Mr. Bertram set off for----, and Miss Crawford was prepared to find a great chasm in their society, and to miss him decidedly in the meetings which were now becoming almost daily between the families; and on their all dining together at the Park soon after his going, she retook her chosen place near the bottom of the table, fully expecting to feel a most melancholy difference in the change of masters. It would be a very flat business, she was sure. In comparison with his brother, Edmund would have nothing to say. The soup would be sent round in a most spiritless manner, wine drank without any smiles or agreeable trifling, and the venison cut up without supplying one pleasant anecdote of any former haunch, or a single entertaining story, about "my friend such a one." She must try to find amusement in what was passing at the upper end of the table, and in observing Mr. Rushworth, who was now making his appearance at Mansfield for the first time since the Crawfords' arrival. He had been visiting a friend in the neighbouring county, and that friend having recently had his grounds laid out by an improver, Mr. Rushworth was returned with his head full of the subject, and very eager to be improving his own place in the same way; and though not saying much to the purpose, could talk of nothing else. The subject had been already handled in the drawing-room; it was revived in the dining-parlour. Miss Bertram's attention and opinion was evidently his chief aim; and though her deportment showed rather conscious superiority than any solicitude to oblige him, the mention of Sotherton Court, and the ideas attached to it, gave her a feeling of complacency, which prevented her from being very ungracious.
"I wish you could see Compton," said he; "it is the most complete thing! I never saw a place so altered in my life. I told Smith I did not know where I was. The approach _now_, is one of the finest things in the country: you see the house in the most surprising manner. I declare, when I got back to Sotherton yesterday, it looked like a prison-quite a dismal old prison."
"Oh, for shame!" cried Mrs. Norris. "A prison indeed? Sotherton Court is the noblest old place in the world."
"It wants improvement, ma'am, beyond anything. I never saw a place that wanted so much improvement in my life; and it is so forlorn that I do not know what can be done with it."
"No wonder that Mr. Rushworth should think so at present," said Mrs. Grant to Mrs. Norris, with a smile; "but depend upon it, Sotherton will have _every_ improvement in time which his heart can desire."
"I must try to do something with it," said Mr. Rushworth, "but I do not know what. I hope I shall have some good friend to help me."
"Your best friend upon such an occasion," said Miss Bertram calmly, "would be Mr. Repton, I imagine."
"That is what I was thinking of. As he has done so well by Smith, I think I had better have him at once. His terms are five guineas a day."
"Well, and if they were _ten_," cried Mrs. Norris, "I am sure _you_ need not regard it. The expense need not be any impediment. If I were you, I should not think of the expense. I would have everything done in the best style, and made as nice as possible. Such a place as Sotherton Court deserves everything that taste and money can do. You have space to work upon there, and grounds that will well reward you. For my own part, if I had anything within the fiftieth part of the size of Sotherton, I should be always planting and improving, for naturally I am excessively fond of it. It would be too ridiculous for me to attempt anything where I am now, with my little half acre. It would be quite a burlesque. But if I had more room, I should take a prodigious delight in improving and planting. We did a vast deal in that way at the Parsonage: we made it quite a different place from what it was when we first had it. You young ones do not remember much about it, perhaps; but if dear Sir Thomas were here, he could tell you what improvements we made: and a great deal more would have been done, but for poor Mr. Norris's sad state of health. He could hardly ever get out, poor man, to enjoy anything, and _that_ disheartened me from doing several things that Sir Thomas and I used to talk of. If it had not been for _that_, we should have carried on the garden wall, and made the plantation to shut out the churchyard, just as Dr. Grant has done. We were always doing something as it was. It was only the spring twelvemonth before Mr. Norris's death that we put in the apricot against the stable wall, which is now grown such a noble tree, and getting to such perfection, sir," addressing herself then to Dr. Grant.
"The tree thrives well, beyond a doubt, madam," replied Dr. Grant. "The soil is good; and I never pass it without regretting that the fruit should be so little worth the trouble of gathering."
"Sir, it is a Moor Park, we bought it as a Moor Park, and it cost us-that is, it was a present from Sir Thomas, but I saw the bill-and I know it cost seven shillings, and was charged as a Moor Park."
"You were imposed on, ma'am," replied Dr. Grant: "these potatoes have as much the flavour of a Moor Park apricot as the fruit from that tree. It is an insipid fruit at the best; but a good apricot is eatable, which none from my garden are."
"The truth is, ma'am," said Mrs. Grant, pretending to whisper across the table to Mrs. Norris, "that Dr. Grant hardly knows what the natural taste of our apricot is: he is scarcely ever indulged with one, for it is so valuable a fruit; with a little assistance, and ours is such a remarkably large, fair sort, that what with early tarts and preserves, my cook contrives to get them all."
Mrs. Norris, who had begun to redden, was appeased; and, for a little while, other subjects took place of the improvements of Sotherton. Dr. Grant and Mrs. Norris were seldom good friends; their acquaintance had begun in dilapidations, and their habits were totally dissimilar.
After a short interruption Mr. Rushworth began again. "Smith's place is the admiration of all the country; and it was a mere nothing before Repton took it in hand. I think I shall have Repton."
"Mr. Rushworth," said Lady Bertram, "if I were you, I would have a very pretty shrubbery. One likes to get out into a shrubbery in fine weather."
Mr. Rushworth was eager to assure her ladyship of his acquiescence, and tried to make out something complimentary; but, between his submission to _her_ taste, and his having always intended the same himself, with the superadded objects of professing attention to the comfort of ladies in general, and of insinuating that there was one only whom he was anxious to please, he grew puzzled, and Edmund was glad to put an end to his speech by a proposal of wine. Mr. Rushworth, however, though not usually a great talker, had still more to say on the subject next his heart. "Smith has not much above a hundred acres altogether in his grounds, which is little enough, and makes it more surprising that the place can have been so improved. Now, at Sotherton we have a good seven hundred, without reckoning the water meadows; so that I think, if so much could be done at Compton, we need not despair. There have been two or three fine old trees cut down, that grew too near the house, and it opens the prospect amazingly, which makes me think that Repton, or anybody of that sort, would certainly have the avenue at Sotherton down: the avenue that leads from the west front to the top of the hill, you know," turning to Miss Bertram particularly as he spoke. But Miss Bertram thought it most becoming to reply-
"The avenue! Oh! I do not recollect it. I really know very little of Sotherton."
Fanny, who was sitting on the other side of Edmund, exactly opposite Miss Crawford, and who had been attentively listening, now looked at him, and said in a low voice-
"Cut down an avenue! What a pity! Does it not make you think of Cowper? 'Ye fallen avenues, once more I mourn your fate unmerited.'"
He smiled as he answered, "I am afraid the avenue stands a bad chance, Fanny."
"I should like to see Sotherton before it is cut down, to see the place as it is now, in its old state; but I do not suppose I shall."
"Have you never been there? No, you never can; and, unluckily, it is out of distance for a ride. I wish we could contrive it."
"Oh! it does not signify. Whenever I do see it, you will tell me how it has been altered."
"I collect," said Miss Crawford, "that Sotherton is an old place, and a place of some grandeur. In any particular style of building?"
"The house was built in Elizabeth's time, and is a large, regular, brick building; heavy, but respectable looking, and has many good rooms. It is ill placed. It stands in one of the lowest spots of the park; in that respect, unfavourable for improvement. But the woods are fine, and there is a stream, which, I dare say, might be made a good deal of. Mr. Rushworth is quite right, I think, in meaning to give it a modern dress, and I have no doubt that it will be all done extremely well."
Miss Crawford listened with submission, and said to herself, "He is a well-bred man; he makes the best of it."
"I do not wish to influence Mr. Rushworth," he continued; "but, had I a place to new fashion, I should not put myself into the hands of an improver. I would rather have an inferior degree of beauty, of my own choice, and acquired progressively. I would rather abide by my own blunders than by his."
"_You_ would know what you were about, of course; but that would not suit _me_. I have no eye or ingenuity for such matters, but as they are before me; and had I a place of my own in the country, I should be most thankful to any Mr. Repton who would undertake it, and give me as much beauty as he could for my money; and I should never look at it till it was complete."
"It would be delightful to _me_ to see the progress of it all," said Fanny.
"Ay, you have been brought up to it. It was no part of my education; and the only dose I ever had, being administered by not the first favourite in the world, has made me consider improvements _in_ _hand_ as the greatest of nuisances. Three years ago the Admiral, my honoured uncle, bought a cottage at Twickenham for us all to spend our summers in; and my aunt and I went down to it quite in raptures; but it being excessively pretty, it was soon found necessary to be improved, and for three months we were all dirt and confusion, without a gravel walk to step on, or a bench fit for use. I would have everything as complete as possible in the country, shrubberies and flower-gardens, and rustic seats innumerable: but it must all be done without my care. Henry is different; he loves to be doing."
Edmund was sorry to hear Miss Crawford, whom he was much disposed to admire, speak so freely of her uncle. It did not suit his sense of propriety, and he was silenced, till induced by further smiles and liveliness to put the matter by for the present.
"Mr. Bertram," said she, "I have tidings of my harp at last. I am assured that it is safe at Northampton; and there it has probably been these ten days, in spite of the solemn assurances we have so often received to the contrary." Edmund expressed his pleasure and surprise. "The truth is, that our inquiries were too direct; we sent a servant, we went ourselves: this will not do seventy miles from London; but this morning we heard of it in the right way. It was seen by some farmer, and he told the miller, and the miller told the butcher, and the butcher's son-in-law left word at the shop."
"I am very glad that you have heard of it, by whatever means, and hope there will be no further delay."
"I am to have it to-morrow; but how do you think it is to be conveyed? Not by a wagon or cart: oh no! nothing of that kind could be hired in the village. I might as well have asked for porters and a handbarrow."
"You would find it difficult, I dare say, just now, in the middle of a very late hay harvest, to hire a horse and cart?"
"I was astonished to find what a piece of work was made of it! To want a horse and cart in the country seemed impossible, so I told my maid to speak for one directly; and as I cannot look out of my dressing-closet without seeing one farmyard, nor walk in the shrubbery without passing another, I thought it would be only ask and have, and was rather grieved that I could not give the advantage to all. Guess my surprise, when I found that I had been asking the most unreasonable, most impossible thing in the world; had offended all the farmers, all the labourers, all the hay in the parish! As for Dr. Grant's bailiff, I believe I had better keep out of _his_ way; and my brother-in-law himself, who is all kindness in general, looked rather black upon me when he found what I had been at."
"You could not be expected to have thought on the subject before; but when you _do_ think of it, you must see the importance of getting in the grass. The hire of a cart at any time might not be so easy as you suppose: our farmers are not in the habit of letting them out; but, in harvest, it must be quite out of their power to spare a horse."
"I shall understand all your ways in time; but, coming down with the true London maxim, that everything is to be got with money, I was a little embarrassed at first by the sturdy independence of your country customs. However, I am to have my harp fetched to-morrow. Henry, who is good-nature itself, has offered to fetch it in his barouche. Will it not be honourably conveyed?"
Edmund spoke of the harp as his favourite instrument, and hoped to be soon allowed to hear her. Fanny had never heard the harp at all, and wished for it very much.
"I shall be most happy to play to you both," said Miss Crawford; "at least as long as you can like to listen: probably much longer, for I dearly love music myself, and where the natural taste is equal the player must always be best off, for she is gratified in more ways than one. Now, Mr. Bertram, if you write to your brother, I entreat you to tell him that my harp is come: he heard so much of my misery about it. And you may say, if you please, that I shall prepare my most plaintive airs against his return, in compassion to his feelings, as I know his horse will lose."
"If I write, I will say whatever you wish me; but I do not, at present, foresee any occasion for writing."
"No, I dare say, nor if he were to be gone a twelvemonth, would you ever write to him, nor he to you, if it could be helped. The occasion would never be foreseen. What strange creatures brothers are! You would not write to each other but upon the most urgent necessity in the world; and when obliged to take up the pen to say that such a horse is ill, or such a relation dead, it is done in the fewest possible words. You have but one style among you. I know it perfectly. Henry, who is in every other respect exactly what a brother should be, who loves me, consults me, confides in me, and will talk to me by the hour together, has never yet turned the page in a letter; and very often it is nothing more than-'Dear Mary, I am just arrived. Bath seems full, and everything as usual. Yours sincerely.' That is the true manly style; that is a complete brother's letter."
"When they are at a distance from all their family," said Fanny, colouring for William's sake, "they can write long letters."
"Miss Price has a brother at sea," said Edmund, "whose excellence as a correspondent makes her think you too severe upon us."
"At sea, has she? In the king's service, of course?"
Fanny would rather have had Edmund tell the story, but his determined silence obliged her to relate her brother's situation: her voice was animated in speaking of his profession, and the foreign stations he had been on; but she could not mention the number of years that he had been absent without tears in her eyes. Miss Crawford civilly wished him an early promotion.
"Do you know anything of my cousin's captain?" said Edmund; "Captain Marshall? You have a large acquaintance in the navy, I conclude?"
"Among admirals, large enough; but," with an air of grandeur, "we know very little of the inferior ranks. Post-captains may be very good sort of men, but they do not belong to _us_. Of various admirals I could tell you a great deal: of them and their flags, and the gradation of their pay, and their bickerings and jealousies. But, in general, I can assure you that they are all passed over, and all very ill used. Certainly, my home at my uncle's brought me acquainted with a circle of admirals. Of _Rears_ and _Vices_ I saw enough. Now do not be suspecting me of a pun, I entreat."
Edmund again felt grave, and only replied, "It is a noble profession."
"Yes, the profession is well enough under two circumstances: if it make the fortune, and there be discretion in spending it; but, in short, it is not a favourite profession of mine. It has never worn an amiable form to _me_."
Edmund reverted to the harp, and was again very happy in the prospect of hearing her play.
The subject of improving grounds, meanwhile, was still under consideration among the others; and Mrs. Grant could not help addressing her brother, though it was calling his attention from Miss Julia Bertram.
"My dear Henry, have _you_ nothing to say? You have been an improver yourself, and from what I hear of Everingham, it may vie with any place in England. Its natural beauties, I am sure, are great. Everingham, as it _used_ to be, was perfect in my estimation: such a happy fall of ground, and such timber! What would I not give to see it again!"
"Nothing could be so gratifying to me as to hear your opinion of it," was his answer; "but I fear there would be some disappointment: you would not find it equal to your present ideas. In extent, it is a mere nothing; you would be surprised at its insignificance; and, as for improvement, there was very little for me to do-too little: I should like to have been busy much longer."
"You are fond of the sort of thing?" said Julia.
"Excessively; but what with the natural advantages of the ground, which pointed out, even to a very young eye, what little remained to be done, and my own consequent resolutions, I had not been of age three months before Everingham was all that it is now. My plan was laid at Westminster, a little altered, perhaps, at Cambridge, and at one-and-twenty executed. I am inclined to envy Mr. Rushworth for having so much happiness yet before him. I have been a devourer of my own."
"Those who see quickly, will resolve quickly, and act quickly," said Julia. "_You_ can never want employment. Instead of envying Mr. Rushworth, you should assist him with your opinion."
Mrs. Grant, hearing the latter part of this speech, enforced it warmly, persuaded that no judgment could be equal to her brother's; and as Miss Bertram caught at the idea likewise, and gave it her full support, declaring that, in her opinion, it was infinitely better to consult with friends and disinterested advisers, than immediately to throw the business into the hands of a professional man, Mr. Rushworth was very ready to request the favour of Mr. Crawford's assistance; and Mr. Crawford, after properly depreciating his own abilities, was quite at his service in any way that could be useful. Mr. Rushworth then began to propose Mr. Crawford's doing him the honour of coming over to Sotherton, and taking a bed there; when Mrs. Norris, as if reading in her two nieces' minds their little approbation of a plan which was to take Mr. Crawford away, interposed with an amendment.
"There can be no doubt of Mr. Crawford's willingness; but why should not more of us go? Why should not we make a little party? Here are many that would be interested in your improvements, my dear Mr. Rushworth, and that would like to hear Mr. Crawford's opinion on the spot, and that might be of some small use to you with _their_ opinions; and, for my own part, I have been long wishing to wait upon your good mother again; nothing but having no horses of my own could have made me so remiss; but now I could go and sit a few hours with Mrs. Rushworth, while the rest of you walked about and settled things, and then we could all return to a late dinner here, or dine at Sotherton, just as might be most agreeable to your mother, and have a pleasant drive home by moonlight. I dare say Mr. Crawford would take my two nieces and me in his barouche, and Edmund can go on horseback, you know, sister, and Fanny will stay at home with you."
Lady Bertram made no objection; and every one concerned in the going was forward in expressing their ready concurrence, excepting Edmund, who heard it all and said nothing.

Mr. Bertram set off, and Miss Crawford was prepared to miss him decidedly in the meetings between the families; and on their dining together at the Park soon after his going, she fully expected to feel a melancholy difference. It would be a flat business, she was sure. Edmund would have nothing to say. The soup would be sent round in a spiritless manner, wine drank without any agreeable trifling, and the venison cut up without one pleasant anecdote about "my friend such a one."
She must try to find amusement in observing Mr. Rushworth, who was now at Mansfield. He had been visiting a friend in the neighbouring county, and that friend having recently had his grounds laid out, Mr. Rushworth returned with his head full of the subject. Eager to improve his own place in the same way, he could talk of nothing else. The subject had been already handled in the drawing-room; it was revived in the dining-parlour. Miss Bertram's attention was his chief aim; and though she showed more superiority than solicitude, the mention of Sotherton Court gave her a feeling of complacency, which made her gracious.
"I wish you could see Compton," said he; "I never saw a place so altered in my life. The approach now, is one of the finest in the country: you see the house in the most surprising manner. I declare, when I got back to Sotherton yesterday, it looked like a dismal old prison."
"Oh, for shame!" cried Mrs. Norris. "Sotherton Court is the noblest old place in the world."
"It wants improvement, ma'am. It is so forlorn that I do not know what can be done with it. I need some good friend to help me."
"Your best friend upon such an occasion," said Miss Bertram calmly, "would be Mr. Repton."
"That is what I was thinking. As he has done so well by Smith, I think I had better have him. His terms are five guineas a day."
"Well, and if they were ten," cried Mrs. Norris, "I am sure you need not regard it. Sotherton Court deserves everything that taste and money can do. If I had anything the fiftieth part of the size of Sotherton, I should be always improving. It would be ridiculous for me to attempt anything where I am now, with my little half acre. But if I had more, I should take a prodigious delight in improving and planting. We did a vast deal in that way at the Parsonage: and would have done more, but for poor Mr. Norris's sad state of health. We put in the apricot against the stable wall, which is now such a noble tree, sir," addressing herself to Dr. Grant.
"The tree thrives well, madam," replied Dr. Grant. "The soil is good; and I never pass it without regretting that the fruit should be so little worth the trouble of gathering."
"Sir, it is a Moor Park, and it cost us-that is, it was a present from Sir Thomas, but I saw the bill-and I know it cost seven shillings."
"You were imposed on, ma'am," replied Dr. Grant: "The fruit from that tree is insipid."
"The truth is, ma'am," said Mrs. Grant, pretending to whisper across the table, "that Dr. Grant hardly knows what the natural taste of our apricot is: he is scarcely ever indulged with one, for it is so valuable a fruit, that what with tarts and preserves, my cook contrives to get them all."
Mrs. Norris, who had begun to redden, was appeased. Mr. Rushworth began again. "Smith's place is the admiration of all the country; and it was nothing before Repton took it in hand. I think I shall have Repton."
"Mr. Rushworth," said Lady Bertram, "if I were you, I would have a pretty shrubbery."
Mr. Rushworth was eager to assure her ladyship of this, and tried to say something complimentary; but, between admiring her good taste, and his having always intended the same, and professing his attention to the ladies' comfort, but meaning one lady especially, he grew puzzled; and Edmund was glad to put an end to his speech by a proposal of wine. Mr. Rushworth, however, had still more to say on the subject next his heart. "Smith has not much above a hundred acres. Now, at Sotherton we have seven hundred; so that I think we need not despair. There have been two or three fine old trees cut down, and it opens the prospect amazingly, which makes me think that Repton would certainly have the avenue at Sotherton down: the avenue from the west front to the hill, you know," turning to Miss Bertram.
"Oh! I do not recollect it. I really know very little of Sotherton."
Fanny, sitting beside Edmund, said to him in a low voice-
"Cut down an avenue! What a pity! Does it not make you think of Cowper? 'Ye fallen avenues, once more I mourn your fate unmerited.'"
He smiled. "I am afraid the avenue stands a bad chance, Fanny."
"I should like to see Sotherton before it is cut down; but I do not suppose I shall."
"Have you never been there? Unluckily, it is too far for a ride. I wish we could contrive it."
"Oh! it does not signify."
"I collect," said Miss Crawford, "that Sotherton is an old place of some grandeur. In any particular style of building?"
"The house was built in Elizabeth's time," said Edmund, "and is a large brick building; heavy, but respectable, with many good rooms. It is ill placed, in one of the lowest spots of the park. But the woods are fine, and there is a stream, which might be made a good deal of. Mr. Rushworth is quite right, I think, in meaning to give it a modern dress, and I have no doubt that it will be done extremely well."
Miss Crawford listened, and said to herself, "He is a well-bred man; he makes the best of it."
"I do not wish to influence Mr. Rushworth," he continued; "but, had I a place to fashion, I should not put myself into the hands of an improver. I would rather have an inferior degree of beauty, of my own choice."
"That would not suit me. I have no eye for such matters; and had I a place of my own, I should be most thankful to any Mr. Repton who would undertake it; and I should never look at it till it was complete."
"It would be delightful to me to see its progress," said Fanny.
"I consider improvements as the greatest of nuisances. Three years ago the Admiral, my honoured uncle, bought a cottage at Twickenham for us to spend our summers in; and my aunt and I went down to it quite in raptures; but being excessively pretty, it had to be improved, and for three months we were all dirt and confusion. I would have everything complete, shrubberies and flower-gardens, and rustic seats: but it must be done without my care. Henry is different; he loves to be doing."
Edmund was sorry to hear Miss Crawford, whom he was disposed to admire, speak so freely of her uncle. It did not suit his sense of propriety, and he was silenced, till induced by further smiles to put the matter by.
"Mr. Bertram," said she, "I have tidings of my harp at last. I am assured that it is safe at Northampton; and has probably been there these ten days, in spite of the solemn assurances we received to the contrary." Edmund expressed his pleasure and surprise. "The truth is, that our inquiries were too direct; but this morning we heard of it in the right way. It was seen by some farmer, and he told the miller, and the miller told the butcher, and the butcher's son-in-law left word at the shop."
"I am very glad that you have heard of it, by whatever means."
"I am to have it to-morrow; but I could hire no wagon in the village to convey it."
"You found it difficult, in the middle of hay harvest, to hire a horse and cart?"
"I was astonished to find what a piece of work was made of it! I thought it would be only ask and have. Guess my surprise, when I found that I had been asking the most unreasonable thing in the world; had offended all the farmers in the parish!"
"You could not be expected to have thought of it; but you must see the importance of getting in the grass. In harvest, it must be quite out of our farmers' power to spare a horse."
"I shall understand all your ways in time; but, coming down with the London maxim, that everything is to be got with money, I was a little embarrassed by the sturdy independence of your country customs. However, I am to have my harp to-morrow. Henry, who is good-nature itself, has offered to fetch it in his barouche."
Edmund spoke of the harp as his favourite instrument, and hoped to be allowed to hear her. Fanny had never heard the harp at all, and wished for it very much.
"I shall be most happy to play to you both," said Miss Crawford; "for as long as you like to listen: probably longer. Mr. Bertram, if you write to your brother, tell him that my harp is come: and that I shall prepare my most plaintive airs for his return, as I know his horse will lose."
"If I write, I will say whatever you wish; but I do not foresee any need to write."
"What strange creatures brothers are! You would not write to each other but upon the most urgent necessity, and in the fewest possible words. You have but one style among you. I know it perfectly. Henry, who is in every other respect exactly what a brother should be, who confides in me, and will talk to me by the hour together, has never yet used a second page in a letter; and often it is nothing more than-'Dear Mary, I am just arrived. Bath seems full, and everything as usual. Yours sincerely.' That is a complete brother's letter."
"When they are far from their family," said Fanny, colouring, "they can write long letters."
"Miss Price has a brother at sea," said Edmund, "whose excellence as a correspondent makes her think you too severe."
"At sea? In the king's service?"
Fanny would rather have had Edmund tell the story, but his determined silence obliged her to relate her brother's situation: her voice was animated, but she could not mention the number of years that he had been absent without tears in her eyes. Miss Crawford civilly wished him an early promotion.
"Do you know anything of my cousin's captain?" said Edmund; "Captain Marshall? You have a large acquaintance in the navy, I conclude?"
"Among admirals, large enough; but," with an air of grandeur, "we know very little of the inferior ranks. Post-captains may be very good sort of men, but they do not belong to us. Of various admirals I could tell you a great deal: of their flags, and their pay, and their bickerings and jealousies. Certainly, my home at my uncle's brought me acquainted with a circle of admirals. Of Rears and Vices I saw enough. Now do not be suspecting me of a pun, I entreat."
Edmund again felt grave, and only replied, "It is a noble profession."
"Yes, it is well enough; but it is not a favourite profession of mine."
Edmund reverted to the harp, and was again very happy in the prospect of hearing her play.
The subject of improving grounds, meanwhile, was still under consideration among the others; and Mrs. Grant addressed her brother.
"My dear Henry, have you nothing to say? You have been an improver yourself, and Everingham's natural beauties are great. Such a happy fall of ground, and such timber! What would I not give to see it again?"
"I fear you would be disappointed;" was his answer; "you would be surprised at its insignificance; and, as for improvement, there was too little for me to do: I should like to have been busy much longer."
"You are fond of that sort of thing?" said Julia.
"Excessively; but I had not been of age three months before Everingham was completed. My plan was laid at Westminster, a little altered at Cambridge, and at one-and-twenty executed. I envy Mr. Rushworth for having so much happiness yet before him. I have been a devourer of my own."
"Those who see quickly, will resolve quickly, and act quickly," said Julia. "You should assist Mr Rushworth with your opinion."
Mrs. Grant agreed warmly; and as Miss Bertram gave the idea her full support, Mr. Rushworth requested the favour of Mr. Crawford's assistance; and Mr. Crawford was quite at his service. Mr. Rushworth then began to propose Mr. Crawford's coming over to Sotherton, when Mrs. Norris interposed.
"Why should not more of us go? Why should not we make a little party? Here are many that would be interested in your improvements, my dear Mr. Rushworth; and, for my own part, I have long wished to wait upon your good mother again; I could sit with Mrs. Rushworth, while the rest of you walked about and settled things, and then we could dine at Sotherton, and have a pleasant drive home by moonlight. I dare say Mr. Crawford would take my two nieces and me in his barouche, and Edmund can go on horseback, you know, sister, and Fanny will stay at home with you."
Lady Bertram made no objection; and every one gave their concurrence, excepting Edmund, who said nothing.


On reaching home Fanny went immediately upstairs to deposit this unexpected acquisition, this doubtful good of a necklace, in some favourite box in the East room, which held all her smaller treasures; but on opening the door, what was her surprise to find her cousin Edmund there writing at the table! Such a sight having never occurred before, was almost as wonderful as it was welcome.
"Fanny," said he directly, leaving his seat and his pen, and meeting her with something in his hand, "I beg your pardon for being here. I came to look for you, and after waiting a little while in hope of your coming in, was making use of your inkstand to explain my errand. You will find the beginning of a note to yourself; but I can now speak my business, which is merely to beg your acceptance of this little trifle-a chain for William's cross. You ought to have had it a week ago, but there has been a delay from my brother's not being in town by several days so soon as I expected; and I have only just now received it at Northampton. I hope you will like the chain itself, Fanny. I endeavoured to consult the simplicity of your taste; but, at any rate, I know you will be kind to my intentions, and consider it, as it really is, a token of the love of one of your oldest friends."
And so saying, he was hurrying away, before Fanny, overpowered by a thousand feelings of pain and pleasure, could attempt to speak; but quickened by one sovereign wish, she then called out, "Oh! cousin, stop a moment, pray stop!"
He turned back.
"I cannot attempt to thank you," she continued, in a very agitated manner; "thanks are out of the question. I feel much more than I can possibly express. Your goodness in thinking of me in such a way is beyond-"
"If that is all you have to say, Fanny" smiling and turning away again.
"No, no, it is not. I want to consult you."
Almost unconsciously she had now undone the parcel he had just put into her hand, and seeing before her, in all the niceness of jewellers' packing, a plain gold chain, perfectly simple and neat, she could not help bursting forth again, "Oh, this is beautiful indeed! This is the very thing, precisely what I wished for! This is the only ornament I have ever had a desire to possess. It will exactly suit my cross. They must and shall be worn together. It comes, too, in such an acceptable moment. Oh, cousin, you do not know how acceptable it is."
"My dear Fanny, you feel these things a great deal too much. I am most happy that you like the chain, and that it should be here in time for to-morrow; but your thanks are far beyond the occasion. Believe me, I have no pleasure in the world superior to that of contributing to yours. No, I can safely say, I have no pleasure so complete, so unalloyed. It is without a drawback."
Upon such expressions of affection Fanny could have lived an hour without saying another word; but Edmund, after waiting a moment, obliged her to bring down her mind from its heavenly flight by saying, "But what is it that you want to consult me about?"
It was about the necklace, which she was now most earnestly longing to return, and hoped to obtain his approbation of her doing. She gave the history of her recent visit, and now her raptures might well be over; for Edmund was so struck with the circumstance, so delighted with what Miss Crawford had done, so gratified by such a coincidence of conduct between them, that Fanny could not but admit the superior power of one pleasure over his own mind, though it might have its drawback. It was some time before she could get his attention to her plan, or any answer to her demand of his opinion: he was in a reverie of fond reflection, uttering only now and then a few half-sentences of praise; but when he did awake and understand, he was very decided in opposing what she wished.
"Return the necklace! No, my dear Fanny, upon no account. It would be mortifying her severely. There can hardly be a more unpleasant sensation than the having anything returned on our hands which we have given with a reasonable hope of its contributing to the comfort of a friend. Why should she lose a pleasure which she has shewn herself so deserving of?"
"If it had been given to me in the first instance," said Fanny, "I should not have thought of returning it; but being her brother's present, is not it fair to suppose that she would rather not part with it, when it is not wanted?"
"She must not suppose it not wanted, not acceptable, at least: and its having been originally her brother's gift makes no difference; for as she was not prevented from offering, nor you from taking it on that account, it ought not to prevent you from keeping it. No doubt it is handsomer than mine, and fitter for a ballroom."
"No, it is not handsomer, not at all handsomer in its way, and, for my purpose, not half so fit. The chain will agree with William's cross beyond all comparison better than the necklace."
"For one night, Fanny, for only one night, if it _be_ a sacrifice; I am sure you will, upon consideration, make that sacrifice rather than give pain to one who has been so studious of your comfort. Miss Crawford's attentions to you have been-not more than you were justly entitled to-I am the last person to think that _could_ _be_, but they have been invariable; and to be returning them with what must have something the _air_ of ingratitude, though I know it could never have the _meaning_, is not in your nature, I am sure. Wear the necklace, as you are engaged to do, to-morrow evening, and let the chain, which was not ordered with any reference to the ball, be kept for commoner occasions. This is my advice. I would not have the shadow of a coolness between the two whose intimacy I have been observing with the greatest pleasure, and in whose characters there is so much general resemblance in true generosity and natural delicacy as to make the few slight differences, resulting principally from situation, no reasonable hindrance to a perfect friendship. I would not have the shadow of a coolness arise," he repeated, his voice sinking a little, "between the two dearest objects I have on earth."
He was gone as he spoke; and Fanny remained to tranquillise herself as she could. She was one of his two dearest-that must support her. But the other: the first! She had never heard him speak so openly before, and though it told her no more than what she had long perceived, it was a stab, for it told of his own convictions and views. They were decided. He would marry Miss Crawford. It was a stab, in spite of every long-standing expectation; and she was obliged to repeat again and again, that she was one of his two dearest, before the words gave her any sensation. Could she believe Miss Crawford to deserve him, it would be-oh, how different would it be-how far more tolerable! But he was deceived in her: he gave her merits which she had not; her faults were what they had ever been, but he saw them no longer. Till she had shed many tears over this deception, Fanny could not subdue her agitation; and the dejection which followed could only be relieved by the influence of fervent prayers for his happiness.
It was her intention, as she felt it to be her duty, to try to overcome all that was excessive, all that bordered on selfishness, in her affection for Edmund. To call or to fancy it a loss, a disappointment, would be a presumption for which she had not words strong enough to satisfy her own humility. To think of him as Miss Crawford might be justified in thinking, would in her be insanity. To her he could be nothing under any circumstances; nothing dearer than a friend. Why did such an idea occur to her even enough to be reprobated and forbidden? It ought not to have touched on the confines of her imagination. She would endeavour to be rational, and to deserve the right of judging of Miss Crawford's character, and the privilege of true solicitude for him by a sound intellect and an honest heart.
She had all the heroism of principle, and was determined to do her duty; but having also many of the feelings of youth and nature, let her not be much wondered at, if, after making all these good resolutions on the side of self-government, she seized the scrap of paper on which Edmund had begun writing to her, as a treasure beyond all her hopes, and reading with the tenderest emotion these words, "My very dear Fanny, you must do me the favour to accept" locked it up with the chain, as the dearest part of the gift. It was the only thing approaching to a letter which she had ever received from him; she might never receive another; it was impossible that she ever should receive another so perfectly gratifying in the occasion and the style. Two lines more prized had never fallen from the pen of the most distinguished author-never more completely blessed the researches of the fondest biographer. The enthusiasm of a woman's love is even beyond the biographer's. To her, the handwriting itself, independent of anything it may convey, is a blessedness. Never were such characters cut by any other human being as Edmund's commonest handwriting gave! This specimen, written in haste as it was, had not a fault; and there was a felicity in the flow of the first four words, in the arrangement of "My very dear Fanny," which she could have looked at for ever.
Having regulated her thoughts and comforted her feelings by this happy mixture of reason and weakness, she was able in due time to go down and resume her usual employments near her aunt Bertram, and pay her the usual observances without any apparent want of spirits.
Thursday, predestined to hope and enjoyment, came; and opened with more kindness to Fanny than such self-willed, unmanageable days often volunteer, for soon after breakfast a very friendly note was brought from Mr. Crawford to William, stating that as he found himself obliged to go to London on the morrow for a few days, he could not help trying to procure a companion; and therefore hoped that if William could make up his mind to leave Mansfield half a day earlier than had been proposed, he would accept a place in his carriage. Mr. Crawford meant to be in town by his uncle's accustomary late dinner-hour, and William was invited to dine with him at the Admiral's. The proposal was a very pleasant one to William himself, who enjoyed the idea of travelling post with four horses, and such a good-humoured, agreeable friend; and, in likening it to going up with despatches, was saying at once everything in favour of its happiness and dignity which his imagination could suggest; and Fanny, from a different motive, was exceedingly pleased; for the original plan was that William should go up by the mail from Northampton the following night, which would not have allowed him an hour's rest before he must have got into a Portsmouth coach; and though this offer of Mr. Crawford's would rob her of many hours of his company, she was too happy in having William spared from the fatigue of such a journey, to think of anything else. Sir Thomas approved of it for another reason. His nephew's introduction to Admiral Crawford might be of service. The Admiral, he believed, had interest. Upon the whole, it was a very joyous note. Fanny's spirits lived on it half the morning, deriving some accession of pleasure from its writer being himself to go away.
As for the ball, so near at hand, she had too many agitations and fears to have half the enjoyment in anticipation which she ought to have had, or must have been supposed to have by the many young ladies looking forward to the same event in situations more at ease, but under circumstances of less novelty, less interest, less peculiar gratification, than would be attributed to her. Miss Price, known only by name to half the people invited, was now to make her first appearance, and must be regarded as the queen of the evening. Who could be happier than Miss Price? But Miss Price had not been brought up to the trade of _coming_ _out_; and had she known in what light this ball was, in general, considered respecting her, it would very much have lessened her comfort by increasing the fears she already had of doing wrong and being looked at. To dance without much observation or any extraordinary fatigue, to have strength and partners for about half the evening, to dance a little with Edmund, and not a great deal with Mr. Crawford, to see William enjoy himself, and be able to keep away from her aunt Norris, was the height of her ambition, and seemed to comprehend her greatest possibility of happiness. As these were the best of her hopes, they could not always prevail; and in the course of a long morning, spent principally with her two aunts, she was often under the influence of much less sanguine views. William, determined to make this last day a day of thorough enjoyment, was out snipe-shooting; Edmund, she had too much reason to suppose, was at the Parsonage; and left alone to bear the worrying of Mrs. Norris, who was cross because the housekeeper would have her own way with the supper, and whom _she_ could not avoid though the housekeeper might, Fanny was worn down at last to think everything an evil belonging to the ball, and when sent off with a parting worry to dress, moved as languidly towards her own room, and felt as incapable of happiness as if she had been allowed no share in it.
As she walked slowly upstairs she thought of yesterday; it had been about the same hour that she had returned from the Parsonage, and found Edmund in the East room. "Suppose I were to find him there again to-day!" said she to herself, in a fond indulgence of fancy.
"Fanny," said a voice at that moment near her. Starting and looking up, she saw, across the lobby she had just reached, Edmund himself, standing at the head of a different staircase. He came towards her. "You look tired and fagged, Fanny. You have been walking too far."
"No, I have not been out at all."
"Then you have had fatigues within doors, which are worse. You had better have gone out."
Fanny, not liking to complain, found it easiest to make no answer; and though he looked at her with his usual kindness, she believed he had soon ceased to think of her countenance. He did not appear in spirits: something unconnected with her was probably amiss. They proceeded upstairs together, their rooms being on the same floor above.
"I come from Dr. Grant's," said Edmund presently. "You may guess my errand there, Fanny." And he looked so conscious, that Fanny could think but of one errand, which turned her too sick for speech. "I wished to engage Miss Crawford for the two first dances," was the explanation that followed, and brought Fanny to life again, enabling her, as she found she was expected to speak, to utter something like an inquiry as to the result.
"Yes," he answered, "she is engaged to me; but" (with a smile that did not sit easy) "she says it is to be the last time that she ever will dance with me. She is not serious. I think, I hope, I am sure she is not serious; but I would rather not hear it. She never has danced with a clergyman, she says, and she never _will_. For my own sake, I could wish there had been no ball just at-I mean not this very week, this very day; to-morrow I leave home."
Fanny struggled for speech, and said, "I am very sorry that anything has occurred to distress you. This ought to be a day of pleasure. My uncle meant it so."
"Oh yes, yes! and it will be a day of pleasure. It will all end right. I am only vexed for a moment. In fact, it is not that I consider the ball as ill-timed; what does it signify? But, Fanny," stopping her, by taking her hand, and speaking low and seriously, "you know what all this means. You see how it is; and could tell me, perhaps better than I could tell you, how and why I am vexed. Let me talk to you a little. You are a kind, kind listener. I have been pained by her manner this morning, and cannot get the better of it. I know her disposition to be as sweet and faultless as your own, but the influence of her former companions makes her seem-gives to her conversation, to her professed opinions, sometimes a tinge of wrong. She does not _think_ evil, but she speaks it, speaks it in playfulness; and though I know it to be playfulness, it grieves me to the soul."
"The effect of education," said Fanny gently.
Edmund could not but agree to it. "Yes, that uncle and aunt! They have injured the finest mind; for sometimes, Fanny, I own to you, it does appear more than manner: it appears as if the mind itself was tainted."
Fanny imagined this to be an appeal to her judgment, and therefore, after a moment's consideration, said, "If you only want me as a listener, cousin, I will be as useful as I can; but I am not qualified for an adviser. Do not ask advice of _me_. I am not competent."
"You are right, Fanny, to protest against such an office, but you need not be afraid. It is a subject on which I should never ask advice; it is the sort of subject on which it had better never be asked; and few, I imagine, do ask it, but when they want to be influenced against their conscience. I only want to talk to you."
"One thing more. Excuse the liberty; but take care _how_ you talk to me. Do not tell me anything now, which hereafter you may be sorry for. The time may come-"
The colour rushed into her cheeks as she spoke.
"Dearest Fanny!" cried Edmund, pressing her hand to his lips with almost as much warmth as if it had been Miss Crawford's, "you are all considerate thought! But it is unnecessary here. The time will never come. No such time as you allude to will ever come. I begin to think it most improbable: the chances grow less and less; and even if it should, there will be nothing to be remembered by either you or me that we need be afraid of, for I can never be ashamed of my own scruples; and if they are removed, it must be by changes that will only raise her character the more by the recollection of the faults she once had. You are the only being upon earth to whom I should say what I have said; but you have always known my opinion of her; you can bear me witness, Fanny, that I have never been blinded. How many a time have we talked over her little errors! You need not fear me; I have almost given up every serious idea of her; but I must be a blockhead indeed, if, whatever befell me, I could think of your kindness and sympathy without the sincerest gratitude."
He had said enough to shake the experience of eighteen. He had said enough to give Fanny some happier feelings than she had lately known, and with a brighter look, she answered, "Yes, cousin, I am convinced that _you_ would be incapable of anything else, though perhaps some might not. I cannot be afraid of hearing anything you wish to say. Do not check yourself. Tell me whatever you like."
They were now on the second floor, and the appearance of a housemaid prevented any farther conversation. For Fanny's present comfort it was concluded, perhaps, at the happiest moment: had he been able to talk another five minutes, there is no saying that he might not have talked away all Miss Crawford's faults and his own despondence. But as it was, they parted with looks on his side of grateful affection, and with some very precious sensations on hers. She had felt nothing like it for hours. Since the first joy from Mr. Crawford's note to William had worn away, she had been in a state absolutely the reverse; there had been no comfort around, no hope within her. Now everything was smiling. William's good fortune returned again upon her mind, and seemed of greater value than at first. The ball, too-such an evening of pleasure before her! It was now a real animation; and she began to dress for it with much of the happy flutter which belongs to a ball. All went well: she did not dislike her own looks; and when she came to the necklaces again, her good fortune seemed complete, for upon trial the one given her by Miss Crawford would by no means go through the ring of the cross. She had, to oblige Edmund, resolved to wear it; but it was too large for the purpose. His, therefore, must be worn; and having, with delightful feelings, joined the chain and the cross-those memorials of the two most beloved of her heart, those dearest tokens so formed for each other by everything real and imaginary-and put them round her neck, and seen and felt how full of William and Edmund they were, she was able, without an effort, to resolve on wearing Miss Crawford's necklace too. She acknowledged it to be right. Miss Crawford had a claim; and when it was no longer to encroach on, to interfere with the stronger claims, the truer kindness of another, she could do her justice even with pleasure to herself. The necklace really looked very well; and Fanny left her room at last, comfortably satisfied with herself and all about her.
Her aunt Bertram had recollected her on this occasion with an unusual degree of wakefulness. It had really occurred to her, unprompted, that Fanny, preparing for a ball, might be glad of better help than the upper housemaid's, and when dressed herself, she actually sent her own maid to assist her; too late, of course, to be of any use. Mrs. Chapman had just reached the attic floor, when Miss Price came out of her room completely dressed, and only civilities were necessary; but Fanny felt her aunt's attention almost as much as Lady Bertram or Mrs. Chapman could do themselves.

On reaching home Fanny went upstairs to deposit this doubtful good of a necklace in a box in the East room, which held all her smaller treasures; but what was her surprise to find her cousin Edmund there, writing at the table! Such a sight was almost as astonishing as it was welcome.
"Fanny," said he, leaving his seat, and meeting her with something in his hand, "I beg your pardon. I came to look for you, and was writing to explain my errand. You will find the beginning of a note to yourself; but I can now speak my business, which is merely to beg your acceptance of this trifle-a chain for William's cross. I hope you will like it, Fanny. I tried to consult the simplicity of your taste; but I know you will be kind, and consider it, as it really is, a token of the love of one of your oldest friends."
And so saying, he was hurrying away, before Fanny, overpowered by a thousand feelings of pain and pleasure, could speak; but, she then called out, "Oh! cousin, stop a moment, pray stop!"
He turned back.
"I cannot attempt to thank you," she continued, very agitated; "I feel much more than I can possibly express. Your goodness in thinking of me-"
"If that is all you have to say, Fanny," smiling and turning away again.
"No, no. I want to consult you."
She had now undone the parcel he had given her, and seeing a plain gold chain, perfectly simple and neat, she burst forth, "Oh, this is beautiful indeed! This is precisely what I wished for! It will exactly suit my cross. It comes, too, at such an acceptable moment. Oh, cousin, you do not know how acceptable it is."
"My dear Fanny, you feel these things a great deal too much. I am most happy that you like the chain; but your thanks are far beyond the occasion. Believe me, I have no pleasure in the world greater than that of contributing to yours. I can safely say, I have no pleasure so complete, so unalloyed. It is without a drawback."
Upon such expressions of affection Fanny could have lived an hour without saying another word; but Edmund obliged her to bring down her mind from its heavenly flight by saying, "But what is it that you want to consult me about?"
It was about the necklace, which she was now longing to return. She gave the history of her recent visit, and now her raptures might well be over; for Edmund was so delighted with what Miss Crawford had done, that it was some time before Fanny could get him to attend to her plan: he was in a reverie of fond reflection, but when he did understand, he was very decided in opposing what she wished.
"Return the necklace! No, my dear Fanny, upon no account. It would mortify her."
"But being her brother's present, is not it fair to suppose that she would rather not part with it?"
"It makes no difference; for as she was not prevented from offering it on that account, it ought not to prevent you from keeping it. No doubt it is handsomer than my chain, and fitter for a ballroom."
"No, it is not handsomer at all, and not half so fit. The chain will agree with William's cross beyond all comparison better than the necklace."
"For one night only, Fanny, I am sure you will make the sacrifice rather than give pain to one who has been kind. Wear the necklace to-morrow evening, and let the chain be kept for commoner occasions. This is my advice. I would not have the shadow of a coolness between the two whose intimacy I have been observing with the greatest pleasure, and in whose characters there is so much resemblance in true generosity and natural delicacy. I would not have the shadow of a coolness arise," he repeated, his voice sinking a little, "between the two dearest objects I have on earth."
He was gone as he spoke; and Fanny calmed herself as well as she could. She was one of his two dearest-that must support her. But the first! She had never heard him speak so openly before, and though it told her no more than what she had long perceived, it was a stab, for it told of his own views. They were decided.
He would marry Miss Crawford. Could she believe Miss Crawford to deserve him, how different would it be-how far more tolerable! But he was deceived in her: he gave her merits which she had not; her faults were what they had always been, but he saw them no longer. Fanny's dejection could only be relieved by fervent prayers for his happiness.
It was her duty, and her intention, to try to overcome all that was excessive in her affection for Edmund. To fancy it a loss, a disappointment, was a presumption for which she had not words strong enough. To think of him as Miss Crawford might be justified in thinking, would in her be insanity. To her he could be nothing dearer than a friend. Why did such an idea even occur to her? It ought never to have entered her imagination. She would endeavour to be rational.
She was determined to do her duty; but having also the feelings of youth and nature, let her not be wondered at, if, after making all these good resolutions, she seized the scrap of paper on which Edmund had begun writing, as a treasure. Reading with the tenderest emotion these words, "My very dear Fanny, you must do me the favour to accept", she locked it up with the chain, as the dearest part of the gift. It was the only thing approaching to a letter which she had ever received from him; she might never receive another. Two lines more prized had never fallen from the pen of the most distinguished author. There was a felicity in the flow of the first four words, in the arrangement of "My very dear Fanny," which she could have looked at for ever.
Having regulated her thoughts and comforted her feelings by this happy mixture of reason and weakness, she was able to go down to her aunt Bertram without any apparent want of spirits.
Thursday, the day of enjoyment, came; and opened with more kindness to Fanny than such self-willed, unmanageable days often volunteer, for after breakfast a very friendly note was brought from Mr. Crawford to William, stating that as he found himself obliged to go to London for a few days, he hoped that William would accept a place in his carriage, and dine with him at the Admiral's. The proposal was a very pleasant one to William, who enjoyed the idea of travelling post with four horses, and with such an agreeable friend.
Fanny, from a different motive, was pleased; for the original plan was that William should go up by the mail, which would not have allowed him an hour's rest; and though Mr. Crawford's offer would rob her of hours of his company, she was happy to have William spared the fatigue of such a journey.
Sir Thomas approved for another reason. His nephew's introduction to Admiral Crawford might be of service. Upon the whole, it was a very joyous note.
As for the ball, Fanny had too many fears to have half the enjoyment in anticipation which she ought to have had, or must have been supposed to have by the many young ladies looking forward to the same event. Miss Price was now to make her first appearance, and must be regarded as the queen of the evening. Who could be happier than Miss Price?
But Miss Price had not been brought up to the trade of coming out into society; and had she known in what light this ball was considered respecting her, it would very much have lessened her comfort by increasing her fears of doing wrong and being looked at. To dance without being observed, to have strength and partners for about half the evening, to dance a little with Edmund, and not a great deal with Mr. Crawford, to see William enjoy himself, and keep away from her aunt Norris, was the height of her ambition.
William, determined to make this a day of thorough enjoyment, went out snipe-shooting; Edmund was at the Parsonage; and Fanny, left alone to bear the worrying of Mrs. Norris, was worn down at last to think everything an evil belonging to the ball. When sent off to dress, she moved languidly and felt incapable of happiness.
As she walked slowly upstairs she thought of yesterday; at about the same hour she had returned from the Parsonage, and found Edmund in the East room. "Suppose I were to find him there again to-day!" said she to herself, in a fond indulgence of fancy.
"Fanny," said a voice at that moment. Starting and looking up, she saw, across the lobby, Edmund himself. He came towards her. "You look tired and fagged, Fanny. You have been walking too far."
"No, I have not been out."
"Then you have had fatigues within doors, which are worse."
Fanny, not liking to complain, made no answer; and though he looked at her with his usual kindness, she believed he had soon ceased to think of her. He did not appear in spirits. They proceeded upstairs together.
"I come from Dr. Grant's," said Edmund presently. "You may guess my errand there, Fanny." And he looked so conscious, that Fanny could think but of one errand, which turned her too sick for speech. "I wished to engage Miss Crawford for the two first dances," was the explanation that followed, and brought Fanny to life again, enabling her to utter something like an inquiry as to the result.
"Yes," he answered, "she is engaged to dance with me; but" (with a smile that did not sit easy) "she says it is the last time that she ever will. I think, I hope, she is not serious. She never has danced with a clergyman, she says, and she never will. For my own sake, I could wish there had been no ball just at-I mean not this very day; to-morrow I leave home."
Fanny struggled for speech, and said, "I am very sorry that anything has occurred to distress you. This ought to be a day of pleasure. My uncle meant it so."
"Oh yes, yes! and it will be a day of pleasure. I am only vexed for a moment. But, Fanny," stopping her, taking her hand, and speaking low and seriously, "you know what all this means. You could tell me, perhaps better than I could tell you, how and why I am vexed. Let me talk to you a little. You are a kind, kind listener. I have been pained by her manner this morning. I know her disposition to be as sweet and faultless as your own, but the influence of her former companions makes her seem-gives to her conversation sometimes a tinge of wrong. She does not think evil, but she speaks it in playfulness; and though I know it to be playfulness, it grieves me to the soul."
"The effect of education," said Fanny gently.
"Yes, that uncle and aunt! They have injured the finest mind; for sometimes, Fanny, I own to you, it appears as if the mind itself was tainted."
Fanny, after a moment, said, "If you only want me as a listener, cousin, I will be as useful as I can; but I am not qualified for an adviser."
"You need not be afraid. Fanny. It is a subject on which I should never ask advice. I only want to talk to you."
"One thing more. Excuse the liberty; but take care how you talk to me. Do not tell me anything now, which afterwards you may be sorry for. The time may come-"
The colour rushed into her cheeks as she spoke.
"Dearest Fanny!" cried Edmund, pressing her hand to his lips with almost as much warmth as if it had been Miss Crawford's, "you are all considerate thought! But it is unnecessary. The time will never come. I begin to think it most improbable: the chances grow less and less; and even if it should, there will be nothing to be remembered that we need be afraid of, for I can never be ashamed of my own scruples. You are the only being upon earth to whom I should say what I have said; but you have always known my opinion of her; you can bear me witness, Fanny, that I have never been blinded. How many a time have we talked over her little errors! You need not fear me; I have almost given up every serious idea of her; but I must be a blockhead indeed, if I could think of your kindness and sympathy without the sincerest gratitude."
He had said enough to shake the experience of eighteen. He had said enough to give Fanny some happier feelings than she had lately known, and with a brighter look, she answered, "I cannot be afraid of hearing anything you wish to say. Tell me whatever you like."
The appearance of a housemaid prevented any farther conversation. For Fanny's comfort it was concluded, perhaps, at the happiest moment: had he been able to talk another five minutes, he might have talked away all Miss Crawford's faults.
But as it was, they parted on his side with grateful affection, and with some very precious sensations on hers. Now everything was smiling. William's good fortune returned again to her mind. The ball, too-such an evening of pleasure before her! It was now a real animation; and she began to dress for it with the happy flutter which belongs to a ball.
All went well: she did not dislike her own looks; and when she came to the necklaces again, her good fortune seemed complete, for the one given her by Miss Crawford would not go through the ring of the cross. Edmund's therefore, must be worn; and having, with delightful feelings, joined the chain and the cross-those memorials of the two most beloved of her heart-and put them round her neck, she was able to resolve on wearing Miss Crawford's necklace too. She acknowledged it to be right. The necklace really looked very well; and Fanny left her room at last, comfortably satisfied.
Her aunt Bertram had recollected her on this occasion with an unusual degree of wakefulness. It had occurred to her, unprompted, that Fanny might be glad of better help than the upper housemaid's, and she actually sent her own maid to assist her; too late, of course, to be of any use. Mrs. Chapman had just reached the attic floor, when Miss Price came out of her room completely dressed; but Fanny felt her aunt's attention almost as much as Lady Bertram or Mrs. Chapman could do themselves.


Mr. Crawford gone, Sir Thomas's next object was that he should be missed; and he entertained great hope that his niece would find a blank in the loss of those attentions which at the time she had felt, or fancied, an evil. She had tasted of consequence in its most flattering form; and he did hope that the loss of it, the sinking again into nothing, would awaken very wholesome regrets in her mind. He watched her with this idea; but he could hardly tell with what success. He hardly knew whether there were any difference in her spirits or not. She was always so gentle and retiring that her emotions were beyond his discrimination. He did not understand her: he felt that he did not; and therefore applied to Edmund to tell him how she stood affected on the present occasion, and whether she were more or less happy than she had been.
Edmund did not discern any symptoms of regret, and thought his father a little unreasonable in supposing the first three or four days could produce any.
What chiefly surprised Edmund was, that Crawford's sister, the friend and companion who had been so much to her, should not be more visibly regretted. He wondered that Fanny spoke so seldom of _her_, and had so little voluntarily to say of her concern at this separation.
Alas! it was this sister, this friend and companion, who was now the chief bane of Fanny's comfort. If she could have believed Mary's future fate as unconnected with Mansfield as she was determined the brother's should be, if she could have hoped her return thither to be as distant as she was much inclined to think his, she would have been light of heart indeed; but the more she recollected and observed, the more deeply was she convinced that everything was now in a fairer train for Miss Crawford's marrying Edmund than it had ever been before. On his side the inclination was stronger, on hers less equivocal. His objections, the scruples of his integrity, seemed all done away, nobody could tell how; and the doubts and hesitations of her ambition were equally got over-and equally without apparent reason. It could only be imputed to increasing attachment. His good and her bad feelings yielded to love, and such love must unite them. He was to go to town as soon as some business relative to Thornton Lacey were completed-perhaps within a fortnight; he talked of going, he loved to talk of it; and when once with her again, Fanny could not doubt the rest. Her acceptance must be as certain as his offer; and yet there were bad feelings still remaining which made the prospect of it most sorrowful to her, independently, she believed, independently of self.
In their very last conversation, Miss Crawford, in spite of some amiable sensations, and much personal kindness, had still been Miss Crawford; still shewn a mind led astray and bewildered, and without any suspicion of being so; darkened, yet fancying itself light. She might love, but she did not deserve Edmund by any other sentiment. Fanny believed there was scarcely a second feeling in common between them; and she may be forgiven by older sages for looking on the chance of Miss Crawford's future improvement as nearly desperate, for thinking that if Edmund's influence in this season of love had already done so little in clearing her judgment, and regulating her notions, his worth would be finally wasted on her even in years of matrimony.
Experience might have hoped more for any young people so circumstanced, and impartiality would not have denied to Miss Crawford's nature that participation of the general nature of women which would lead her to adopt the opinions of the man she loved and respected as her own. But as such were Fanny's persuasions, she suffered very much from them, and could never speak of Miss Crawford without pain.
Sir Thomas, meanwhile, went on with his own hopes and his own observations, still feeling a right, by all his knowledge of human nature, to expect to see the effect of the loss of power and consequence on his niece's spirits, and the past attentions of the lover producing a craving for their return; and he was soon afterwards able to account for his not yet completely and indubitably seeing all this, by the prospect of another visitor, whose approach he could allow to be quite enough to support the spirits he was watching. William had obtained a ten days' leave of absence, to be given to Northamptonshire, and was coming, the happiest of lieutenants, because the latest made, to shew his happiness and describe his uniform.
He came; and he would have been delighted to shew his uniform there too, had not cruel custom prohibited its appearance except on duty. So the uniform remained at Portsmouth, and Edmund conjectured that before Fanny had any chance of seeing it, all its own freshness and all the freshness of its wearer's feelings must be worn away. It would be sunk into a badge of disgrace; for what can be more unbecoming, or more worthless, than the uniform of a lieutenant, who has been a lieutenant a year or two, and sees others made commanders before him? So reasoned Edmund, till his father made him the confidant of a scheme which placed Fanny's chance of seeing the second lieutenant of H.M.S. Thrush in all his glory in another light.
This scheme was that she should accompany her brother back to Portsmouth, and spend a little time with her own family. It had occurred to Sir Thomas, in one of his dignified musings, as a right and desirable measure; but before he absolutely made up his mind, he consulted his son. Edmund considered it every way, and saw nothing but what was right. The thing was good in itself, and could not be done at a better time; and he had no doubt of it being highly agreeable to Fanny. This was enough to determine Sir Thomas; and a decisive "then so it shall be" closed that stage of the business; Sir Thomas retiring from it with some feelings of satisfaction, and views of good over and above what he had communicated to his son; for his prime motive in sending her away had very little to do with the propriety of her seeing her parents again, and nothing at all with any idea of making her happy. He certainly wished her to go willingly, but he as certainly wished her to be heartily sick of home before her visit ended; and that a little abstinence from the elegancies and luxuries of Mansfield Park would bring her mind into a sober state, and incline her to a juster estimate of the value of that home of greater permanence, and equal comfort, of which she had the offer.
It was a medicinal project upon his niece's understanding, which he must consider as at present diseased. A residence of eight or nine years in the abode of wealth and plenty had a little disordered her powers of comparing and judging. Her father's house would, in all probability, teach her the value of a good income; and he trusted that she would be the wiser and happier woman, all her life, for the experiment he had devised.
Had Fanny been at all addicted to raptures, she must have had a strong attack of them when she first understood what was intended, when her uncle first made her the offer of visiting the parents, and brothers, and sisters, from whom she had been divided almost half her life; of returning for a couple of months to the scenes of her infancy, with William for the protector and companion of her journey, and the certainty of continuing to see William to the last hour of his remaining on land. Had she ever given way to bursts of delight, it must have been then, for she was delighted, but her happiness was of a quiet, deep, heart-swelling sort; and though never a great talker, she was always more inclined to silence when feeling most strongly. At the moment she could only thank and accept. Afterwards, when familiarised with the visions of enjoyment so suddenly opened, she could speak more largely to William and Edmund of what she felt; but still there were emotions of tenderness that could not be clothed in words. The remembrance of all her earliest pleasures, and of what she had suffered in being torn from them, came over her with renewed strength, and it seemed as if to be at home again would heal every pain that had since grown out of the separation. To be in the centre of such a circle, loved by so many, and more loved by all than she had ever been before; to feel affection without fear or restraint; to feel herself the equal of those who surrounded her; to be at peace from all mention of the Crawfords, safe from every look which could be fancied a reproach on their account. This was a prospect to be dwelt on with a fondness that could be but half acknowledged.
Edmund, too-to be two months from _him_ (and perhaps she might be allowed to make her absence three) must do her good. At a distance, unassailed by his looks or his kindness, and safe from the perpetual irritation of knowing his heart, and striving to avoid his confidence, she should be able to reason herself into a properer state; she should be able to think of him as in London, and arranging everything there, without wretchedness. What might have been hard to bear at Mansfield was to become a slight evil at Portsmouth.
The only drawback was the doubt of her aunt Bertram's being comfortable without her. She was of use to no one else; but _there_ she might be missed to a degree that she did not like to think of; and that part of the arrangement was, indeed, the hardest for Sir Thomas to accomplish, and what only _he_ could have accomplished at all.
But he was master at Mansfield Park. When he had really resolved on any measure, he could always carry it through; and now by dint of long talking on the subject, explaining and dwelling on the duty of Fanny's sometimes seeing her family, he did induce his wife to let her go; obtaining it rather from submission, however, than conviction, for Lady Bertram was convinced of very little more than that Sir Thomas thought Fanny ought to go, and therefore that she must. In the calmness of her own dressing-room, in the impartial flow of her own meditations, unbiassed by his bewildering statements, she could not acknowledge any necessity for Fanny's ever going near a father and mother who had done without her so long, while she was so useful to herself. And as to the not missing her, which under Mrs. Norris's discussion was the point attempted to be proved, she set herself very steadily against admitting any such thing.
Sir Thomas had appealed to her reason, conscience, and dignity. He called it a sacrifice, and demanded it of her goodness and self-command as such. But Mrs. Norris wanted to persuade her that Fanny could be very well spared-_she_ being ready to give up all her own time to her as requested-and, in short, could not really be wanted or missed.
"That may be, sister," was all Lady Bertram's reply. "I dare say you are very right; but I am sure I shall miss her very much."
The next step was to communicate with Portsmouth. Fanny wrote to offer herself; and her mother's answer, though short, was so kind-a few simple lines expressed so natural and motherly a joy in the prospect of seeing her child again, as to confirm all the daughter's views of happiness in being with her-convincing her that she should now find a warm and affectionate friend in the "mama" who had certainly shewn no remarkable fondness for her formerly; but this she could easily suppose to have been her own fault or her own fancy. She had probably alienated love by the helplessness and fretfulness of a fearful temper, or been unreasonable in wanting a larger share than any one among so many could deserve. Now, when she knew better how to be useful, and how to forbear, and when her mother could be no longer occupied by the incessant demands of a house full of little children, there would be leisure and inclination for every comfort, and they should soon be what mother and daughter ought to be to each other.
William was almost as happy in the plan as his sister. It would be the greatest pleasure to him to have her there to the last moment before he sailed, and perhaps find her there still when he came in from his first cruise. And besides, he wanted her so very much to see the Thrush before she went out of harbour-the Thrush was certainly the finest sloop in the service-and there were several improvements in the dockyard, too, which he quite longed to shew her.
He did not scruple to add that her being at home for a while would be a great advantage to everybody.
"I do not know how it is," said he; "but we seem to want some of your nice ways and orderliness at my father's. The house is always in confusion. You will set things going in a better way, I am sure. You will tell my mother how it all ought to be, and you will be so useful to Susan, and you will teach Betsey, and make the boys love and mind you. How right and comfortable it will all be!"
By the time Mrs. Price's answer arrived, there remained but a very few days more to be spent at Mansfield; and for part of one of those days the young travellers were in a good deal of alarm on the subject of their journey, for when the mode of it came to be talked of, and Mrs. Norris found that all her anxiety to save her brother-in-law's money was vain, and that in spite of her wishes and hints for a less expensive conveyance of Fanny, they were to travel post; when she saw Sir Thomas actually give William notes for the purpose, she was struck with the idea of there being room for a third in the carriage, and suddenly seized with a strong inclination to go with them, to go and see her poor dear sister Price. She proclaimed her thoughts. She must say that she had more than half a mind to go with the young people; it would be such an indulgence to her; she had not seen her poor dear sister Price for more than twenty years; and it would be a help to the young people in their journey to have her older head to manage for them; and she could not help thinking her poor dear sister Price would feel it very unkind of her not to come by such an opportunity.
William and Fanny were horror-struck at the idea.
All the comfort of their comfortable journey would be destroyed at once. With woeful countenances they looked at each other. Their suspense lasted an hour or two. No one interfered to encourage or dissuade. Mrs. Norris was left to settle the matter by herself; and it ended, to the infinite joy of her nephew and niece, in the recollection that she could not possibly be spared from Mansfield Park at present; that she was a great deal too necessary to Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram for her to be able to answer it to herself to leave them even for a week, and therefore must certainly sacrifice every other pleasure to that of being useful to them.
It had, in fact, occurred to her, that though taken to Portsmouth for nothing, it would be hardly possible for her to avoid paying her own expenses back again. So her poor dear sister Price was left to all the disappointment of her missing such an opportunity, and another twenty years' absence, perhaps, begun.
Edmund's plans were affected by this Portsmouth journey, this absence of Fanny's. He too had a sacrifice to make to Mansfield Park as well as his aunt. He had intended, about this time, to be going to London; but he could not leave his father and mother just when everybody else of most importance to their comfort was leaving them; and with an effort, felt but not boasted of, he delayed for a week or two longer a journey which he was looking forward to with the hope of its fixing his happiness for ever.
He told Fanny of it. She knew so much already, that she must know everything. It made the substance of one other confidential discourse about Miss Crawford; and Fanny was the more affected from feeling it to be the last time in which Miss Crawford's name would ever be mentioned between them with any remains of liberty. Once afterwards she was alluded to by him. Lady Bertram had been telling her niece in the evening to write to her soon and often, and promising to be a good correspondent herself; and Edmund, at a convenient moment, then added in a whisper, "And _I_ shall write to you, Fanny, when I have anything worth writing about, anything to say that I think you will like to hear, and that you will not hear so soon from any other quarter." Had she doubted his meaning while she listened, the glow in his face, when she looked up at him, would have been decisive.
For this letter she must try to arm herself. That a letter from Edmund should be a subject of terror! She began to feel that she had not yet gone through all the changes of opinion and sentiment which the progress of time and variation of circumstances occasion in this world of changes. The vicissitudes of the human mind had not yet been exhausted by her.
Poor Fanny! though going as she did willingly and eagerly, the last evening at Mansfield Park must still be wretchedness. Her heart was completely sad at parting. She had tears for every room in the house, much more for every beloved inhabitant. She clung to her aunt, because she would miss her; she kissed the hand of her uncle with struggling sobs, because she had displeased him; and as for Edmund, she could neither speak, nor look, nor think, when the last moment came with _him_; and it was not till it was over that she knew he was giving her the affectionate farewell of a brother.
All this passed overnight, for the journey was to begin very early in the morning; and when the small, diminished party met at breakfast, William and Fanny were talked of as already advanced one stage.

Mr. Crawford gone, Sir Thomas's next object was that he should be missed; and he hoped that his niece would find a blank in the loss of his attentions, and that her sinking again into nothing would awaken wholesome regrets in her mind. He watched her with this idea; but he could hardly tell with what success. She was always so gentle and retiring that her emotions were beyond him. He did not understand her: and therefore applied to Edmund to tell him whether she were more or less happy than she had been.
Edmund did not see any symptoms of regret. What chiefly surprised him was that Crawford's sister, the friend who had been so much to her, should not be missed more. He wondered that Fanny spoke so seldom of her.
Alas! it was this sister, this friend, who was now the chief bane of Fanny's comfort. If she could have believed Mary's future fate unconnected with Mansfield, she would have been light of heart indeed; but the more she observed, the more deeply was she convinced that everything was now in a fair train for Miss Crawford's marrying Edmund. His objections, his scruples, seemed all done away, nobody could tell how; and his doubts about her ambition were equally got over-and equally without apparent reason. It could only be through increasing attachment. His good and her bad feelings yielded to love, and such love must unite them.
He was to go to town within a fortnight; he loved to talk of going; and when once with her again, Fanny could not doubt the rest. Her acceptance must be as certain as his offer; and yet the prospect of it was most sorrowful to her, independently of self.
In their last conversation, Miss Crawford, in spite of much personal kindness, had still been Miss Crawford; still shown a mind led astray and bewildered, and without any suspicion of being so; darkened, yet fancying itself light. She might love, but she did not deserve Edmund by any other sentiment. Fanny believed there was scarcely a second feeling in common between them; and felt that if Edmund's influence had already done so little in regulating her notions, his worth would be finally wasted on her even in years of matrimony. As Fanny was convinced of this, she suffered very much, and could never speak of Miss Crawford without pain.
Sir Thomas, meanwhile, still expected to see the effect of the loss of consequence on his niece's spirits. He was soon able to account for his not yet observing this, by the approach of another visitor to lift Fanny's spirits. William had obtained a ten days' leave of absence, and was coming, the happiest of lieutenants, to show his happiness and describe his uniform.
He came; and he would have been delighted to show his uniform too, had not cruel custom prohibited its appearance except on duty. So the uniform remained at Portsmouth, and Edmund thought that Fanny would not have any chance of viewing it, before its freshness was worn away; until Sir Thomas formed a scheme which meant Fanny could see the second lieutenant of HMS Thrush in all his glory.
This scheme was that she should accompany her brother back to Portsmouth, and spend some time with her own family. Sir Thomas consulted his son, who thought it would be highly agreeable to Fanny; but Sir Thomas had another motive in sending her away, which had nothing at all to do with any idea of making her happy. He certainly wished her to go willingly, but he as certainly wished her to be heartily sick of home before her visit ended; and hoped a little abstinence from the luxuries of Mansfield Park would sober her mind, and help her to better appreciate Henry Crawford's offer.
It was a medicinal project, for he considered that his niece's understanding must at present be diseased. A residence of eight or nine years amidst wealth and plenty had disordered her powers of judging. Her father's house would teach her the value of a good income; and he trusted that she would be the wiser and happier woman all her life, for the experiment he had devised.
Had Fanny been at all addicted to raptures, she must have had a strong attack of them when her uncle first made her the offer of visiting the parents, brothers, and sisters, from whom she had been divided almost half her life; of returning to them with William as companion, and continuing to see William while he remained on land. She was indeed delighted, but her happiness was of a quiet, deep, heart-swelling sort. At the moment she could only thank and accept.
Afterwards, she could speak to William and Edmund of what she felt; but still there were tender emotions that could not be clothed in words. The remembrance of all her earliest pleasures, and of what she had suffered in being torn from them, came over her with renewed strength, and it seemed as if to be at home again would heal every pain that had grown out of the separation. To be in the centre of such a circle, loved by so many; to feel affection without restraint; to feel herself the equal of those who surrounded her; to be at peace from all mention of the Crawfords. This was a prospect to be dwelt on with fondness.
Edmund, too-to be two months from him must do her good. At a distance, unassailed by his looks or his kindness, she should be able to reason herself into a more proper state; she should be able to think of him as in London, and arranging everything there, without wretchedness. What might have been hard to bear at Mansfield was to become a slight evil at Portsmouth.
The only drawback was the doubt of her aunt Bertram's being comfortable without her. That part of the arrangement was, indeed, the hardest for Sir Thomas to accomplish.
But he was master at Mansfield Park. When he had really resolved on any measure, he could always carry it through; and now by dwelling on the duty of Fanny's sometimes seeing her family, he did induce his wife to let her go.
The next step was to communicate with Portsmouth. Fanny wrote to offer herself; and her mother's answer, though short, was so kind as to confirm all the daughter's views of happiness in being with her-convincing her that she should now find a warm friend in the "mama" who had certainly shown no remarkable fondness for her formerly; but this she could easily suppose to have been her own fault. She had probably alienated love by fretfulness, or been unreasonable in wanting a larger share than one among so many could deserve. Now, when she knew better how to be useful, and when her mother could be no longer occupied by the incessant demands of a house full of little children, there would be leisure for every comfort, and they should soon be what mother and daughter ought to be to each other.
William was almost as happy in the plan as his sister. It would be the greatest pleasure to have her there to the last moment before he sailed, and perhaps find her there still when he came in from his first cruise. And besides, he wanted her so very much to see the Thrush before she went out of harbour-the Thrush was certainly the finest sloop in the service-and the dockyard, too, which he quite longed to show her. In addition, her being at home for a while would be a great advantage to everybody.
"I do not know how it is," said he; "but we seem to want some of your orderliness at my father's. The house is always in confusion. You will set things going in a better way, I am sure. How right and comfortable it will all be!"
For a few hours the young travellers were in a good deal of alarm about their journey: Mrs. Norris found that in spite of her hints for a less expensive conveyance of Fanny, they were to travel post; and when she saw Sir Thomas give William money for the purpose, she was struck with the idea of there being room for a third in the carriage, and suddenly seized with a strong inclination to go with them to see her poor dear sister Price. She proclaimed her thoughts.
William and Fanny were horror-struck at the idea. All their comfort would be destroyed. With woeful countenances they looked at each other. Mrs. Norris was left to settle the matter by herself; and it ended, to the infinite joy of her nephew and niece, in the recollection that she could not possibly be spared from Mansfield Park at present.
It had, in fact, occurred to her, that though taken to Portsmouth for nothing, it would be hardly possible for her to avoid paying her own expenses back again. So her poor dear sister Price was left to all the disappointment of, perhaps, another twenty years' absence.
Edmund's plans were affected by this Portsmouth journey. He had intended, about this time, to be going to London; but he could not leave his father and mother just when everybody else of most importance to their comfort was leaving them. With an effort, felt but not boasted of, he delayed for a week or two longer a journey which he was looking forward to with the hope of its fixing his happiness for ever.
He told Fanny of it. She knew so much already, that she must know everything. Fanny was affected, feeling it to be the last time in which Miss Crawford's name would ever be mentioned between them with any liberty. Once afterwards he alluded to her. Lady Bertram had been telling her niece to write to her soon and often, and Edmund added in a whisper, "And I shall write to you, Fanny, when I have anything to say that I think you will like to hear." Had she doubted his meaning, the glow in his face, when she looked up at him, would have been decisive.
For this letter she must try to arm herself. That a letter from Edmund should be a subject of terror! She began to feel that the varied trials of the human mind had not yet been exhausted by her.
Poor Fanny! though going eagerly, the last evening at Mansfield Park must still be wretched. She had tears for every room in the house, and every beloved inhabitant. She clung to her aunt, because she would miss her; she kissed the hand of her uncle with struggling sobs, because she had displeased him; and as for Edmund, she could neither speak, nor look, nor think; and it was not till it was over that she knew he was giving her the affectionate farewell of a brother.
The journey began very early in the morning; and when the diminished party met at breakfast, William and Fanny were talked of as already advanced one stage.