Edmund had determined that it belonged entirely to Fanny to chuse whether her situation with regard to Crawford should be mentioned between them or not; and that if she did not lead the way, it should never be touched on by him; but after a day or two of mutual reserve, he was induced by his father to change his mind, and try what his influence might do for his friend.
A day, and a very early day, was actually fixed for the Crawfords' departure; and Sir Thomas thought it might be as well to make one more effort for the young man before he left Mansfield, that all his professions and vows of unshaken attachment might have as much hope to sustain them as possible.
Sir Thomas was most cordially anxious for the perfection of Mr. Crawford's character in that point. He wished him to be a model of constancy; and fancied the best means of effecting it would be by not trying him too long.
Edmund was not unwilling to be persuaded to engage in the business; he wanted to know Fanny's feelings. She had been used to consult him in every difficulty, and he loved her too well to bear to be denied her confidence now; he hoped to be of service to her, he thought he must be of service to her; whom else had she to open her heart to? If she did not need counsel, she must need the comfort of communication. Fanny estranged from him, silent and reserved, was an unnatural state of things; a state which he must break through, and which he could easily learn to think she was wanting him to break through.
"I will speak to her, sir: I will take the first opportunity of speaking to her alone," was the result of such thoughts as these; and upon Sir Thomas's information of her being at that very time walking alone in the shrubbery, he instantly joined her.
"I am come to walk with you, Fanny," said he. "Shall I?" Drawing her arm within his. "It is a long while since we have had a comfortable walk together."
She assented to it all rather by look than word. Her spirits were low.
"But, Fanny," he presently added, "in order to have a comfortable walk, something more is necessary than merely pacing this gravel together. You must talk to me. I know you have something on your mind. I know what you are thinking of. You cannot suppose me uninformed. Am I to hear of it from everybody but Fanny herself?"
Fanny, at once agitated and dejected, replied, "If you hear of it from everybody, cousin, there can be nothing for me to tell."
"Not of facts, perhaps; but of feelings, Fanny. No one but you can tell me them. I do not mean to press you, however. If it is not what you wish yourself, I have done. I had thought it might be a relief."
"I am afraid we think too differently for me to find any relief in talking of what I feel."
"Do you suppose that we think differently? I have no idea of it. I dare say that, on a comparison of our opinions, they would be found as much alike as they have been used to be: to the point-I consider Crawford's proposals as most advantageous and desirable, if you could return his affection. I consider it as most natural that all your family should wish you could return it; but that, as you cannot, you have done exactly as you ought in refusing him. Can there be any disagreement between us here?"
"Oh no! But I thought you blamed me. I thought you were against me. This is such a comfort!"
"This comfort you might have had sooner, Fanny, had you sought it. But how could you possibly suppose me against you? How could you imagine me an advocate for marriage without love? Were I even careless in general on such matters, how could you imagine me so where your happiness was at stake?"
"My uncle thought me wrong, and I knew he had been talking to you."
"As far as you have gone, Fanny, I think you perfectly right. I may be sorry, I may be surprised-though hardly _that_, for you had not had time to attach yourself-but I think you perfectly right. Can it admit of a question? It is disgraceful to us if it does. You did not love him; nothing could have justified your accepting him."
Fanny had not felt so comfortable for days and days.
"So far your conduct has been faultless, and they were quite mistaken who wished you to do otherwise. But the matter does not end here. Crawford's is no common attachment; he perseveres, with the hope of creating that regard which had not been created before. This, we know, must be a work of time. But" (with an affectionate smile) "let him succeed at last, Fanny, let him succeed at last. You have proved yourself upright and disinterested, prove yourself grateful and tender-hearted; and then you will be the perfect model of a woman which I have always believed you born for."
"Oh! never, never, never! he never will succeed with me." And she spoke with a warmth which quite astonished Edmund, and which she blushed at the recollection of herself, when she saw his look, and heard him reply, "Never! Fanny!-so very determined and positive! This is not like yourself, your rational self."
"I mean," she cried, sorrowfully correcting herself, "that I _think_ I never shall, as far as the future can be answered for; I think I never shall return his regard."
"I must hope better things. I am aware, more aware than Crawford can be, that the man who means to make you love him (you having due notice of his intentions) must have very uphill work, for there are all your early attachments and habits in battle array; and before he can get your heart for his own use he has to unfasten it from all the holds upon things animate and inanimate, which so many years' growth have confirmed, and which are considerably tightened for the moment by the very idea of separation. I know that the apprehension of being forced to quit Mansfield will for a time be arming you against him. I wish he had not been obliged to tell you what he was trying for. I wish he had known you as well as I do, Fanny. Between us, I think we should have won you. My theoretical and his practical knowledge together could not have failed. He should have worked upon my plans. I must hope, however, that time, proving him (as I firmly believe it will) to deserve you by his steady affection, will give him his reward. I cannot suppose that you have not the _wish_ to love him-the natural wish of gratitude. You must have some feeling of that sort. You must be sorry for your own indifference."
"We are so totally unlike," said Fanny, avoiding a direct answer, "we are so very, very different in all our inclinations and ways, that I consider it as quite impossible we should ever be tolerably happy together, even if I _could_ like him. There never were two people more dissimilar. We have not one taste in common. We should be miserable."
"You are mistaken, Fanny. The dissimilarity is not so strong. You are quite enough alike. You _have_ tastes in common. You have moral and literary tastes in common. You have both warm hearts and benevolent feelings; and, Fanny, who that heard him read, and saw you listen to Shakespeare the other night, will think you unfitted as companions? You forget yourself: there is a decided difference in your tempers, I allow. He is lively, you are serious; but so much the better: his spirits will support yours. It is your disposition to be easily dejected and to fancy difficulties greater than they are. His cheerfulness will counteract this. He sees difficulties nowhere: and his pleasantness and gaiety will be a constant support to you. Your being so far unlike, Fanny, does not in the smallest degree make against the probability of your happiness together: do not imagine it. I am myself convinced that it is rather a favourable circumstance. I am perfectly persuaded that the tempers had better be unlike: I mean unlike in the flow of the spirits, in the manners, in the inclination for much or little company, in the propensity to talk or to be silent, to be grave or to be gay. Some opposition here is, I am thoroughly convinced, friendly to matrimonial happiness. I exclude extremes, of course; and a very close resemblance in all those points would be the likeliest way to produce an extreme. A counteraction, gentle and continual, is the best safeguard of manners and conduct."
Full well could Fanny guess where his thoughts were now: Miss Crawford's power was all returning. He had been speaking of her cheerfully from the hour of his coming home. His avoiding her was quite at an end. He had dined at the Parsonage only the preceding day.
After leaving him to his happier thoughts for some minutes, Fanny, feeling it due to herself, returned to Mr. Crawford, and said, "It is not merely in _temper_ that I consider him as totally unsuited to myself; though, in _that_ respect, I think the difference between us too great, infinitely too great: his spirits often oppress me; but there is something in him which I object to still more. I must say, cousin, that I cannot approve his character. I have not thought well of him from the time of the play. I then saw him behaving, as it appeared to me, so very improperly and unfeelingly-I may speak of it now because it is all over-so improperly by poor Mr. Rushworth, not seeming to care how he exposed or hurt him, and paying attentions to my cousin Maria, which-in short, at the time of the play, I received an impression which will never be got over."
"My dear Fanny," replied Edmund, scarcely hearing her to the end, "let us not, any of us, be judged by what we appeared at that period of general folly. The time of the play is a time which I hate to recollect. Maria was wrong, Crawford was wrong, we were all wrong together; but none so wrong as myself. Compared with me, all the rest were blameless. I was playing the fool with my eyes open."
"As a bystander," said Fanny, "perhaps I saw more than you did; and I do think that Mr. Rushworth was sometimes very jealous."
"Very possibly. No wonder. Nothing could be more improper than the whole business. I am shocked whenever I think that Maria could be capable of it; but, if she could undertake the part, we must not be surprised at the rest."
"Before the play, I am much mistaken if _Julia_ did not think he was paying her attentions."
"Julia! I have heard before from some one of his being in love with Julia; but I could never see anything of it. And, Fanny, though I hope I do justice to my sisters' good qualities, I think it very possible that they might, one or both, be more desirous of being admired by Crawford, and might shew that desire rather more unguardedly than was perfectly prudent. I can remember that they were evidently fond of his society; and with such encouragement, a man like Crawford, lively, and it may be, a little unthinking, might be led on to-there could be nothing very striking, because it is clear that he had no pretensions: his heart was reserved for you. And I must say, that its being for you has raised him inconceivably in my opinion. It does him the highest honour; it shews his proper estimation of the blessing of domestic happiness and pure attachment. It proves him unspoilt by his uncle. It proves him, in short, everything that I had been used to wish to believe him, and feared he was not."
"I am persuaded that he does not think, as he ought, on serious subjects."
"Say, rather, that he has not thought at all upon serious subjects, which I believe to be a good deal the case. How could it be otherwise, with such an education and adviser? Under the disadvantages, indeed, which both have had, is it not wonderful that they should be what they are? Crawford's _feelings_, I am ready to acknowledge, have hitherto been too much his guides. Happily, those feelings have generally been good. You will supply the rest; and a most fortunate man he is to attach himself to such a creature-to a woman who, firm as a rock in her own principles, has a gentleness of character so well adapted to recommend them. He has chosen his partner, indeed, with rare felicity. He will make you happy, Fanny; I know he will make you happy; but you will make him everything."
"I would not engage in such a charge," cried Fanny, in a shrinking accent; "in such an office of high responsibility!"
"As usual, believing yourself unequal to anything! fancying everything too much for you! Well, though I may not be able to persuade you into different feelings, you will be persuaded into them, I trust. I confess myself sincerely anxious that you may. I have no common interest in Crawford's well-doing. Next to your happiness, Fanny, his has the first claim on me. You are aware of my having no common interest in Crawford."
Fanny was too well aware of it to have anything to say; and they walked on together some fifty yards in mutual silence and abstraction. Edmund first began again-
"I was very much pleased by her manner of speaking of it yesterday, particularly pleased, because I had not depended upon her seeing everything in so just a light. I knew she was very fond of you; but yet I was afraid of her not estimating your worth to her brother quite as it deserved, and of her regretting that he had not rather fixed on some woman of distinction or fortune. I was afraid of the bias of those worldly maxims, which she has been too much used to hear. But it was very different. She spoke of you, Fanny, just as she ought. She desires the connexion as warmly as your uncle or myself. We had a long talk about it. I should not have mentioned the subject, though very anxious to know her sentiments; but I had not been in the room five minutes before she began introducing it with all that openness of heart, and sweet peculiarity of manner, that spirit and ingenuousness which are so much a part of herself. Mrs. Grant laughed at her for her rapidity."
"Was Mrs. Grant in the room, then?"
"Yes, when I reached the house I found the two sisters together by themselves; and when once we had begun, we had not done with you, Fanny, till Crawford and Dr. Grant came in."
"It is above a week since I saw Miss Crawford."
"Yes, she laments it; yet owns it may have been best. You will see her, however, before she goes. She is very angry with you, Fanny; you must be prepared for that. She calls herself very angry, but you can imagine her anger. It is the regret and disappointment of a sister, who thinks her brother has a right to everything he may wish for, at the first moment. She is hurt, as you would be for William; but she loves and esteems you with all her heart."
"I knew she would be very angry with me."
"My dearest Fanny," cried Edmund, pressing her arm closer to him, "do not let the idea of her anger distress you. It is anger to be talked of rather than felt. Her heart is made for love and kindness, not for resentment. I wish you could have overheard her tribute of praise; I wish you could have seen her countenance, when she said that you _should_ be Henry's wife. And I observed that she always spoke of you as 'Fanny,' which she was never used to do; and it had a sound of most sisterly cordiality."
"And Mrs. Grant, did she say-did she speak; was she there all the time?"
"Yes, she was agreeing exactly with her sister. The surprise of your refusal, Fanny, seems to have been unbounded. That you could refuse such a man as Henry Crawford seems more than they can understand. I said what I could for you; but in good truth, as they stated the case-you must prove yourself to be in your senses as soon as you can by a different conduct; nothing else will satisfy them. But this is teasing you. I have done. Do not turn away from me."
"I _should_ have thought," said Fanny, after a pause of recollection and exertion, "that every woman must have felt the possibility of a man's not being approved, not being loved by some one of her sex at least, let him be ever so generally agreeable. Let him have all the perfections in the world, I think it ought not to be set down as certain that a man must be acceptable to every woman he may happen to like himself. But, even supposing it is so, allowing Mr. Crawford to have all the claims which his sisters think he has, how was I to be prepared to meet him with any feeling answerable to his own? He took me wholly by surprise. I had not an idea that his behaviour to me before had any meaning; and surely I was not to be teaching myself to like him only because he was taking what seemed very idle notice of me. In my situation, it would have been the extreme of vanity to be forming expectations on Mr. Crawford. I am sure his sisters, rating him as they do, must have thought it so, supposing he had meant nothing. How, then, was I to be-to be in love with him the moment he said he was with me? How was I to have an attachment at his service, as soon as it was asked for? His sisters should consider me as well as him. The higher his deserts, the more improper for me ever to have thought of him. And, and-we think very differently of the nature of women, if they can imagine a woman so very soon capable of returning an affection as this seems to imply."
"My dear, dear Fanny, now I have the truth. I know this to be the truth; and most worthy of you are such feelings. I had attributed them to you before. I thought I could understand you. You have now given exactly the explanation which I ventured to make for you to your friend and Mrs. Grant, and they were both better satisfied, though your warm-hearted friend was still run away with a little by the enthusiasm of her fondness for Henry. I told them that you were of all human creatures the one over whom habit had most power and novelty least; and that the very circumstance of the novelty of Crawford's addresses was against him. Their being so new and so recent was all in their disfavour; that you could tolerate nothing that you were not used to; and a great deal more to the same purpose, to give them a knowledge of your character. Miss Crawford made us laugh by her plans of encouragement for her brother. She meant to urge him to persevere in the hope of being loved in time, and of having his addresses most kindly received at the end of about ten years' happy marriage."
Fanny could with difficulty give the smile that was here asked for. Her feelings were all in revolt. She feared she had been doing wrong: saying too much, overacting the caution which she had been fancying necessary; in guarding against one evil, laying herself open to another; and to have Miss Crawford's liveliness repeated to her at such a moment, and on such a subject, was a bitter aggravation.
Edmund saw weariness and distress in her face, and immediately resolved to forbear all farther discussion; and not even to mention the name of Crawford again, except as it might be connected with what _must_ be agreeable to her. On this principle, he soon afterwards observed-"They go on Monday. You are sure, therefore, of seeing your friend either to-morrow or Sunday. They really go on Monday; and I was within a trifle of being persuaded to stay at Lessingby till that very day! I had almost promised it. What a difference it might have made! Those five or six days more at Lessingby might have been felt all my life."
"You were near staying there?"
"Very. I was most kindly pressed, and had nearly consented. Had I received any letter from Mansfield, to tell me how you were all going on, I believe I should certainly have staid; but I knew nothing that had happened here for a fortnight, and felt that I had been away long enough."
"You spent your time pleasantly there?"
"Yes; that is, it was the fault of my own mind if I did not. They were all very pleasant. I doubt their finding me so. I took uneasiness with me, and there was no getting rid of it till I was in Mansfield again."
"The Miss Owens-you liked them, did not you?"
"Yes, very well. Pleasant, good-humoured, unaffected girls. But I am spoilt, Fanny, for common female society. Good-humoured, unaffected girls will not do for a man who has been used to sensible women. They are two distinct orders of being. You and Miss Crawford have made me too nice."
Still, however, Fanny was oppressed and wearied; he saw it in her looks, it could not be talked away; and attempting it no more, he led her directly, with the kind authority of a privileged guardian, into the house.

Edmund had determined that if Fanny did not choose to speak of it, her situation should never be touched on by him; but after a day or two his father induced him to change his mind, and try what his influence might do for his friend.
An early day was fixed for the Crawfords' departure; and Sir Thomas thought it might be as well to make one more effort for the young man before he left Mansfield, so that his vows of unshaken attachment might have as much hope to sustain them as possible.
Sir Thomas was most anxious for the perfection of Mr. Crawford's character in that point. He wished him to be a model of constancy; and fancied the best means of ensuring it would be by not testing him too long.
Edmund was willingly persuaded to talk to Fanny; he wanted to know her feelings. She used to consult him in every difficulty, and he loved her too well to bear to be denied her confidence now. Whom else had she to open her heart to? Fanny estranged from him, silent and reserved, was an unnatural state of things; a state which he must break through. When she was walking alone in the shrubbery, therefore, he joined her.
"I am come to walk with you, Fanny," said he, drawing her arm within his. "It is a long while since we have had a comfortable walk together."
She assented rather by look than word. Her spirits were low.
"But, Fanny," he added, "in order to have a comfortable walk, you must talk to me. I know you have something on your mind. Am I to hear of it from everybody but Fanny herself?"
Fanny, at once agitated and dejected, replied, "If you hear of it from everybody, cousin, there can be nothing for me to tell."
"Not of facts, perhaps; but of feelings, Fanny. No one but you can tell me them. I do not mean to press you. I had thought it might be a relief."
"I am afraid we think too differently for me to find any relief in talking of what I feel."
"Do you suppose that we think differently? I have no idea of it. I dare say that our opinions are as much alike as ever: to the point-I consider Crawford's proposals as most desirable, if you could return his affection. It is natural that all your family should wish you could return it; but as you cannot, you have done exactly as you ought in refusing him. Can there be any disagreement between us here?"
"Oh no! But I thought you blamed me. I thought you were against me. This is such a comfort!"
"How could you possibly suppose me against you? How could you imagine me an advocate for marriage without love? Were I careless in general on such matters, how could you imagine me so where your happiness was at stake?"
"My uncle thought me wrong, and I knew he had been talking to you."
"As far as you have gone, Fanny, I think you perfectly right. I may be sorry, I may be surprised-but I think you perfectly right. You did not love him; nothing could have justified your accepting him."
Fanny had not felt so comfortable for days and days.
"So far your conduct has been faultless. But the matter does not end here. Crawford's is no common attachment; he perseveres, with the hope of winning your regard. This, we know, must be a work of time. But" (with an affectionate smile) "let him succeed at last, Fanny. You have proved yourself upright, prove yourself grateful and tender-hearted; and then you will be the perfect model of a woman."
"Oh! never, never, never! he never will succeed with me." She spoke with a warmth which quite astonished Edmund, and she blushed when she saw his look, and heard him reply, "Never! Fanny!-so very determined! This is not like your rational self."
"I mean," she cried, sorrowfully correcting herself, "that I think I never shall, as far as the future can be answered for; I think I never shall return his regard."
"I must hope better things. I am aware that the man who means to make you love him must have very uphill work, for there are all your early attachments in battle array; and before he can get your heart he has to unfasten it from all the holds which are tightened by the very idea of separation. I know that the apprehension of being forced to quit Mansfield will be arming you against him. I wish Crawford had known you as well as I do, Fanny. Between us, I think we should have won you. My theoretical and his practical knowledge together could not have failed. I must hope, however, that time will give him his reward. I cannot suppose that you have no wish to love him-the natural wish of gratitude. You must have some feeling of that sort. You must be sorry for your own indifference."
"We are so totally unlike," said Fanny, avoiding a direct answer, "we are so very, very different in all our inclinations, that I consider it as quite impossible we should ever be happy together, even if I could like him. There never were two people more dissimilar. We have not one taste in common. We should be miserable."
"You are mistaken, Fanny. The dissimilarity is not so strong. You have moral and literary tastes in common. You have both warm hearts and benevolent feelings; and, Fanny, who that heard him read, and saw you listen to Shakespeare the other night, will think you unfitted as companions? There is a difference in your temperaments, I allow. He is lively, you are serious; but so much the better: his spirits will support yours. It is your nature to be easily dejected. His cheerfulness will counteract this; and his pleasantness and gaiety will be a constant support to you. Your being so far unlike, Fanny, is rather a favourable circumstance. I am convinced that in marriage, the temperaments had better be unlike, for opposites bring happiness. I exclude extremes, of course; but a very close resemblance in all points is the likeliest way to produce an extreme. A gentle counteraction is the best safeguard of manners and conduct."
Full well could Fanny guess where his thoughts were now: Miss Crawford's power was all returning. He had been speaking of her cheerfully ever since coming home. His avoiding her was quite at an end. He had dined at the Parsonage only the preceding day.
After leaving him to his happier thoughts for some minutes, she said, "It is not merely in temperament that I consider him as totally unsuited to myself; but there is something which I object to still more. I cannot approve his character. I have not thought well of him from the time of the play. I then saw him behaving so very improperly and unfeelingly by poor Mr. Rushworth, not seeming to care how he hurt him, and paying attentions to my cousin Maria, which-in short, I received an impression which will never be got over."
"My dear Fanny," replied Edmund, scarcely hearing her to the end, "let us not, any of us, be judged by that period of general folly. That is a time which I hate to recollect. Maria was wrong, Crawford was wrong, we were all wrong together; but none so wrong as myself. Compared with me, all the rest were blameless. I was playing the fool with my eyes open."
"I do think that Mr. Rushworth was sometimes very jealous."
"Very possibly. No wonder. Nothing could be more improper than the whole business. I am shocked whenever I think that Maria could be capable of it."
"Before the play, I am much mistaken if Julia did not think he was paying her attentions."
"Julia! I have heard before from some one of his being in love with Julia; but I could never see anything of it. And, Fanny, though I hope I do justice to my sisters' good qualities, I think it very possible that they might desire to be admired by Crawford, and might show that desire more unguardedly than was perfectly prudent. They were fond of his society; and with such encouragement, a man like Crawford, lively, and it may be, a little unthinking, might be led on to-there could be nothing very striking, because it is clear that his heart was reserved for you. And I must say, that its being for you has raised him in my opinion. It shows he understands the blessing of domestic happiness. It proves him unspoilt by his uncle. It proves him everything that I used to wish to believe him, and feared he was not."
"I am persuaded that he does not think as he ought, on serious subjects."
"Say, rather, that he has not thought at all upon serious subjects. How could it be otherwise, with such an adviser? Crawford's feelings, I acknowledge, have been too much his guides. Happily, those feelings have generally been good. You will supply the rest; and a most fortunate man he is to attach himself to such a woman, firm in her principles yet with gentleness of character. He will make you happy, Fanny; but you will make him everything."
"I would not engage in such a charge," cried Fanny, shrinking; "in such high responsibility!"
"As usual, believing yourself unequal to anything! Well, though I may not be able to persuade you to feel differently, I confess myself sincerely anxious that you may be persuaded. Next to your happiness, Fanny, his has the first claim on me. You are aware of my having no common interest in Crawford."
Fanny was too well aware of it to say anything; and they walked on together in silence. Edmund first began again-
"I was very much pleased by her manner of speaking of it yesterday, because I had not been certain of her seeing everything in so just a light. I knew she was very fond of you; but I was afraid of her not seeing your worth to her brother, and of her regretting that he had not fixed on some woman of fortune. But she spoke of you, Fanny, just as she ought. She desires the connexion as warmly as your uncle or myself. We had a long talk about it. I had not been in the room five minutes before she introduced the subject with all that openness of heart and spirit which are so much a part of herself. Mrs. Grant laughed at her for her rapidity."
"Was Mrs. Grant in the room, then?"
"Yes, I found the two sisters together."
"It is above a week since I saw Miss Crawford."
"Yes, she laments it; yet owns it may have been best. You will see her, however, before she goes. She is very angry with you, Fanny; you must be prepared for that. She calls herself very angry, but you can imagine her anger. It is the disappointment of a sister, who thinks her brother has a right to everything he may wish for. She is hurt, as you would be for William; but she loves and esteems you with all her heart."
"I knew she would be very angry with me."
"My dearest Fanny," cried Edmund, pressing her arm closer, "do not let the idea of her anger distress you. It is anger to be talked of rather than felt. Her heart is made for love and kindness, not for resentment. I wish you could have heard her praise you; I wish you could have seen her face, when she said that you should be Henry's wife."
"And Mrs. Grant, did she speak; was she there all the time?"
"Yes, she agreed with her sister. That you could refuse such a man as Henry Crawford seems more than they can understand. I said what I could for you; but in good truth, you must prove yourself to be in your senses as soon as you can by a different conduct; nothing else will satisfy them. But this is teasing you. I have done. Do not turn away."
"I should have thought," said Fanny, after a pause of recollection and exertion, "that every woman must have felt the possibility of a man's not being loved by some one of her sex at least, let him be ever so generally agreeable. Let him have all the perfections in the world, I think it ought not to be set down as certain that a man must be acceptable to every woman he may happen to like himself. But, even supposing it is so, how was I to be prepared to meet Mr Crawford with any feeling like his own? He took me wholly by surprise. I had no idea that his behaviour to me before had any meaning. In my situation, it would have been vanity to be forming expectations of Mr. Crawford. How, then, was I to be-to be in love with him, the moment he said he was with me? How was I to have an attachment at his service, as soon as it was asked for?"
"My dear Fanny, now I have the truth; and most worthy of you are such feelings. You have given exactly the explanation which I ventured to make for you to your friend and Mrs. Grant. I told them that you were, of all people, the one over whom habit had most power and novelty least; and that the very novelty of Crawford's addresses was against him: that you could tolerate nothing that you were not used to. Miss Crawford made us laugh by her plans of encouragement for her brother. She meant to urge him to persevere in the hope of being loved in time, and of having his addresses most kindly received at the end of about ten years' happy marriage."
Fanny could with difficulty give the smile that was here asked for. Her feelings were all in revolt. She feared she had been saying too much, and overacting the caution which she had been fancying necessary; and in guarding against one evil, was laying herself open to another. To have Miss Crawford's liveliness repeated to her at such a moment, and on such a subject, was a bitter aggravation.
Edmund saw weariness and distress in her face, and immediately resolved to not mention the name of Crawford again, unless in connexion with what must be agreeable to her. So he observed-"They go on Monday. You are sure, therefore, of seeing your friend either to-morrow or Sunday. They really go on Monday; and I was almost persuaded to stay at Lessingby till that very day! What a difference it might have made! Those five or six days more at Lessingby might have been felt all my life."
"You spent your time pleasantly there?"
"Yes; they were all very pleasant. I doubt their finding me so. I took uneasiness with me, and there was no getting rid of it till I was in Mansfield again."
"The Miss Owens-you liked them, did not you?"
"Yes, very well. Pleasant, good-humoured, unaffected girls. But I am spoilt, Fanny, for common female society. Good-humoured, unaffected girls will not do for a man who has been used to intelligent women. They are two distinct orders of being. You and Miss Crawford have made me too exacting."
Still, however, Fanny was oppressed and wearied; he saw it in her looks, it could not be talked away; and attempting it no more, he led her, with the kind authority of a guardian, into the house.


Fanny's consequence increased on the departure of her cousins. Becoming, as she then did, the only young woman in the drawing-room, the only occupier of that interesting division of a family in which she had hitherto held so humble a third, it was impossible for her not to be more looked at, more thought of and attended to, than she had ever been before; and "Where is Fanny?" became no uncommon question, even without her being wanted for any one's convenience.
Not only at home did her value increase, but at the Parsonage too. In that house, which she had hardly entered twice a year since Mr. Norris's death, she became a welcome, an invited guest, and in the gloom and dirt of a November day, most acceptable to Mary Crawford. Her visits there, beginning by chance, were continued by solicitation. Mrs. Grant, really eager to get any change for her sister, could, by the easiest self-deceit, persuade herself that she was doing the kindest thing by Fanny, and giving her the most important opportunities of improvement in pressing her frequent calls.
Fanny, having been sent into the village on some errand by her aunt Norris, was overtaken by a heavy shower close to the Parsonage; and being descried from one of the windows endeavouring to find shelter under the branches and lingering leaves of an oak just beyond their premises, was forced, though not without some modest reluctance on her part, to come in. A civil servant she had withstood; but when Dr. Grant himself went out with an umbrella, there was nothing to be done but to be very much ashamed, and to get into the house as fast as possible; and to poor Miss Crawford, who had just been contemplating the dismal rain in a very desponding state of mind, sighing over the ruin of all her plan of exercise for that morning, and of every chance of seeing a single creature beyond themselves for the next twenty-four hours, the sound of a little bustle at the front door, and the sight of Miss Price dripping with wet in the vestibule, was delightful. The value of an event on a wet day in the country was most forcibly brought before her. She was all alive again directly, and among the most active in being useful to Fanny, in detecting her to be wetter than she would at first allow, and providing her with dry clothes; and Fanny, after being obliged to submit to all this attention, and to being assisted and waited on by mistresses and maids, being also obliged, on returning downstairs, to be fixed in their drawing-room for an hour while the rain continued, the blessing of something fresh to see and think of was thus extended to Miss Crawford, and might carry on her spirits to the period of dressing and dinner.
The two sisters were so kind to her, and so pleasant, that Fanny might have enjoyed her visit could she have believed herself not in the way, and could she have foreseen that the weather would certainly clear at the end of the hour, and save her from the shame of having Dr. Grant's carriage and horses out to take her home, with which she was threatened. As to anxiety for any alarm that her absence in such weather might occasion at home, she had nothing to suffer on that score; for as her being out was known only to her two aunts, she was perfectly aware that none would be felt, and that in whatever cottage aunt Norris might chuse to establish her during the rain, her being in such cottage would be indubitable to aunt Bertram.
It was beginning to look brighter, when Fanny, observing a harp in the room, asked some questions about it, which soon led to an acknowledgment of her wishing very much to hear it, and a confession, which could hardly be believed, of her having never yet heard it since its being in Mansfield. To Fanny herself it appeared a very simple and natural circumstance. She had scarcely ever been at the Parsonage since the instrument's arrival, there had been no reason that she should; but Miss Crawford, calling to mind an early expressed wish on the subject, was concerned at her own neglect; and "Shall I play to you now?" and "What will you have?" were questions immediately following with the readiest good-humour.
She played accordingly; happy to have a new listener, and a listener who seemed so much obliged, so full of wonder at the performance, and who shewed herself not wanting in taste. She played till Fanny's eyes, straying to the window on the weather's being evidently fair, spoke what she felt must be done.
"Another quarter of an hour," said Miss Crawford, "and we shall see how it will be. Do not run away the first moment of its holding up. Those clouds look alarming."
"But they are passed over," said Fanny. "I have been watching them. This weather is all from the south."
"South or north, I know a black cloud when I see it; and you must not set forward while it is so threatening. And besides, I want to play something more to you-a very pretty piece-and your cousin Edmund's prime favourite. You must stay and hear your cousin's favourite."
Fanny felt that she must; and though she had not waited for that sentence to be thinking of Edmund, such a memento made her particularly awake to his idea, and she fancied him sitting in that room again and again, perhaps in the very spot where she sat now, listening with constant delight to the favourite air, played, as it appeared to her, with superior tone and expression; and though pleased with it herself, and glad to like whatever was liked by him, she was more sincerely impatient to go away at the conclusion of it than she had been before; and on this being evident, she was so kindly asked to call again, to take them in her walk whenever she could, to come and hear more of the harp, that she felt it necessary to be done, if no objection arose at home.
Such was the origin of the sort of intimacy which took place between them within the first fortnight after the Miss Bertrams' going away-an intimacy resulting principally from Miss Crawford's desire of something new, and which had little reality in Fanny's feelings. Fanny went to her every two or three days: it seemed a kind of fascination: she could not be easy without going, and yet it was without loving her, without ever thinking like her, without any sense of obligation for being sought after now when nobody else was to be had; and deriving no higher pleasure from her conversation than occasional amusement, and _that_ often at the expense of her judgment, when it was raised by pleasantry on people or subjects which she wished to be respected. She went, however, and they sauntered about together many an half-hour in Mrs. Grant's shrubbery, the weather being unusually mild for the time of year, and venturing sometimes even to sit down on one of the benches now comparatively unsheltered, remaining there perhaps till, in the midst of some tender ejaculation of Fanny's on the sweets of so protracted an autumn, they were forced, by the sudden swell of a cold gust shaking down the last few yellow leaves about them, to jump up and walk for warmth.
"This is pretty, very pretty," said Fanny, looking around her as they were thus sitting together one day; "every time I come into this shrubbery I am more struck with its growth and beauty. Three years ago, this was nothing but a rough hedgerow along the upper side of the field, never thought of as anything, or capable of becoming anything; and now it is converted into a walk, and it would be difficult to say whether most valuable as a convenience or an ornament; and perhaps, in another three years, we may be forgetting-almost forgetting what it was before. How wonderful, how very wonderful the operations of time, and the changes of the human mind!" And following the latter train of thought, she soon afterwards added: "If any one faculty of our nature may be called _more_ wonderful than the rest, I do think it is memory. There seems something more speakingly incomprehensible in the powers, the failures, the inequalities of memory, than in any other of our intelligences. The memory is sometimes so retentive, so serviceable, so obedient; at others, so bewildered and so weak; and at others again, so tyrannic, so beyond control! We are, to be sure, a miracle every way; but our powers of recollecting and of forgetting do seem peculiarly past finding out."
Miss Crawford, untouched and inattentive, had nothing to say; and Fanny, perceiving it, brought back her own mind to what she thought must interest.
"It may seem impertinent in _me_ to praise, but I must admire the taste Mrs. Grant has shewn in all this. There is such a quiet simplicity in the plan of the walk! Not too much attempted!"
"Yes," replied Miss Crawford carelessly, "it does very well for a place of this sort. One does not think of extent _here_; and between ourselves, till I came to Mansfield, I had not imagined a country parson ever aspired to a shrubbery, or anything of the kind."
"I am so glad to see the evergreens thrive!" said Fanny, in reply. "My uncle's gardener always says the soil here is better than his own, and so it appears from the growth of the laurels and evergreens in general. The evergreen! How beautiful, how welcome, how wonderful the evergreen! When one thinks of it, how astonishing a variety of nature! In some countries we know the tree that sheds its leaf is the variety, but that does not make it less amazing that the same soil and the same sun should nurture plants differing in the first rule and law of their existence. You will think me rhapsodising; but when I am out of doors, especially when I am sitting out of doors, I am very apt to get into this sort of wondering strain. One cannot fix one's eyes on the commonest natural production without finding food for a rambling fancy."
"To say the truth," replied Miss Crawford, "I am something like the famous Doge at the court of Lewis XIV.; and may declare that I see no wonder in this shrubbery equal to seeing myself in it. If anybody had told me a year ago that this place would be my home, that I should be spending month after month here, as I have done, I certainly should not have believed them. I have now been here nearly five months; and, moreover, the quietest five months I ever passed."
"_Too_ quiet for you, I believe."
"I should have thought so _theoretically_ myself, but," and her eyes brightened as she spoke, "take it all and all, I never spent so happy a summer. But then," with a more thoughtful air and lowered voice, "there is no saying what it may lead to."
Fanny's heart beat quick, and she felt quite unequal to surmising or soliciting anything more. Miss Crawford, however, with renewed animation, soon went on-
"I am conscious of being far better reconciled to a country residence than I had ever expected to be. I can even suppose it pleasant to spend _half_ the year in the country, under certain circumstances, very pleasant. An elegant, moderate-sized house in the centre of family connexions; continual engagements among them; commanding the first society in the neighbourhood; looked up to, perhaps, as leading it even more than those of larger fortune, and turning from the cheerful round of such amusements to nothing worse than a _tte--tte_ with the person one feels most agreeable in the world. There is nothing frightful in such a picture, is there, Miss Price? One need not envy the new Mrs. Rushworth with such a home as _that_."
"Envy Mrs. Rushworth!" was all that Fanny attempted to say. "Come, come, it would be very un-handsome in us to be severe on Mrs. Rushworth, for I look forward to our owing her a great many gay, brilliant, happy hours. I expect we shall be all very much at Sotherton another year. Such a match as Miss Bertram has made is a public blessing; for the first pleasures of Mr. Rushworth's wife must be to fill her house, and give the best balls in the country."
Fanny was silent, and Miss Crawford relapsed into thoughtfulness, till suddenly looking up at the end of a few minutes, she exclaimed, "Ah! here he is." It was not Mr. Rushworth, however, but Edmund, who then appeared walking towards them with Mrs. Grant. "My sister and Mr. Bertram. I am so glad your eldest cousin is gone, that he may be Mr. Bertram again. There is something in the sound of Mr. _Edmund_ Bertram so formal, so pitiful, so younger-brother-like, that I detest it."
"How differently we feel!" cried Fanny. "To me, the sound of _Mr._ Bertram is so cold and nothing-meaning, so entirely without warmth or character! It just stands for a gentleman, and that's all. But there is nobleness in the name of Edmund. It is a name of heroism and renown; of kings, princes, and knights; and seems to breathe the spirit of chivalry and warm affections."
"I grant you the name is good in itself, and _Lord_ Edmund or _Sir_ Edmund sound delightfully; but sink it under the chill, the annihilation of a Mr., and Mr. Edmund is no more than Mr. John or Mr. Thomas. Well, shall we join and disappoint them of half their lecture upon sitting down out of doors at this time of year, by being up before they can begin?"
Edmund met them with particular pleasure. It was the first time of his seeing them together since the beginning of that better acquaintance which he had been hearing of with great satisfaction. A friendship between two so very dear to him was exactly what he could have wished: and to the credit of the lover's understanding, be it stated, that he did not by any means consider Fanny as the only, or even as the greater gainer by such a friendship.
"Well," said Miss Crawford, "and do you not scold us for our imprudence? What do you think we have been sitting down for but to be talked to about it, and entreated and supplicated never to do so again?"
"Perhaps I might have scolded," said Edmund, "if either of you had been sitting down alone; but while you do wrong together, I can overlook a great deal."
"They cannot have been sitting long," cried Mrs. Grant, "for when I went up for my shawl I saw them from the staircase window, and then they were walking."
"And really," added Edmund, "the day is so mild, that your sitting down for a few minutes can be hardly thought imprudent. Our weather must not always be judged by the calendar. We may sometimes take greater liberties in November than in May."
"Upon my word," cried Miss Crawford, "you are two of the most disappointing and unfeeling kind friends I ever met with! There is no giving you a moment's uneasiness. You do not know how much we have been suffering, nor what chills we have felt! But I have long thought Mr. Bertram one of the worst subjects to work on, in any little manoeuvre against common sense, that a woman could be plagued with. I had very little hope of _him_ from the first; but you, Mrs. Grant, my sister, my own sister, I think I had a right to alarm you a little."
"Do not flatter yourself, my dearest Mary. You have not the smallest chance of moving me. I have my alarms, but they are quite in a different quarter; and if I could have altered the weather, you would have had a good sharp east wind blowing on you the whole time-for here are some of my plants which Robert _will_ leave out because the nights are so mild, and I know the end of it will be, that we shall have a sudden change of weather, a hard frost setting in all at once, taking everybody (at least Robert) by surprise, and I shall lose every one; and what is worse, cook has just been telling me that the turkey, which I particularly wished not to be dressed till Sunday, because I know how much more Dr. Grant would enjoy it on Sunday after the fatigues of the day, will not keep beyond to-morrow. These are something like grievances, and make me think the weather most unseasonably close."
"The sweets of housekeeping in a country village!" said Miss Crawford archly. "Commend me to the nurseryman and the poulterer."
"My dear child, commend Dr. Grant to the deanery of Westminster or St. Paul's, and I should be as glad of your nurseryman and poulterer as you could be. But we have no such people in Mansfield. What would you have me do?"
"Oh! you can do nothing but what you do already: be plagued very often, and never lose your temper."
"Thank you; but there is no escaping these little vexations, Mary, live where we may; and when you are settled in town and I come to see you, I dare say I shall find you with yours, in spite of the nurseryman and the poulterer, perhaps on their very account. Their remoteness and unpunctuality, or their exorbitant charges and frauds, will be drawing forth bitter lamentations."
"I mean to be too rich to lament or to feel anything of the sort. A large income is the best recipe for happiness I ever heard of. It certainly may secure all the myrtle and turkey part of it."
"You intend to be very rich?" said Edmund, with a look which, to Fanny's eye, had a great deal of serious meaning.
"To be sure. Do not you? Do not we all?"
"I cannot intend anything which it must be so completely beyond my power to command. Miss Crawford may chuse her degree of wealth. She has only to fix on her number of thousands a year, and there can be no doubt of their coming. My intentions are only not to be poor."
"By moderation and economy, and bringing down your wants to your income, and all that. I understand you-and a very proper plan it is for a person at your time of life, with such limited means and indifferent connexions. What can _you_ want but a decent maintenance? You have not much time before you; and your relations are in no situation to do anything for you, or to mortify you by the contrast of their own wealth and consequence. Be honest and poor, by all means-but I shall not envy you; I do not much think I shall even respect you. I have a much greater respect for those that are honest and rich."
"Your degree of respect for honesty, rich or poor, is precisely what I have no manner of concern with. I do not mean to be poor. Poverty is exactly what I have determined against. Honesty, in the something between, in the middle state of worldly circumstances, is all that I am anxious for your not looking down on."
"But I do look down upon it, if it might have been higher. I must look down upon anything contented with obscurity when it might rise to distinction."
"But how may it rise? How may my honesty at least rise to any distinction?"
This was not so very easy a question to answer, and occasioned an "Oh!" of some length from the fair lady before she could add, "You ought to be in parliament, or you should have gone into the army ten years ago."
"_That_ is not much to the purpose now; and as to my being in parliament, I believe I must wait till there is an especial assembly for the representation of younger sons who have little to live on. No, Miss Crawford," he added, in a more serious tone, "there _are_ distinctions which I should be miserable if I thought myself without any chance-absolutely without chance or possibility of obtaining-but they are of a different character."
A look of consciousness as he spoke, and what seemed a consciousness of manner on Miss Crawford's side as she made some laughing answer, was sorrowfull food for Fanny's observation; and finding herself quite unable to attend as she ought to Mrs. Grant, by whose side she was now following the others, she had nearly resolved on going home immediately, and only waited for courage to say so, when the sound of the great clock at Mansfield Park, striking three, made her feel that she had really been much longer absent than usual, and brought the previous self-inquiry of whether she should take leave or not just then, and how, to a very speedy issue. With undoubting decision she directly began her adieus; and Edmund began at the same time to recollect that his mother had been inquiring for her, and that he had walked down to the Parsonage on purpose to bring her back.
Fanny's hurry increased; and without in the least expecting Edmund's attendance, she would have hastened away alone; but the general pace was quickened, and they all accompanied her into the house, through which it was necessary to pass. Dr. Grant was in the vestibule, and as they stopt to speak to him she found, from Edmund's manner, that he _did_ mean to go with her. He too was taking leave. She could not but be thankful. In the moment of parting, Edmund was invited by Dr. Grant to eat his mutton with him the next day; and Fanny had barely time for an unpleasant feeling on the occasion, when Mrs. Grant, with sudden recollection, turned to her and asked for the pleasure of her company too. This was so new an attention, so perfectly new a circumstance in the events of Fanny's life, that she was all surprise and embarrassment; and while stammering out her great obligation, and her "but she did not suppose it would be in her power," was looking at Edmund for his opinion and help. But Edmund, delighted with her having such an happiness offered, and ascertaining with half a look, and half a sentence, that she had no objection but on her aunt's account, could not imagine that his mother would make any difficulty of sparing her, and therefore gave his decided open advice that the invitation should be accepted; and though Fanny would not venture, even on his encouragement, to such a flight of audacious independence, it was soon settled, that if nothing were heard to the contrary, Mrs. Grant might expect her.
"And you know what your dinner will be," said Mrs. Grant, smiling-"the turkey, and I assure you a very fine one; for, my dear," turning to her husband, "cook insists upon the turkey's being dressed to-morrow."
"Very well, very well," cried Dr. Grant, "all the better; I am glad to hear you have anything so good in the house. But Miss Price and Mr. Edmund Bertram, I dare say, would take their chance. We none of us want to hear the bill of fare. A friendly meeting, and not a fine dinner, is all we have in view. A turkey, or a goose, or a leg of mutton, or whatever you and your cook chuse to give us."
The two cousins walked home together; and, except in the immediate discussion of this engagement, which Edmund spoke of with the warmest satisfaction, as so particularly desirable for her in the intimacy which he saw with so much pleasure established, it was a silent walk; for having finished that subject, he grew thoughtful and indisposed for any other.

Fanny's consequence increased on her cousins' departure. As the only young woman in the drawing-room, she was more attended to than she had ever been before; and "Where is Fanny?" became a common question.
Not only at home did her value increase, but at the Parsonage too. There she became a welcome guest, and in the gloom and dirt of November, most acceptable to Mary Crawford. Mrs. Grant, eager to get any change for her sister, persuaded herself that she was doing the kindest thing for Fanny, and giving her opportunities of improvement in frequently inviting her.
Fanny, having been sent into the village on some errand by her aunt Norris, was overtaken by a heavy shower close to the Parsonage; and being seen from one of the windows endeavouring to find shelter under an oak, was forced, with modest reluctance on her part, to come in. Dr. Grant himself went out with an umbrella; and to poor Miss Crawford, who had just been contemplating the dismal rain very despondently, the sound of a little bustle at the front door, and the sight of Miss Price dripping in the vestibule, was delightful. The value of an event on a wet day in the country was forcibly brought before her. She was alive again directly, and most active in being useful to Fanny and providing her with dry clothes. Since Fanny was obliged to stay for an hour while the rain continued, the blessing of something fresh to think of was extended.
The two sisters were so kind to her, that Fanny might have enjoyed her visit could she have believed herself not in the way, and could she have foreseen that the weather would certainly clear at the end of the hour, and save her from the shame of having Dr. Grant's carriage out to take her home. As her being out was known only to her two aunts, she was perfectly aware that no alarm would be felt by anyone.
It was beginning to look brighter, when Fanny, observing a harp, asked some questions about it, and acknowledged that she wished very much to hear it, for she had never yet heard it since its being in Mansfield. To Fanny this appeared very natural. She had scarcely been at the Parsonage since the instrument's arrival; but Miss Crawford was concerned at her own neglect; and "Shall I play to you now?" and "What will you have?" were questions immediately following with the readiest good-humour.
She played accordingly; happy to have a new listener who seemed so full of wonder at the performance, and who showed herself not wanting in taste. She played till Fanny's eyes strayed to the window.
"Another quarter of an hour," said Miss Crawford. "Those clouds look alarming."
"But they are passed over," said Fanny. "This weather is all from the south."
"I know a black cloud when I see it; and you must not set forward while it is so threatening. And besides, I want to play you a very pretty piece-your cousin Edmund's favourite."
Fanny felt that she must hear it; she fancied him sitting in that room, perhaps in the very spot where she sat now, listening with delight to the favourite air, played with superior tone and expression. Though glad to like whatever was liked by him, at the end she was more sincerely impatient to go away. She was so kindly asked to call again, and hear more of the harp, that she felt it must be done.
Such was the origin of the intimacy between them-an intimacy resulting chiefly from Miss Crawford's desire of something new, and which had little reality in Fanny's feelings. Fanny went to her every two or three days: she could not be easy without going, and yet it was without loving her, or thinking like her; and deriving no higher pleasure from her conversation than occasional amusement, and that often at the expense of her judgment.
She went, however, and they sauntered about together in Mrs. Grant's shrubbery, venturing sometimes to sit down on one of the benches, and remaining there, perhaps, till in the midst of some tender remark of Fanny's on the sweets of autumn, they were forced to jump up and walk for warmth.
"This is very pretty," said Fanny, looking around her as they were sitting together one day; "every time I come into this shrubbery I am more struck with its beauty. Three years ago, this was nothing but a rough hedgerow, never thought of as capable of becoming anything; and now it is converted into a walk; and perhaps, in another three years, we may be forgetting what it was before. How very wonderful the operations of time, and the changes of the human mind! If any faculty of our nature may be called more wonderful than the rest, I do think it is memory. It is sometimes so retentive, so obedient; at others, so weak; and at others again, so tyrannic, so beyond control!"
Miss Crawford, untouched, had nothing to say; and Fanny returned to what she thought must interest.
"I must admire the taste Mrs. Grant has shown in all this. There is such a quiet simplicity in the plan of the walk!"
"Yes," replied Miss Crawford carelessly, "it does very well for a place of this sort. Till I came to Mansfield, I had not imagined a country parson ever aspired to a shrubbery."
"I am so glad to see the evergreens thrive!" said Fanny. "My uncle's gardener says the soil here is better than his own, and so it appears from the growth of the evergreens. How beautiful, how welcome, how wonderful the evergreen! How astonishing a variety of nature! In some countries we know the tree that sheds its leaf is the variety, but that does not make it less amazing that the same soil and sun should nurture plants so widely differing. You will think me rhapsodising; but when I am out of doors, I am very apt to get into this sort of wondering strain. One cannot fix one's eyes on the commonest natural object without finding food for a rambling fancy."
"To say the truth," replied Miss Crawford, "Like the famous Doge at the court of Lewis XIV, I see no wonder in this shrubbery equal to seeing myself in it. If anybody had told me a year ago that this place would be my home, I should not have believed them. I have now been here nearly five months; the quietest five months I ever passed."
"Too quiet for you, I believe."
"I should have thought so, but," and her eyes brightened, "all and all, I never spent so happy a summer. But then," more thoughtfully, "there is no saying what it may lead to."
Fanny's heart beat quick, and she could not speak. Miss Crawford, however, soon went on-
"I am better reconciled to a country residence than I had ever expected to be. I can even suppose it pleasant to spend half the year in the country, under certain circumstances. An elegant house in the centre of family connexions; continual engagements; commanding the first society in the neighbourhood; and turning from the cheerful round of such amusements to a tte--tte with the person one feels most agreeable in the world. There is nothing frightful in such a picture, is there, Miss Price? One need not envy the new Mrs. Rushworth with such a home as that."
"Envy Mrs. Rushworth!"
"I look forward to our owing her a great many brilliant, happy hours at Sotherton. The first pleasures of Mr. Rushworth's wife must be to fill her house, and give the best balls in the country."
Fanny was silent, and Miss Crawford relapsed into thoughtfulness, till suddenly looking up, she exclaimed, "Ah! here he is." It was not Mr. Rushworth, however, but Edmund, who appeared with Mrs. Grant. "I am so glad your eldest cousin is gone, that he may be Mr. Bertram again. There is something in the sound of Mr. Edmund Bertram so pitiful, so younger-brother-like, that I detest it."
"How differently we feel!" cried Fanny. "To me, the sound of Mr. Bertram is so cold and nothing-meaning! It just stands for a gentleman, and that's all. But there is nobleness in the name of Edmund. It is a name of heroism and renown; and seems to breathe the spirit of chivalry and warm affections."
"I grant you the name is good in itself, and Lord Edmund or Sir Edmund sound delightfully; but sink it under the annihilation of a Mr., and Mr. Edmund is no more than Mr. John or Mr. Thomas. Well, shall we join them?"
Edmund met them with pleasure. A friendship between two so very dear to him was exactly what he could have wished: and to his credit, he did not consider Fanny as the only, or even as the greater gainer by such a friendship.
"Well," said Miss Crawford, "do you not scold us for our imprudence in sitting outside?"
"Perhaps I might have scolded," said Edmund, "if either of you had been alone; but while you do wrong together, I can overlook a great deal."
"They cannot have been sitting long," cried Mrs. Grant, "for when I saw them from the staircase window, they were walking."
"And really," added Edmund, "the day is so mild, that your sitting down can be hardly thought imprudent."
"Upon my word," cried Miss Crawford, "you are two of the most unfeeling kind friends I ever met with! There is no giving you a moment's uneasiness. You do not know what chills we have felt! I had very little hope of Mr Bertram from the first; but you, Mrs. Grant, my own sister, I think I had a right to alarm you a little."
"My dearest Mary, you have not the smallest chance of moving me. If I could have altered the weather, you would have had a good sharp east wind blowing on you-for here are some of my plants which Robert will leave out, and I know that we shall have a sudden hard frost setting in, and I shall lose every one; and what is worse, cook has just been telling me that the turkey, which I particularly wished not to be dressed till Sunday, will not keep beyond to-morrow. These are grievances, and make me think the weather most unseasonably warm."
"The sweets of housekeeping in a country village!" said Miss Crawford archly.
"My dear child, what would you have me do?"
"Oh! nothing but what you do already: be plagued very often, and never lose your temper."
"Thank you; but there is no escaping these little vexations, Mary, wherever we live; and when you are settled in town, I dare say I shall find you with yours."
"I mean to be too rich to feel anything of the sort. A large income is the best recipe for happiness I ever heard of."
"You intend to be very rich?" said Edmund seriously.
"To be sure. Do not you? Do not we all?"
"I cannot intend anything which it is so completely beyond my power to command. Miss Crawford may choose her degree of wealth. She has only to fix on her number of thousands a year, and there can be no doubt of their coming. My intentions are only not to be poor."
"By moderation and economy, and all that. And a very proper plan it is for a person at your time of life, with such limited means and poor connexions, with relations in no situation to do anything for you. Be honest and poor, by all means-but I shall not envy you. I have a much greater respect for those that are honest and rich."
"I do not mean to be poor. Honesty in the middle state, is all that I am anxious for your not looking down on."
"But I do look down upon it, if it might have been higher. I must look down upon anything contented with obscurity when it might rise to distinction."
"But how may it rise? How may my honesty rise to any distinction?"
This was not so very easy a question to answer, and occasioned an "Oh!" from the lady before she could add, "You ought to be in parliament, or you should have gone into the army ten years ago."
"That is not much to the purpose now; and as to parliament, I must wait till there is an especial assembly for younger sons with little to live on. No, Miss Crawford," he added more seriously, "there are distinctions which I should be miserable if I thought I could never obtain-but they are of a different character."
A look of consciousness as he spoke, and a consciousness of manner on Miss Crawford's side as she made some laughing answer, was sorrowful for Fanny to observe. She resolved on going home immediately, and began her adieus; on which Edmund recollected that his mother had been inquiring for her, and that he had walked down to the Parsonage to bring her back.
Fanny would have hastened away alone; but she found that Edmund meant to go with her. He took his leave of Dr Grant, and was invited to eat with him the next day. Then Mrs. Grant turned to her and asked for the pleasure of her company too.
This was so perfectly new a circumstance in Fanny's life, that she was all embarrassment; and while stammering out "but she did not suppose it would be in her power," was looking at Edmund for his help. But Edmund, delighted at the offer, could not imagine that his mother would make any difficulty, and therefore advised that the invitation should be accepted; and it was soon settled that Mrs. Grant might expect her.
"And you know what your dinner will be," said Mrs. Grant, smiling-"the turkey, which cook insists upon being dressed to-morrow."
"I am glad to hear it," cried Dr. Grant. "But a friendly meeting, and not a fine dinner, is all we have in view."
The two cousins walked home together; and, except in the discussion of this engagement, which Edmund spoke of with satisfaction, it was a silent walk; for having finished that subject, he grew thoughtful and indisposed for any other.


It was not in Miss Crawford's power to talk Fanny into any real forgetfulness of what had passed. When the evening was over, she went to bed full of it, her nerves still agitated by the shock of such an attack from her cousin Tom, so public and so persevered in, and her spirits sinking under her aunt's unkind reflection and reproach. To be called into notice in such a manner, to hear that it was but the prelude to something so infinitely worse, to be told that she must do what was so impossible as to act; and then to have the charge of obstinacy and ingratitude follow it, enforced with such a hint at the dependence of her situation, had been too distressing at the time to make the remembrance when she was alone much less so, especially with the superadded dread of what the morrow might produce in continuation of the subject. Miss Crawford had protected her only for the time; and if she were applied to again among themselves with all the authoritative urgency that Tom and Maria were capable of, and Edmund perhaps away, what should she do? She fell asleep before she could answer the question, and found it quite as puzzling when she awoke the next morning. The little white attic, which had continued her sleeping-room ever since her first entering the family, proving incompetent to suggest any reply, she had recourse, as soon as she was dressed, to another apartment more spacious and more meet for walking about in and thinking, and of which she had now for some time been almost equally mistress. It had been their school-room; so called till the Miss Bertrams would not allow it to be called so any longer, and inhabited as such to a later period. There Miss Lee had lived, and there they had read and written, and talked and laughed, till within the last three years, when she had quitted them. The room had then become useless, and for some time was quite deserted, except by Fanny, when she visited her plants, or wanted one of the books, which she was still glad to keep there, from the deficiency of space and accommodation in her little chamber above: but gradually, as her value for the comforts of it increased, she had added to her possessions, and spent more of her time there; and having nothing to oppose her, had so naturally and so artlessly worked herself into it, that it was now generally admitted to be hers. The East room, as it had been called ever since Maria Bertram was sixteen, was now considered Fanny's, almost as decidedly as the white attic: the smallness of the one making the use of the other so evidently reasonable that the Miss Bertrams, with every superiority in their own apartments which their own sense of superiority could demand, were entirely approving it; and Mrs. Norris, having stipulated for there never being a fire in it on Fanny's account, was tolerably resigned to her having the use of what nobody else wanted, though the terms in which she sometimes spoke of the indulgence seemed to imply that it was the best room in the house.
The aspect was so favourable that even without a fire it was habitable in many an early spring and late autumn morning to such a willing mind as Fanny's; and while there was a gleam of sunshine she hoped not to be driven from it entirely, even when winter came. The comfort of it in her hours of leisure was extreme. She could go there after anything unpleasant below, and find immediate consolation in some pursuit, or some train of thought at hand. Her plants, her books-of which she had been a collector from the first hour of her commanding a shilling-her writing-desk, and her works of charity and ingenuity, were all within her reach; or if indisposed for employment, if nothing but musing would do, she could scarcely see an object in that room which had not an interesting remembrance connected with it. Everything was a friend, or bore her thoughts to a friend; and though there had been sometimes much of suffering to her; though her motives had often been misunderstood, her feelings disregarded, and her comprehension undervalued; though she had known the pains of tyranny, of ridicule, and neglect, yet almost every recurrence of either had led to something consolatory: her aunt Bertram had spoken for her, or Miss Lee had been encouraging, or, what was yet more frequent or more dear, Edmund had been her champion and her friend: he had supported her cause or explained her meaning, he had told her not to cry, or had given her some proof of affection which made her tears delightful; and the whole was now so blended together, so harmonised by distance, that every former affliction had its charm. The room was most dear to her, and she would not have changed its furniture for the handsomest in the house, though what had been originally plain had suffered all the ill-usage of children; and its greatest elegancies and ornaments were a faded footstool of Julia's work, too ill done for the drawing-room, three transparencies, made in a rage for transparencies, for the three lower panes of one window, where Tintern Abbey held its station between a cave in Italy and a moonlight lake in Cumberland, a collection of family profiles, thought unworthy of being anywhere else, over the mantelpiece, and by their side, and pinned against the wall, a small sketch of a ship sent four years ago from the Mediterranean by William, with H.M.S. Antwerp at the bottom, in letters as tall as the mainmast.
To this nest of comforts Fanny now walked down to try its influence on an agitated, doubting spirit, to see if by looking at Edmund's profile she could catch any of his counsel, or by giving air to her geraniums she might inhale a breeze of mental strength herself. But she had more than fears of her own perseverance to remove: she had begun to feel undecided as to what she _ought_ _to_ _do_; and as she walked round the room her doubts were increasing. Was she _right_ in refusing what was so warmly asked, so strongly wished for-what might be so essential to a scheme on which some of those to whom she owed the greatest complaisance had set their hearts? Was it not ill-nature, selfishness, and a fear of exposing herself? And would Edmund's judgment, would his persuasion of Sir Thomas's disapprobation of the whole, be enough to justify her in a determined denial in spite of all the rest? It would be so horrible to her to act that she was inclined to suspect the truth and purity of her own scruples; and as she looked around her, the claims of her cousins to being obliged were strengthened by the sight of present upon present that she had received from them. The table between the windows was covered with work-boxes and netting-boxes which had been given her at different times, principally by Tom; and she grew bewildered as to the amount of the debt which all these kind remembrances produced. A tap at the door roused her in the midst of this attempt to find her way to her duty, and her gentle "Come in" was answered by the appearance of one, before whom all her doubts were wont to be laid. Her eyes brightened at the sight of Edmund.
"Can I speak with you, Fanny, for a few minutes?" said he.
"Yes, certainly."
"I want to consult. I want your opinion."
"My opinion!" she cried, shrinking from such a compliment, highly as it gratified her.
"Yes, your advice and opinion. I do not know what to do. This acting scheme gets worse and worse, you see. They have chosen almost as bad a play as they could, and now, to complete the business, are going to ask the help of a young man very slightly known to any of us. This is the end of all the privacy and propriety which was talked about at first. I know no harm of Charles Maddox; but the excessive intimacy which must spring from his being admitted among us in this manner is highly objectionable, the _more_ than intimacy-the familiarity. I cannot think of it with any patience; and it does appear to me an evil of such magnitude as must, _if_ _possible_, be prevented. Do not you see it in the same light?"
"Yes; but what can be done? Your brother is so determined."
"There is but _one_ thing to be done, Fanny. I must take Anhalt myself. I am well aware that nothing else will quiet Tom."
Fanny could not answer him.
"It is not at all what I like," he continued. "No man can like being driven into the _appearance_ of such inconsistency. After being known to oppose the scheme from the beginning, there is absurdity in the face of my joining them _now_, when they are exceeding their first plan in every respect; but I can think of no other alternative. Can you, Fanny?"
"No," said Fanny slowly, "not immediately, but-"
"But what? I see your judgment is not with me. Think it a little over. Perhaps you are not so much aware as I am of the mischief that _may_, of the unpleasantness that _must_ arise from a young man's being received in this manner: domesticated among us; authorised to come at all hours, and placed suddenly on a footing which must do away all restraints. To think only of the licence which every rehearsal must tend to create. It is all very bad! Put yourself in Miss Crawford's place, Fanny. Consider what it would be to act Amelia with a stranger. She has a right to be felt for, because she evidently feels for herself. I heard enough of what she said to you last night to understand her unwillingness to be acting with a stranger; and as she probably engaged in the part with different expectations-perhaps without considering the subject enough to know what was likely to be-it would be ungenerous, it would be really wrong to expose her to it. Her feelings ought to be respected. Does it not strike you so, Fanny? You hesitate."
"I am sorry for Miss Crawford; but I am more sorry to see you drawn in to do what you had resolved against, and what you are known to think will be disagreeable to my uncle. It will be such a triumph to the others!"
"They will not have much cause of triumph when they see how infamously I act. But, however, triumph there certainly will be, and I must brave it. But if I can be the means of restraining the publicity of the business, of limiting the exhibition, of concentrating our folly, I shall be well repaid. As I am now, I have no influence, I can do nothing: I have offended them, and they will not hear me; but when I have put them in good-humour by this concession, I am not without hopes of persuading them to confine the representation within a much smaller circle than they are now in the high road for. This will be a material gain. My object is to confine it to Mrs. Rushworth and the Grants. Will not this be worth gaining?"
"Yes, it will be a great point."
"But still it has not your approbation. Can you mention any other measure by which I have a chance of doing equal good?"
"No, I cannot think of anything else."
"Give me your approbation, then, Fanny. I am not comfortable without it."
"Oh, cousin!"
"If you are against me, I ought to distrust myself, and yet-But it is absolutely impossible to let Tom go on in this way, riding about the country in quest of anybody who can be persuaded to act-no matter whom: the look of a gentleman is to be enough. I thought _you_ would have entered more into Miss Crawford's feelings."
"No doubt she will be very glad. It must be a great relief to her," said Fanny, trying for greater warmth of manner.
"She never appeared more amiable than in her behaviour to you last night. It gave her a very strong claim on my goodwill."
"She _was_ very kind, indeed, and I am glad to have her spared"...
She could not finish the generous effusion. Her conscience stopt her in the middle, but Edmund was satisfied.
"I shall walk down immediately after breakfast," said he, "and am sure of giving pleasure there. And now, dear Fanny, I will not interrupt you any longer. You want to be reading. But I could not be easy till I had spoken to you, and come to a decision. Sleeping or waking, my head has been full of this matter all night. It is an evil, but I am certainly making it less than it might be. If Tom is up, I shall go to him directly and get it over, and when we meet at breakfast we shall be all in high good-humour at the prospect of acting the fool together with such unanimity. _You_, in the meanwhile, will be taking a trip into China, I suppose. How does Lord Macartney go on?"-opening a volume on the table and then taking up some others. "And here are Crabbe's Tales, and the Idler, at hand to relieve you, if you tire of your great book. I admire your little establishment exceedingly; and as soon as I am gone, you will empty your head of all this nonsense of acting, and sit comfortably down to your table. But do not stay here to be cold."
He went; but there was no reading, no China, no composure for Fanny. He had told her the most extraordinary, the most inconceivable, the most unwelcome news; and she could think of nothing else. To be acting! After all his objections-objections so just and so public! After all that she had heard him say, and seen him look, and known him to be feeling. Could it be possible? Edmund so inconsistent! Was he not deceiving himself? Was he not wrong? Alas! it was all Miss Crawford's doing. She had seen her influence in every speech, and was miserable. The doubts and alarms as to her own conduct, which had previously distressed her, and which had all slept while she listened to him, were become of little consequence now. This deeper anxiety swallowed them up. Things should take their course; she cared not how it ended. Her cousins might attack, but could hardly tease her. She was beyond their reach; and if at last obliged to yield-no matter-it was all misery now.

Miss Crawford could not make Fanny forget what had passed. She went to bed full of it, her nerves still agitated and her spirits sinking under her aunt's unkind reproach. To be told that she must do what was so impossible as to act; and then to have the charge of obstinacy and ingratitude follow, had been distressing, especially with the added dread of what the morrow might produce. Miss Crawford had protected her only for the time; and if she were applied to again, what should she do?
She fell asleep before she could answer the question, and found it quite as puzzling when she awoke the next morning. The little white attic, where she had always slept, suggesting no reply, she went as soon as she was dressed to the old school-room. When Miss Lee had quitted them, the room had become quite deserted, except by Fanny, who still kept her books there: gradually, she had added to her possessions, and spent more of her time there, and the East room was now considered hers. The Miss Bertrams, with every superiority in their own apartments, were entirely approving it; and Mrs. Norris, having stipulated that there should never be a fire in it on Fanny's account, was resigned to her having what nobody else wanted, though she sometimes spoke as if it was the best room in the house.
Even without a fire, Fanny found great comfort there in her hours of leisure. After anything unpleasant below, she could find immediate consolation in her plants, her books, her writing-desk, and her works of charity, all within her reach; or if nothing but musing would do, she could scarcely see an object in that room which had not an interesting remembrance connected with it. Everything was a friend; and held a memory of how her aunt Bertram had spoken for her, or Miss Lee had been encouraging, or how Edmund had been her champion; he had supported her cause, he had told her not to cry, or had given her some proof of affection which made her tears delightful.
The room was most dear to her, and she would not have changed its furniture for the handsomest in the house, though its greatest elegancies were a faded footstool of Julia's work, too ill done for the drawing-room, a collection of family profiles, thought unworthy of being anywhere else, and a small sketch of a ship sent four years ago from the Mediterranean by William, with H.M.S. Antwerp at the bottom, in letters as tall as the mainmast.
But as Fanny walked round the room on this morning, her doubts were increasing. Was she right in refusing what was so strongly wished for? Was it not selfishness, and a fear of exposing herself? It would be so horrible to her to act that she was inclined to suspect the purity of her own scruples; and as she looked around, the claims of her cousins were strengthened by the sight of present upon present that she had received from them. The table was covered with work-boxes which had been given her at different times, principally by Tom; and she grew bewildered. A tap at the door roused her, and her gentle "Come in" was answered by the appearance of one, before whom all her doubts were wont to be laid. Her eyes brightened at the sight of Edmund.
"Can I speak with you, Fanny?" said he.
"Yes, certainly."
"I want your opinion."
"My opinion!" she cried, shrinking from such a compliment, highly as it gratified her.
"Yes. I do not know what to do. This acting scheme gets worse and worse, you see. They have chosen almost as bad a play as they could, and now are going to ask the help of a young man very slightly known to us. This is the end of privacy and propriety. I know no harm of Charles Maddox; but the excessive intimacy which must spring from his joining us is highly objectionable. It appears to me an evil that must, if possible, be prevented."
"Yes; but what can be done? Your brother is so determined."
"I must take Anhalt myself, Fanny. Nothing else will quiet Tom."
Fanny could not answer him.
"It is not what I like," he continued, "but I can think of no other alternative. Can you, Fanny?"
"No," said Fanny slowly, "not immediately, but-"
"I see your judgment is not with me. Think it over. Perhaps you are not aware of the unpleasantness that must arise from a young man's being received in this manner. Think of the licence which every rehearsal must create. It is very bad! Put yourself in Miss Crawford's place, Fanny. I heard enough of what she said to you last night to understand her unwillingness to act with a stranger; and as she probably took the part with different expectations-it would be really wrong to expose her to it. Does it not strike you so, Fanny? You hesitate."
"I am sorry for Miss Crawford; but I am more sorry to see you drawn in to do what you had resolved against, and what you think will be disagreeable to my uncle. It will be such a triumph to the others!"
"They will not have much cause of triumph when they see how infamously I act. But if I can restrain the publicity of the business, and limit the exhibition, I shall be repaid. As I am now, I have no influence: but when I have put them in good-humour by this concession, I hope to persuade them to confine the play within a much smaller circle, to Mrs. Rushworth and the Grants. Will not this be worth gaining?"
"Yes, it will be a great point."
"But still it has not your approval. Give me your approbation, Fanny. I am not comfortable without it."
"Oh, cousin!"
"If you are against me, I ought to distrust myself, and yet I cannot let Tom go riding about the country in quest of anybody who can be persuaded to act. I thought you would have entered more into Miss Crawford's feelings."
"It must be a great relief to her," said Fanny, trying for greater warmth of manner.
"She never appeared more amiable than in her behaviour to you last night."
"She was very kind, indeed, and I am glad to have her spared..."
She could not finish, but Edmund was satisfied.
"Now, dear Fanny, I will not interrupt you any longer," said he. "But I could not be easy till I had spoken to you. My head has been full of this matter all night. I shall go to Tom directly and get it over, and when we meet at breakfast we shall be all in high good-humour at the prospect of acting the fool together. You, in the meanwhile, will be taking a trip into China, I suppose."-opening a volume on the table. "And here are Crabbe's Tales, and the Idler, to relieve you, if you tire of your great book. I admire your little establishment exceedingly; and as soon as I am gone, you will empty your head of all this nonsense, and sit comfortably down to your table."
He went; but there was no reading, no China, no composure for Fanny. He had told her the most extraordinary, the most unwelcome news; and she could think of nothing else. To be acting! After all his objections! Could it be possible? Edmund so inconsistent! Was he not deceiving himself? Was he not wrong?
Alas! it was all Miss Crawford's doing. She had seen her influence in every speech, and was miserable. The doubts as to her own conduct, which had previously distressed her, were become of little consequence now. This deeper anxiety swallowed them up. She cared not how it ended. Her cousins might attack, but she was beyond their reach; and if at last obliged to yield-no matter-it was all misery now.