. Rushworth too, but had nothing to say.
"Your father's return will be a very interesting event."
"It will, indeed, after such an absence; an absence not only long, but including so many dangers."
"It will be the forerunner also of other interesting events: your sister's marriage, and your taking orders."
"Yes."
"Don't be affronted," said she, laughing, "but it does put me in mind of some of the old heathen heroes, who, after performing great exploits in a foreign land, offered sacrifices to the gods on their safe return."
"There is no sacrifice in the case," replied Edmund, with a serious smile, and glancing at the pianoforte again; "it is entirely her own doing."
"Oh yes I know it is. I was merely joking. She has done no more than what every young woman would do; and I have no doubt of her being extremely happy. My other sacrifice, of course, you do not understand."
"My taking orders, I assure you, is quite as voluntary as Maria's marrying."
"It is fortunate that your inclination and your father's convenience should accord so well. There is a very good living kept for you, I understand, hereabouts."
"Which you suppose has biassed me?"
"But _that_ I am sure it has not," cried Fanny.
"Thank you for your good word, Fanny, but it is more than I would affirm myself. On the contrary, the knowing that there was such a provision for me probably did bias me. Nor can I think it wrong that it should. There was no natural disinclination to be overcome, and I see no reason why a man should make a worse clergyman for knowing that he will have a competence early in life. I was in safe hands. I hope I should not have been influenced myself in a wrong way, and I am sure my father was too conscientious to have allowed it. I have no doubt that I was biased, but I think it was blamelessly."
"It is the same sort of thing," said Fanny, after a short pause, "as for the son of an admiral to go into the navy, or the son of a general to be in the army, and nobody sees anything wrong in that. Nobody wonders that they should prefer the line where their friends can serve them best, or suspects them to be less in earnest in it than they appear."
"No, my dear Miss Price, and for reasons good. The profession, either navy or army, is its own justification. It has everything in its favour: heroism, danger, bustle, fashion. Soldiers and sailors are always acceptable in society. Nobody can wonder that men are soldiers and sailors."
"But the motives of a man who takes orders with the certainty of preferment may be fairly suspected, you think?" said Edmund. "To be justified in your eyes, he must do it in the most complete uncertainty of any provision."
"What! take orders without a living! No; that is madness indeed; absolute madness."
"Shall I ask you how the church is to be filled, if a man is neither to take orders with a living nor without? No; for you certainly would not know what to say. But I must beg some advantage to the clergyman from your own argument. As he cannot be influenced by those feelings which you rank highly as temptation and reward to the soldier and sailor in their choice of a profession, as heroism, and noise, and fashion, are all against him, he ought to be less liable to the suspicion of wanting sincerity or good intentions in the choice of his."
"Oh! no doubt he is very sincere in preferring an income ready made, to the trouble of working for one; and has the best intentions of doing nothing all the rest of his days but eat, drink, and grow fat. It is indolence, Mr. Bertram, indeed. Indolence and love of ease; a want of all laudable ambition, of taste for good company, or of inclination to take the trouble of being agreeable, which make men clergymen. A clergyman has nothing to do but be slovenly and selfish-read the newspaper, watch the weather, and quarrel with his wife. His curate does all the work, and the business of his own life is to dine."
"There are such clergymen, no doubt, but I think they are not so common as to justify Miss Crawford in esteeming it their general character. I suspect that in this comprehensive and (may I say) commonplace censure, you are not judging from yourself, but from prejudiced persons, whose opinions you have been in the habit of hearing. It is impossible that your own observation can have given you much knowledge of the clergy. You can have been personally acquainted with very few of a set of men you condemn so conclusively. You are speaking what you have been told at your uncle's table."
"I speak what appears to me the general opinion; and where an opinion is general, it is usually correct. Though _I_ have not seen much of the domestic lives of clergymen, it is seen by too many to leave any deficiency of information."
"Where any one body of educated men, of whatever denomination, are condemned indiscriminately, there must be a deficiency of information, or (smiling) of something else. Your uncle, and his brother admirals, perhaps knew little of clergymen beyond the chaplains whom, good or bad, they were always wishing away."
"Poor William! He has met with great kindness from the chaplain of the Antwerp," was a tender apostrophe of Fanny's, very much to the purpose of her own feelings if not of the conversation.
"I have been so little addicted to take my opinions from my uncle," said Miss Crawford, "that I can hardly suppose-and since you push me so hard, I must observe, that I am not entirely without the means of seeing what clergymen are, being at this present time the guest of my own brother, Dr. Grant. And though Dr. Grant is most kind and obliging to me, and though he is really a gentleman, and, I dare say, a good scholar and clever, and often preaches good sermons, and is very respectable, _I_ see him to be an indolent, selfish _bon_ _vivant_, who must have his palate consulted in everything; who will not stir a finger for the convenience of any one; and who, moreover, if the cook makes a blunder, is out of humour with his excellent wife. To own the truth, Henry and I were partly driven out this very evening by a disappointment about a green goose, which he could not get the better of. My poor sister was forced to stay and bear it."
"I do not wonder at your disapprobation, upon my word. It is a great defect of temper, made worse by a very faulty habit of self-indulgence; and to see your sister suffering from it must be exceedingly painful to such feelings as yours. Fanny, it goes against us. We cannot attempt to defend Dr. Grant."
"No," replied Fanny, "but we need not give up his profession for all that; because, whatever profession Dr. Grant had chosen, he would have taken a-not a good temper into it; and as he must, either in the navy or army, have had a great many more people under his command than he has now, I think more would have been made unhappy by him as a sailor or soldier than as a clergyman. Besides, I cannot but suppose that whatever there may be to wish otherwise in Dr. Grant would have been in a greater danger of becoming worse in a more active and worldly profession, where he would have had less time and obligation-where he might have escaped that knowledge of himself, the _frequency_, at least, of that knowledge which it is impossible he should escape as he is now. A man-a sensible man like Dr. Grant, cannot be in the habit of teaching others their duty every week, cannot go to church twice every Sunday, and preach such very good sermons in so good a manner as he does, without being the better for it himself. It must make him think; and I have no doubt that he oftener endeavours to restrain himself than he would if he had been anything but a clergyman."
"We cannot prove to the contrary, to be sure; but I wish you a better fate, Miss Price, than to be the wife of a man whose amiableness depends upon his own sermons; for though he may preach himself into a good-humour every Sunday, it will be bad enough to have him quarrelling about green geese from Monday morning till Saturday night."
"I think the man who could often quarrel with Fanny," said Edmund affectionately, "must be beyond the reach of any sermons."
Fanny turned farther into the window; and Miss Crawford had only time to say, in a pleasant manner, "I fancy Miss Price has been more used to deserve praise than to hear it"; when, being earnestly invited by the Miss Bertrams to join in a glee, she tripped off to the instrument, leaving Edmund looking after her in an ecstasy of admiration of all her many virtues, from her obliging manners down to her light and graceful tread.
"There goes good-humour, I am sure," said he presently. "There goes a temper which would never give pain! How well she walks! and how readily she falls in with the inclination of others! joining them the moment she is asked. What a pity," he added, after an instant's reflection, "that she should have been in such hands!"
Fanny agreed to it, and had the pleasure of seeing him continue at the window with her, in spite of the expected glee; and of having his eyes soon turned, like hers, towards the scene without, where all that was solemn, and soothing, and lovely, appeared in the brilliancy of an unclouded night, and the contrast of the deep shade of the woods. Fanny spoke her feelings. "Here's harmony!" said she; "here's repose! Here's what may leave all painting and all music behind, and what poetry only can attempt to describe! Here's what may tranquillise every care, and lift the heart to rapture! When I look out on such a night as this, I feel as if there could be neither wickedness nor sorrow in the world; and there certainly would be less of both if the sublimity of Nature were more attended to, and people were carried more out of themselves by contemplating such a scene."
"I like to hear your enthusiasm, Fanny. It is a lovely night, and they are much to be pitied who have not been taught to feel, in some degree, as you do; who have not, at least, been given a taste for Nature in early life. They lose a great deal."
"_You_ taught me to think and feel on the subject, cousin."
"I had a very apt scholar. There's Arcturus looking very bright."
"Yes, and the Bear. I wish I could see Cassiopeia."
"We must go out on the lawn for that. Should you be afraid?"
"Not in the least. It is a great while since we have had any star-gazing."
"Yes; I do not know how it has happened." The glee began. "We will stay till this is finished, Fanny," said he, turning his back on the window; and as it advanced, she had the mortification of seeing him advance too, moving forward by gentle degrees towards the instrument, and when it ceased, he was close by the singers, among the most urgent in requesting to hear the glee again.
Fanny sighed alone at the window till scolded away by Mrs. Norris's threats of catching cold.

The day at Sotherton, with all its imperfections, gave the Miss Bertrams much more agreeable feelings than the letters from Antigua, which soon afterwards reached Mansfield. It was much pleasanter to think of Henry Crawford than of their father.
November was the black month fixed for his return. Sir Thomas's business being nearly concluded, he proposed to sail in the September packet, and looked forward to being with his beloved family again early in November.
Maria was more to be pitied than Julia; for to her the father brought a husband, and the return of the friend most anxious for her happiness would unite her to the lover, on whom she had chosen that happiness should depend. It was a gloomy prospect, and all she could do was to throw a mist over it, and hope that when the mist cleared away she should see something else. It would hardly be early in November, there were generally delays; it would probably be the middle of November at least; the middle of November was thirteen weeks off. Much might happen in thirteen weeks.
Sir Thomas would have been deeply mortified by his daughters' feelings, and would hardly have found consolation in another young lady's interest. Miss Crawford heard the good news with attention. After tea, as she was standing at a window with Edmund and Fanny looking out on a twilight scene, while the Miss Bertrams, Mr. Rushworth, and Henry Crawford were all busy at the pianoforte, she suddenly turned round towards the group, saying, "How happy Mr. Rushworth looks! He is thinking of November."
Edmund looked round at Mr. Rushworth too, but had nothing to say.
"Your father's return will be a very interesting event."
"It will, indeed."
"It will be the forerunner of other interesting events: your sister's marriage, and your taking orders."
"Yes."
"Don't be affronted," said she, laughing, "but it does put me in mind of some old heathen heroes, who, after great exploits in a foreign land, offered sacrifices to the gods on their safe return."
"There is no sacrifice in the case," replied Edmund, with a serious smile, and glancing at the pianoforte again; "it is entirely her own doing."
"Oh yes. I was joking. She has done no more than what every young woman would do; and I have no doubt of her being extremely happy. The other sacrifice, of course, you do not understand."
"My taking orders, I assure you, is quite as voluntary as Maria's marrying."
"It is fortunate that your wish and your father's convenience should accord so well. There is a very good living kept for you, I understand."
"Which you suppose has biased me?"
"I am sure it has not," cried Fanny.
"Thank you, Fanny, but it is more than I would affirm myself. On the contrary, knowing that there was such a provision probably did bias me. Nor can I think it wrong that it should. I see no reason why a man should make a worse clergyman for knowing that he will have a competence early in life. I have no doubt that I was biased, but I think it was blamelessly."
"It is the same sort of thing," said Fanny, "as for the son of an admiral to go into the navy, or the son of a general to be in the army, and nobody sees anything wrong in that. Nobody wonders that they should prefer the line where their friends can serve them best."
"No, my dear Miss Price, and for reasons good. The profession, either navy or army, is its own justification. It has everything in its favour: heroism, danger, bustle, fashion. Soldiers and sailors are always acceptable in society. Nobody can wonder that men are soldiers and sailors."
"But the motives of a man who takes orders with the certainty of preferment may be suspected, you think?" said Edmund. "To be justified in your eyes, he must do it in complete uncertainty of any provision."
"What! take orders without a living! No; that is madness indeed."
"Shall I ask you how the church is to be filled, if a man is neither to take orders with a living nor without? No; for you certainly would not know what to say. But I must beg some advantage to the clergyman from your own argument. As heroism, and noise, and fashion, cannot tempt him, he ought not to be suspected of lacking sincerity in his choice."
"Oh! no doubt he is very sincere in preferring an income ready made, to the trouble of working for one; and has the best intentions of doing nothing all his days but eat, drink, and grow fat. It is indolence, Mr. Bertram; a want of ambition, of taste for good company, or of inclination to be agreeable, which make men clergymen. A clergyman has nothing to do but be slovenly and selfish. His curate does all the work, and the business of his own life is to dine."
"There are such clergymen, no doubt, but they are not so common as you suppose. I suspect that in this comprehensive censure, you are judging from prejudiced persons, whose opinions you have been in the habit of hearing. It is impossible that you can have much knowledge of the clergy. You are speaking what you have been told at your uncle's table."
"I speak what is the general opinion; and where an opinion is general, it is usually correct. The lives of clergymen are seen by too many to leave any deficiency of information."
"Where any body of educated men are condemned indiscriminately, there must be a deficiency of information, or (smiling) of something else. Your uncle, and his brother admirals, perhaps knew little of clergymen beyond the chaplains whom they were always wishing away."
"Poor William! He has met with great kindness from the chaplain of the Antwerp," was a tender remark of Fanny's, very much to the purpose of her own feelings if not of the conversation.
"I do not take my opinions from my uncle," said Miss Crawford, "and I can see what clergymen are, being the guest of Dr. Grant. And though Dr. Grant is most kind and obliging to me, and though he is clever, and often preaches good sermons, I see him to be an indolent, selfish bon vivant, who must have his palate consulted in everything; who will not stir a finger for the convenience of any one; and who, moreover, if the cook makes a blunder, is out of humour with his excellent wife. Henry and I were driven out this very evening by a disappointment about a green goose, which he could not get the better of. My poor sister was forced to stay and bear it."
"I do not wonder at your disapprobation. It is a great defect of temper, and to see your sister suffering from it must be exceedingly painful. Fanny, it goes against us. We cannot attempt to defend Dr. Grant."
"No," replied Fanny, "but whatever profession Dr. Grant had chosen, he would have taken a-not a good temper into it; and in the navy or army, I think more would have been made unhappy by him than as a clergyman. Besides, in a more worldly profession, he might have escaped that knowledge of himself, which it is impossible he should escape now. A man cannot teach others their duty every week and preach such very good sermons as he does, without being the better for it himself. It must make him think."
"We cannot prove to the contrary, to be sure; but I wish you a better fate, Miss Price, than to be the wife of a man whose amiableness depends upon his own sermons; for though he may preach himself into a good-humour every Sunday, it is still bad enough to have him quarrelling about green geese from Monday till Saturday night."
"I think the man who could quarrel with Fanny," said Edmund affectionately, "must be beyond the reach of any sermons."
Fanny turned away; and Miss Crawford had only time to say pleasantly, "I fancy Miss Price has been more used to deserve praise than to hear it"; when, being invited by the Miss Bertrams to join in a glee, she tripped off to the instrument, leaving Edmund looking after her in an ecstasy of admiration of her many virtues, from her obliging manners to her graceful tread.
"There goes good-humour, I am sure," said he. "There goes a temper which would never give pain! How well she walks! and how readily she pleases others! What a pity that she should have been in such hands!"
Fanny agreed, and had the pleasure of seeing him continue at the window with her, in spite of the expected glee; and of having his eyes turned, like hers, outside, where a solemn, soothing, and lovely scene appeared in the brilliancy of an unclouded night. Fanny spoke her feelings.
"Here's harmony!" said she; "here's repose! Here's what may leave all painting and all music behind, and what poetry only can attempt to describe! Here's what may tranquillise every care, and lift the heart to rapture! When I look out on such a night as this, I feel as if there could be neither wickedness nor sorrow in the world; and there certainly would be less of both if the sublimity of Nature were more attended to, and people were carried more out of themselves by contemplating such a scene."
"I like to hear your enthusiasm, Fanny. They are much to be pitied who have not been taught to feel as you do."
"You taught me to think and feel on the subject, cousin."
"I had a very apt scholar. There's Arcturus looking very bright."
"Yes, and the Bear. I wish I could see Cassiopeia."
"We must go out on the lawn for that. Should you be afraid?"
"Not in the least. It is a great while since we have had any star-gazing."
"Yes; I do not know how it has happened." The glee began. "We will stay till this is finished, Fanny," said he, turning his back on the window; and as it advanced, she had the mortification of seeing him advance too, moving forward by gentle degrees towards the instrument. When it ceased, he was close by the singers, among the most urgent in requesting to hear the glee again.
Fanny sighed alone at the window, till scolded away by Mrs. Norris's threats of catching cold.


The Prices were just setting off for church the next day when Mr. Crawford appeared again. He came, not to stop, but to join them; he was asked to go with them to the Garrison chapel, which was exactly what he had intended, and they all walked thither together.
The family were now seen to advantage. Nature had given them no inconsiderable share of beauty, and every Sunday dressed them in their cleanest skins and best attire. Sunday always brought this comfort to Fanny, and on this Sunday she felt it more than ever. Her poor mother now did not look so very unworthy of being Lady Bertram's sister as she was but too apt to look. It often grieved her to the heart to think of the contrast between them; to think that where nature had made so little difference, circumstances should have made so much, and that her mother, as handsome as Lady Bertram, and some years her junior, should have an appearance so much more worn and faded, so comfortless, so slatternly, so shabby. But Sunday made her a very creditable and tolerably cheerful-looking Mrs. Price, coming abroad with a fine family of children, feeling a little respite of her weekly cares, and only discomposed if she saw her boys run into danger, or Rebecca pass by with a flower in her hat.
In chapel they were obliged to divide, but Mr. Crawford took care not to be divided from the female branch; and after chapel he still continued with them, and made one in the family party on the ramparts.
Mrs. Price took her weekly walk on the ramparts every fine Sunday throughout the year, always going directly after morning service and staying till dinner-time. It was her public place: there she met her acquaintance, heard a little news, talked over the badness of the Portsmouth servants, and wound up her spirits for the six days ensuing.
Thither they now went; Mr. Crawford most happy to consider the Miss Prices as his peculiar charge; and before they had been there long, somehow or other, there was no saying how, Fanny could not have believed it, but he was walking between them with an arm of each under his, and she did not know how to prevent or put an end to it. It made her uncomfortable for a time, but yet there were enjoyments in the day and in the view which would be felt.
The day was uncommonly lovely. It was really March; but it was April in its mild air, brisk soft wind, and bright sun, occasionally clouded for a minute; and everything looked so beautiful under the influence of such a sky, the effects of the shadows pursuing each other on the ships at Spithead and the island beyond, with the ever-varying hues of the sea, now at high water, dancing in its glee and dashing against the ramparts with so fine a sound, produced altogether such a combination of charms for Fanny, as made her gradually almost careless of the circumstances under which she felt them. Nay, had she been without his arm, she would soon have known that she needed it, for she wanted strength for a two hours' saunter of this kind, coming, as it generally did, upon a week's previous inactivity. Fanny was beginning to feel the effect of being debarred from her usual regular exercise; she had lost ground as to health since her being in Portsmouth; and but for Mr. Crawford and the beauty of the weather would soon have been knocked up now.
The loveliness of the day, and of the view, he felt like herself. They often stopt with the same sentiment and taste, leaning against the wall, some minutes, to look and admire; and considering he was not Edmund, Fanny could not but allow that he was sufficiently open to the charms of nature, and very well able to express his admiration. She had a few tender reveries now and then, which he could sometimes take advantage of to look in her face without detection; and the result of these looks was, that though as bewitching as ever, her face was less blooming than it ought to be. She _said_ she was very well, and did not like to be supposed otherwise; but take it all in all, he was convinced that her present residence could not be comfortable, and therefore could not be salutary for her, and he was growing anxious for her being again at Mansfield, where her own happiness, and his in seeing her, must be so much greater.
"You have been here a month, I think?" said he.
"No; not quite a month. It is only four weeks to-morrow since I left Mansfield."
"You are a most accurate and honest reckoner. I should call that a month."
"I did not arrive here till Tuesday evening."
"And it is to be a two months' visit, is not?"
"Yes. My uncle talked of two months. I suppose it will not be less."
"And how are you to be conveyed back again? Who comes for you?"
"I do not know. I have heard nothing about it yet from my aunt. Perhaps I may be to stay longer. It may not be convenient for me to be fetched exactly at the two months' end."
After a moment's reflection, Mr. Crawford replied, "I know Mansfield, I know its way, I know its faults towards _you_. I know the danger of your being so far forgotten, as to have your comforts give way to the imaginary convenience of any single being in the family. I am aware that you may be left here week after week, if Sir Thomas cannot settle everything for coming himself, or sending your aunt's maid for you, without involving the slightest alteration of the arrangements which he may have laid down for the next quarter of a year. This will not do. Two months is an ample allowance; I should think six weeks quite enough. I am considering your sister's health," said he, addressing himself to Susan, "which I think the confinement of Portsmouth unfavourable to. She requires constant air and exercise. When you know her as well as I do, I am sure you will agree that she does, and that she ought never to be long banished from the free air and liberty of the country. If, therefore" (turning again to Fanny), "you find yourself growing unwell, and any difficulties arise about your returning to Mansfield, without waiting for the two months to be ended, _that_ must not be regarded as of any consequence, if you feel yourself at all less strong or comfortable than usual, and will only let my sister know it, give her only the slightest hint, she and I will immediately come down, and take you back to Mansfield. You know the ease and the pleasure with which this would be done. You know all that would be felt on the occasion."
Fanny thanked him, but tried to laugh it off.
"I am perfectly serious," he replied, "as you perfectly know. And I hope you will not be cruelly concealing any tendency to indisposition. Indeed, you shall _not_; it shall not be in your power; for so long only as you positively say, in every letter to Mary, 'I am well,' and I know you cannot speak or write a falsehood, so long only shall you be considered as well."
Fanny thanked him again, but was affected and distressed to a degree that made it impossible for her to say much, or even to be certain of what she ought to say. This was towards the close of their walk. He attended them to the last, and left them only at the door of their own house, when he knew them to be going to dinner, and therefore pretended to be waited for elsewhere.
"I wish you were not so tired," said he, still detaining Fanny after all the others were in the house-"I wish I left you in stronger health. Is there anything I can do for you in town? I have half an idea of going into Norfolk again soon. I am not satisfied about Maddison. I am sure he still means to impose on me if possible, and get a cousin of his own into a certain mill, which I design for somebody else. I must come to an understanding with him. I must make him know that I will not be tricked on the south side of Everingham, any more than on the north: that I will be master of my own property. I was not explicit enough with him before. The mischief such a man does on an estate, both as to the credit of his employer and the welfare of the poor, is inconceivable. I have a great mind to go back into Norfolk directly, and put everything at once on such a footing as cannot be afterwards swerved from. Maddison is a clever fellow; I do not wish to displace him, provided he does not try to displace _me_; but it would be simple to be duped by a man who has no right of creditor to dupe me, and worse than simple to let him give me a hard-hearted, griping fellow for a tenant, instead of an honest man, to whom I have given half a promise already. Would it not be worse than simple? Shall I go? Do you advise it?"
"I advise! You know very well what is right."
"Yes. When you give me your opinion, I always know what is right. Your judgment is my rule of right."
"Oh, no! do not say so. We have all a better guide in ourselves, if we would attend to it, than any other person can be. Good-bye; I wish you a pleasant journey to-morrow."
"Is there nothing I can do for you in town?"
"Nothing; I am much obliged to you."
"Have you no message for anybody?"
"My love to your sister, if you please; and when you see my cousin, my cousin Edmund, I wish you would be so good as to say that I suppose I shall soon hear from him."
"Certainly; and if he is lazy or negligent, I will write his excuses myself."
He could say no more, for Fanny would be no longer detained. He pressed her hand, looked at her, and was gone. _He_ went to while away the next three hours as he could, with his other acquaintance, till the best dinner that a capital inn afforded was ready for their enjoyment, and _she_ turned in to her more simple one immediately.
Their general fare bore a very different character; and could he have suspected how many privations, besides that of exercise, she endured in her father's house, he would have wondered that her looks were not much more affected than he found them. She was so little equal to Rebecca's puddings and Rebecca's hashes, brought to table, as they all were, with such accompaniments of half-cleaned plates, and not half-cleaned knives and forks, that she was very often constrained to defer her heartiest meal till she could send her brothers in the evening for biscuits and buns. After being nursed up at Mansfield, it was too late in the day to be hardened at Portsmouth; and though Sir Thomas, had he known all, might have thought his niece in the most promising way of being starved, both mind and body, into a much juster value for Mr. Crawford's good company and good fortune, he would probably have feared to push his experiment farther, lest she might die under the cure.
Fanny was out of spirits all the rest of the day. Though tolerably secure of not seeing Mr. Crawford again, she could not help being low. It was parting with somebody of the nature of a friend; and though, in one light, glad to have him gone, it seemed as if she was now deserted by everybody; it was a sort of renewed separation from Mansfield; and she could not think of his returning to town, and being frequently with Mary and Edmund, without feelings so near akin to envy as made her hate herself for having them.
Her dejection had no abatement from anything passing around her; a friend or two of her father's, as always happened if he was not with them, spent the long, long evening there; and from six o'clock till half-past nine, there was little intermission of noise or grog. She was very low. The wonderful improvement which she still fancied in Mr. Crawford was the nearest to administering comfort of anything within the current of her thoughts. Not considering in how different a circle she had been just seeing him, nor how much might be owing to contrast, she was quite persuaded of his being astonishingly more gentle and regardful of others than formerly. And, if in little things, must it not be so in great? So anxious for her health and comfort, so very feeling as he now expressed himself, and really seemed, might not it be fairly supposed that he would not much longer persevere in a suit so distressing to her?

The Prices were just setting off for church the next day when Mr. Crawford appeared. He was asked to go with them to the Garrison chapel, which was exactly what he had intended, and they all walked there together.
The family were now seen to advantage. Nature had given them no inconsiderable share of beauty, and every Sunday dressed them in their cleanest skins and best attire. Sunday always brought this comfort to Fanny, and on this Sunday she felt it more than ever. Her poor mother now did not look so very unworthy of being Lady Bertram's sister. It often grieved her that where nature had made so little difference, circumstances should have made so much, and that her mother, as handsome as Lady Bertram, should have an appearance so much more worn and shabby. But Sunday made her a very creditable Mrs. Price, with a fine family of children.
In chapel they were obliged to divide, but Mr. Crawford took care not to be divided from the female branch; and after chapel he continued with them, and joined the family party on the ramparts.
Mrs. Price took her weekly walk on the ramparts every fine Sunday throughout the year. There she met her acquaintance, heard a little news, talked over the badness of the Portsmouth servants, and wound up her spirits for the six days.
Thither they now went; Mr. Crawford most happy to consider the Miss Prices as his charge; and before they had been there long, somehow or other, there was no saying how, he was walking between them with an arm of each under his. Fanny did not know how to put an end to it. It made her uncomfortable, but yet there were enjoyments in the day.
Everything looked so beautiful under the influence of such a fine March sky, with the ever-varying hues of the sea, now at high water, dancing in its glee and dashing against the ramparts; and produced altogether such a combination of charms for Fanny, as made her almost careless of the circumstances under which she felt them. Had she been without his arm, she would soon have known that she needed it, for she lacked strength for a two hours' saunter. Fanny was beginning to feel the effect of being debarred from her usual regular exercise; she had lost ground as to health since her being in Portsmouth.
They often stopped some minutes to look and admire; and considering he was not Edmund, Fanny had to allow that he was open to the charms of nature, and very well able to express his admiration. She had a few tender reveries now and then, during which he could sometimes look in her face without detection; and he concluded that, though as bewitching as ever, her face was less blooming than it ought to be. She said she was very well; but he was convinced that her residence could not be comfortable, and he was growing anxious for her being again at Mansfield.
"You have been here a month, I think?" said he.
"No; not quite. It is four weeks to-morrow."
"You are a most accurate reckoner. I should call that a month. It is to be a two months' visit, is not?"
"Yes. My uncle talked of two months."
"And how are you to be conveyed back again?"
"I do not know. I have heard nothing about it yet. Perhaps it may not be convenient for me to be fetched exactly at the two months' end."
After reflection, Mr. Crawford replied, "I know Mansfield, I know its faults towards you. I am aware that you may be left here week after week, if Sir Thomas cannot organize it without involving the slightest alteration of the arrangements which he has laid down for the next quarter of a year. This will not do. Two months is plenty; I should think six weeks quite enough. I am considering your sister's health," said he, addressing Susan. "She requires constant air and exercise, and ought never to be long banished from the free air of the country. If, therefore" (turning again to Fanny), "you find yourself growing unwell, and any difficulties arise about your returning, if you feel yourself at all less strong or comfortable than usual, and will only let my sister know it, give her only the slightest hint, she and I will immediately come down, and take you back to Mansfield. You know the pleasure with which this would be done."
Fanny thanked him, but tried to laugh it off.
"I am perfectly serious," he replied, "as you know. And I hope you will not conceal any indisposition. Indeed, so long as you positively say, in every letter to Mary, 'I am well,' since I know you cannot speak a falsehood, so long only shall you be considered well."
Fanny thanked him again, but was affected and distressed to a great degree. This was towards the close of their walk. He left them at the door of their own house.
"I wish you were not so tired," said he, detaining Fanny after the others were gone in-"I wish I left you in stronger health. Is there anything I can do for you in town? I have half an idea of going into Norfolk again soon. I am not satisfied about Maddison. I am sure he still means to impose on me if possible. The mischief such a man does on an estate, both to the credit of his employer and the welfare of the poor, is inconceivable. I have a great mind to go back into Norfolk directly. Shall I go? Do you advise it?"
"I advise! You know very well what is right."
"Yes. When you give me your opinion, I always know what is right."
"Oh, no! do not say so. We have all a better guide in ourselves, if we would attend to it, than any other person can be. Good-bye; I wish you a pleasant journey."
"Is there nothing I can do for you in London?"
"Nothing; I am much obliged to you."
"Have you no message for anybody?"
"My love to your sister, if you please; and when you see my cousin, my cousin Edmund, I wish you would be so good as to say that I suppose I shall soon hear from him."
"Certainly; and if he is lazy or negligent, I will write his excuses myself."
He could say no more. He pressed her hand, looked at her, and was gone.
Could he have suspected how many privations, besides that of exercise, she endured in her father's house, he would have wondered that her looks were not more affected. She was so little equal to Rebecca's puddings and Rebecca's hashes, brought to table, as they all were, with half-cleaned plates, and not even half-cleaned knives and forks, that she very often deferred her heartiest meal till she could send her brothers in the evening for biscuits and buns. Though Sir Thomas might have thought his niece in the most promising way of being starved into valuing Mr. Crawford's company, he would probably have feared to push his experiment farther, lest she might die under the cure.
Fanny was out of spirits all the rest of the day. It was parting with somebody of the nature of a friend; and though, in one light, glad to have him gone, it seemed as if she was now deserted by everybody. It was a sort of renewed separation from Mansfield; and she could not think of his being in town with Mary and Edmund without feelings so close to envy as made her hate herself for having them.
Her dejection had no relief from anything around her; a friend or two of her father's spent the long, long evening there; and from six o'clock till half-past nine, there was little intermission of noise or grog. She was very low. The wonderful improvement which she fancied in Mr. Crawford was the nearest to comfort of anything in her thoughts. Not considering how much might be owing to contrast, she was quite persuaded of his being astonishingly more gentle and regardful of others than formerly. And, if in little things, must it not be so in great? So anxious for her health and comfort as he seemed, might she not suppose that he would not much longer persevere in a suit so distressing to her?