 47 It had been a miserable party, each of the three believing themselves most miserable. Mrs. Norris, however, as most attached to Mariah, was really the greatest sufferer. Mariah was her first favorite, the dearest of all. The match had been her own contriving, as she had been won't with such pride of heart to feel and say, and this conclusion of it almost overpowered her. She was an altered creature, quieted, stupefied, indifferent to everything that passed. The being left with her sister and nephew, and all the house under her care, had been an advantage entirely thrown away. She had been unable to direct or dictate, or even fancy herself useful. When really touched by affliction, her active powers had been all benumbed, and neither Lady Bertram nor Tom had received from her the smallest support or attempt at support. She had done no more for them than they had done for each other. They had been all solitary, helpless, and forlorn alike, and now the arrival of the others only established her superiority in wretchedness. Her companions were relieved, but there was no good for her. Edmund was almost as welcome to his brother as Fanny to her aunt. But Mrs. Norris, instead of having comfort from either, was but the more irritated by the side of the person whom, in the blindness of her anger, she could have charged as the demon of the peace. Had Fanny accepted Mr. Crawford, this could not have happened. Susan too was a grievance. She had not spirits to notice her in more than a few repulsive looks, but she felt her as a spy, and an intruder, and an indigent niece, and everything most odious. By her other aunt Susan was received with quiet kindness. Lady Bertram could not give her much time or many words, but she felt her as Fanny's sister to have a claim at Mansfield, and was ready to kiss and like her. And Susan was more than satisfied, for she came perfectly aware that nothing but ill humor was to be expected from Aunt Norris, and was so provided with happiness, so strong in that best of blessings, an escape from many certain evils, that she could have stood against a great deal more indifferent than she met with from the others. She was now left a good deal to herself, to get acquainted with the house and grounds as she could, and spent her days very happily in so doing, while those who might otherwise have attended to her were shut up, or wholly occupied each with the person quite dependent on them, at this time, for everything like comfort. Edmund trying to bury his own feelings and exertions for the relief of his brothers, and Fanny devoted to her aunt Bertram, returning to every former office with more than former zeal, and thinking she could never do enough for one who seemed so much to want her. To talk over the dreadful business with Fanny, talk and lament was all Lady Bertram's consolation. To be listened to and born with, and hear the voice of kindness and sympathy in return, was everything that could be done for her. To be otherwise comforted was out of the question. The case admitted of no comfort. Lady Bertram did not think deeply, but guided by Sir Thomas, she thought justly on all important points, and she saw therefore in all its enormity what had happened, and neither endeavored herself nor required Fanny to advise her to think little of guilt and infamy. Her actions were not acute, nor was her mind tenacious. After a time Fanny found it not impossible to direct her thoughts to other subjects, and revive some interest in the usual occupations. But whenever Lady Bertram was fixed on the event, she could see it only in one light, as comprehending the loss of a daughter, and a disgrace never to be wiped off. Fanny learnt from her all the particulars which had yet transpired. Her aunt was no very methodical narrator, but with the help of some letters to and from Sir Thomas, and what she already knew herself and could reasonably combine, she was soon able to understand quite as much as she wished of the circumstances attending the story. Mrs. Rushworth had gone for the Easter holidays to Twickenham, with a family whom she had just gone intimate with, a family of lively, agreeable manners, and probably of morals and discretion to suit, for to their house Mr. Crawford had constant access at all times, his having been in the same neighbourhood Fanny already knew. Mr. Rushworth had been gone at this time to Bath, to pass a few days with his mother and to bring her back to town, and Mariah was with these friends without any restraint, without even Julia, for Julia had removed from Wimpole Street two or three weeks before, on a visit to some relations of Sir Thomas. A removal which her father and mother were now disposed to attribute to some view of convenience on Mr. Yates's account. Very soon after the Rushworth's return to Wimpole Street, Sir Thomas had received a letter from an old and most particular friend in London, who hearing and witnessing a good deal to alarm him in that quarter, wrote to recommend Sir Thomas his coming to London himself, and using his influence with his daughter to put an end to the intimacy which was already exposing her to unpleasant remarks, and evidently making Mr. Rushworth uneasy. Sir Thomas was preparing to act upon this letter, without communicating its contents to any creature at Mansfield, when it was followed by another, sent express from the same friend, to break to him the almost desperate situation in which affairs then stood with the young people. Mrs. Rushworth had left her husband's house. Mr. Rushworth had been in great anger and distress to him, Mr. Harding, for his advice. Mr. Harding feared that there had been at least very flagrant indiscretion. The maid-servant of Mrs. Rushworth's senior threatened alarmingly. He was doing all in his power to quiet everything with the hope of Mrs. Rushworth's return, but was so much counteracted in Wimpole Street by the influence of Mr. Rushworth's mother that the worst consequences might be apprehended. This dreadful communication could not be kept from the rest of the family. Sir Thomas set off, Edmund would go with him, and the others had been left in a state of wretchedness, inferior only to what followed the receipt of the next letters from London. Everything was by that time public beyond a hope. The servant of Mrs. Rushworth, the mother, had exposure in her power, and supported by her mistress was not to be silenced. The two ladies, even in the short time they had been together, had disagreed, and the bitterness of the elder against her daughter-in-law might perhaps arise almost as much from the personal disrespect with which she had herself been treated as from sensibility for her son. However that might be she was unmanageable, but had she been less obstinate or of less weight with her son, who was always guided by the last speaker by the person who could get hold of and shut him up, the case would still have been hopeless, for Mrs. Rushworth did not appear again, and there was every reason to conclude her to be concealed somewhere with Mr. Crawford, who had quitted his uncle's house, as for a journey, on the very day of her absenting herself. Sir Thomas, however, remained yet a little longer in town, in the hope of discovering and snatching her from farther vice, though all was lost on the side of character. His present state fan he could hardly bear to think of. There was but one of his children who was not at this time a source of misery to him. Tom's complaints had been greatly heightened by the shock of his sister's conduct, and his recovery so much thrown back by it that even Lady Bertram had been struck by the difference, and all her alarms were regularly sent off to her husband. And Julia's allotment, the additional blow which had met him on his arrival in London, though its force had been deadened at the moment, must, she knew, be sorely felt. She saw that it was. His letters expressed how much he deplored it. Under any circumstances it would have been an unwelcome alliance, but to have it so clandestinely formed, in such a period chosen for its completion, placed Julia's feelings in a most unfavorable light, and severely aggravated the folly of her choice. He called it a bad thing, done in the worst manner, and at the worst time, and though Julia was yet as more pardonable than Mariah as folly than vice, he could not but regard the step she had taken as opening the worst probabilities of a conclusion hereafter like her sister's. Such was his opinion of the set into which she had thrown herself. Fanny felt for him most acutely. He could have no comfort but in Edmund. Every other child must be racking his heart. His displeasure against herself she trusted reasoning differently from Mrs. Norris would now be done away. She should be justified. Mr. Crawford would have fully acquitted her conduct in refusing him. But this, though most material to herself, would be poor consolation to Sir Thomas. Her uncle's displeasure was terrible to her, but what could her justification of her gratitude and attachment do for him? His stay must be on Edmund alone. She was mistaken, however, in supposing that Edmund gave his father no present pain. It was of a much less poignant nature than what the others excited, but Sir Thomas was considering his happiness as very deeply involved in the offence of his sister and friend. Cut off by it, as he must be from the woman whom he had been pursuing with undoubted attachment and strong probability of success, and who in everything but this despicable brother would have been so eligible a connection. He was aware of what Edmund must be suffering on his own behalf, in addition to all the rest when they were in town. He had seen or conjectured his feelings, and having reason to think that one interview with Miss Crawford had taken place, from which Edmund derived only increased distress, had been as anxious on that account as on others to get him out of town, and had engaged him in taking Fanny home to her aunt, with a view to his relief and benefit, no less than theirs. Fanny was not in the secret of her uncle's feelings. Sir Thomas not in the secret of Miss Crawford's character. Had he been privy to her conversation with his son, he would not have wished her to belong to him, though her twenty thousand pounds had been forty. That Edmund must be forever divided from Miss Crawford did not admit of a doubt with Fanny, and yet till she knew that he felt the same, her own conviction was insufficient. She thought he did, but she wanted to be assured of it. If he would now speak to her with the unreserve which had sometimes been too much for her before, it would be most consoling. But that, she found, was not to be. She seldom saw him, never alone. He probably avoided being alone with her. What was to be inferred? That his judgment submitted to all his own peculiar and bitter share of his family affliction, but that it was too keenly felt to be a subject of the slightest communication. This must be his state. He yielded, but it was with agonies which did not admit of speech. Long, long would it be Air Miss Crawford's name passed his lips again, or she could hope for a renewal of such confidential intercourse as had been. It was long. They reached Mansfield on Thursday, and it was not till Sunday evening that Edmund began to talk to her on the subject. Sitting with her on Sunday evening, a wet Sunday evening, the very time of all others when, if a friend is at hand, the heart must be opened, and everything told. No one else in the room except his mother, who after hearing an affecting sermon had cried herself to sleep. It was impossible not to speak. And so, with the usual beginnings, hardly to be traced as to what came first, and the usual declaration that if she would listen to him for a few minutes he should be very brief, and certainly never tax her kindness in the same way again, she need not fear repetition. It should be a subject prohibited entirely. He entered upon the luxury of relating circumstances and sensations of the first interest to himself, to one of whose affectionate sympathy he was quite convinced. How Fanny listened, with what curiosity and concern, what pain and what delight, how the agitation of his voice was watched, and how carefully her own eyes were fixed on any object but himself, may be imagined. The opening was alarming. He had seen Miss Crawford. He had been invited to see her. He had received a note from Lady Stornoway to beg him to call, and regarding it as what was meant to be the last, last interview of friendship, then investing her with all the feelings of shame and wretchedness which Crawford's sister ought to have known, he had gone to her in such a state of mind, so softened, so devoted, as made it for a few moments impossible to Fanny's fears that it should be the last. But, as he proceeded in his story, these fears were over. She had met him, he said, with a serious—certainly a serious—even an agitated air. But before he had been able to speak one intelligible sentence, she had introduced the subject in a manner which he owned had shocked him. I heard you were in town, said she. I wanted to see you. Let us talk over this sad business. What can equal the folly of our two relations? I could not answer, but I believe my looks spoke. She felt reproved. Sometimes how quick to feel! With a graver look and voice she then added, I do not mean to defend Henry at your sister's expense. So she began, but how she went on, Fanny, is not fit, is hardly fit to be repeated to you. I cannot recall all her words. I would not dwell upon them if I could. Their substance was great anger at the folly of each. She reprobated her brother's folly and being drawn on by a woman whom he had never cared for, to do what must lose him the woman he adored, but still more the folly of poor Mariah in sacrificing such a situation, plunging into such difficulties under the idea of being really loved by a man who had long ago made his indifference clear. Guess what I must have felt to hear the woman whom no harsher name than folly given, so voluntarily, so freely, so coolly to canvas it. No reluctance, no horror, no feminine, shall I say, no modest loathings. This is what the world does. For where, Fanny, shall we find a woman whom nature has so richly endowed? Spoilt! Spoilt! After a little reflection he went on with a sort of desperate calmness. I will tell you everything and then have done forever. She saw it only as folly and the folly stamped only by exposure, the want of common discretion of caution. He's going down to Richmond from the whole time of her being at Twickenham, her putting herself in the power of a servant. It was the detection in short. Oh Fanny, it was the detection, not the offence which she reprobated. It was the imprudence which had brought things to extremity and obliged her brother to give up every dearer plan in order to fly with her. He stopped. And what? said Fanny, believing herself required to speak. What could you say? Nothing. Nothing could be understood. I was like a man stunned. She went on, began to talk of you. Yes, she began to talk of you, regretting as she might the loss of such a... There, she spoke very rationally, but she's always done justice to you. He's thrown away, said she, such a woman as he will never see again. She would have fixed him. She would have made him happy forever. My dearest Fanny, I'm giving you I hope more pleasure than pain by this retrospect of what might have been, but what never can be now. You do not wish me to be silent. If you do, give me but a look, a word, and I have done. No look or word was given. Thank God, said he. We were all disposed to wonder, but it seems to have been the merciful appointment of providence that the heart which knew no guile should not suffer. She spoke of you with high praise and warm affection, yet even here there was alloy, a dash of evil. For in the midst of it she could explain, why would she not have him? It is all her fault. Simple girl, I shall never forgive her. Had she accepted him as she ought, they might now have been on the point of marriage, and Henry would have been too happy and too busy to want any other object. He would have taken no pains to be on terms with Mrs. Rushworth again. It would have all ended in a regular standing flirtation, in yearly meetings at Sutherford and Everingham. Could you have believed it possible, but the charm is broken, my eyes are opened. Cruel, said Fanny. Quite cruel, at such a moment to give way to gayity, to speak with likeness, and to you, absolute cruelty. Cruelty, do you call it? We differ there. No, hers is not a cruel nature. I do not consider her as meaning to wound my feelings. The evil lies yet deeper, in her total ignorance, unsuspiciousness of there being such feelings, in a perversion of mind which made it natural to her to treat the subject as she did. She was speaking only as she'd been used to her other speak, as she imagined everybody would speak. Hers are not faults of temper. She would not voluntarily give unnecessary pain to anyone, and though I may deceive myself I cannot but think that, for me, for my feelings, she would hear our faults of principle, Fanny, of blunted delicacy and a corrupted, vitiated mind. Perhaps it is best for me since it leaves me so little to regret. Not so, however. Gladly would I submit to all the increased pain of losing her, rather than have to think of her as I do. I told her so. Did you? Yes. When I left her I told her so. How long were you together? Five and twenty minutes. Well, she went on to say that what remained now to be done was to bring about a marriage between them. She spoke of it, Fanny, with a steadier voice than I can. He was obliged to pause more than once as he continued. We must persuade Henry to marry her, said she. And what with honour and the certainty of having shut himself out forever from Fanny, I do not despair of it. Fanny, he must give up. I do not think that even he could now hope to succeed with one of her stamp, and therefore I hope we may find no insuperable difficulty. My influence, which is not small, shall all go that way, and when once married and properly supported by her own family, people of respectability as they are, she may recover her footing in society to a certain degree. In some circles we know, she would never be admitted but with good dinners and large parties, there will always be those who will be land of her acquaintance. And there is undoubtedly more liberality and candour on these points than formally. What I advise is that your father be quiet. Do not let him injure his own cause by interference. Persuade him to let things take their course. If by any officious exertions of his, she is induced to leave Henry's protection, there will be much less chance of her marrying than if she remain with him. I know how he is likely to be influenced. Let Sir Thomas trust to his honour and compassion, and it may all end well. But if he gets his daughter away, it will be destroying the chief home. After repeating this Edmund was so much affected that Fanny, watching him with silent but most tender concern, was almost sorry that the subject had been entered on at all. It was long before he could speak again. At last. Now Fanny, said he, I shall soon have done. I have told you the substance of all that she said. As soon as I could speak I replied that I had not supposed it possible, coming in such a state of mind into that house as I had done, that anything could occur to make me suffer more, but that she had been inflicting deeper wounds in almost every sentence. That though I had, in the course of our acquaintance, been often sensible of some difference in our opinions, on points too of some moment, it had not entered my imagination to conceive the difference could be such as she had now proved it. That the manner in which she treated the dreadful crime committed by her brother and my sister, with whom lay the greatest seduction I pretended not to say, but the manner in which she spoke of the crime itself, giving it every reproach but the right, considering its ill consequences only as they were to be braved or overborn by a defiance of decency and impudence in wrong, and last of all and above all recommending to us a compliance, a compromise and acquiescence in the continuance of the sin on the chance of a marriage which, thinking as I now thought of her brother, should rather be prevented than sought. All this together most grievously condensed me that I had never understood her before, and that as far as related to mind it had been the creature of my own imagination, not Miss Crawford, that I had been too apt to dwell on for many months past, that perhaps it was best for me, I had less to regret in sacrificing a friendship, feelings, hopes, which must at any rate have been torn from me now, and yet that I must and would confess that could I have restored her to what she had appeared to me before I would infinitely prefer any increase of the pain of parting for the sake of carrying with me the right of tenderness and esteem. This is what I said, the purport of it, but as you may imagine not spoken so collectively or methodically as I have repeated it to you. She was astonished, exceedingly astonished, more than astonished. I saw her change countenance she turned extremely red. I imagined I saw a mixture of many feelings, a great though short struggle, half a wish of yielding to truths, half a sense of shame. But habit, habit carried it. She would have laughed if she could. It was a sort of laugh as she answered, a pretty good lecture upon my word. Was it part of your last sermon? At this rate you will soon reform everybody at Man's Field and Thornton Lacy, and when I hear of you next it may be as a celebrated preacher in some great society of Methodists or as a missionary into foreign parts. She tried to speak carelessly, but she was not so careless as she wanted to appear. I only said in reply that from my heart I wished her well and earnestly hoped that she might soon learn to think more justly and not owe the most valuable knowledge we could any of us acquire, the knowledge of ourselves and of our duty to the lessons of affliction, and immediately left the room. I had gone a few steps, Fanny, when I heard the door open behind me. Mr Bertram said she. I looked back. Mr Bertram said she with a smile, but it was a smile ill-stuted to the conversation that had passed, a saucy, playful smile, seeming to invite in order to subdue me. At least it appeared so to me. I resisted. It was the impulse of the moment to resist, and still walked on. I have since sometimes for a moment regretted that I did not go back, but I know it was right, and such has been the end of our acquaintance, and what an acquaintance has it been. How have I been deceived, equally in brother and sister deceived? I thank you for your patience, Fanny. This has been the greatest relief, and now we will have done. And such was Fanny's dependence on his words, that for five minutes she thought they had done. Then, however, it all came on again, or something very like it, and nothing less than Lady Bertram's rousing thoroughly up could really close such a conversation. Till that happened they continued to talk of Miss Crawford alone, and how she had attached him, and how delightful nature had made her, and how excellent she would have been had she fallen into good hands earlier. Fanny, now at liberty to speak openly, felt more than justified in adding to his knowledge of her real character by some hint of what share his brother's state of health might be supposed to have in her wish for a complete reconciliation. This was not an agreeable intimation. Nature resisted it for a while. It would have been a vast deal pleasant her to have had her more disinterested in her attachment, but his vanity was not of a strength to fight long against reason. He submitted to believe that Tom's illness had influenced her, only reserving for himself this consoling thought, that considering the many counteractions of opposing habits, she had certainly been more attached to him than could have been expected, and for his sake been more near doing right. Fanny thought exactly the same, and they were also quite agreed in their opinion of the lasting effect the indelible impression which such a disappointment must make on his mind. Time would undoubtedly abate somewhat of his sufferings, but still it was a sort of thing which he could never get entirely the better of, and as to his ever meeting with any other woman who could, it was too impossible to be named but with indignation. Fanny's friendship was all that he had to cling to. Jane Austen Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery. I quit such odious subjects as soon as I can, impatient to restore everybody not greatly in fault themselves, too tolerable comfort, and to have done with all the rest. My fanny indeed at this very time I have the satisfaction of knowing must have been happy in spite of everything. She must have been a happy creature in spite of all that she felt or thought she felt for the distress of those around her. She had sources of delight that must force their way. She was returned to Mansfield Park. She was useful. She was beloved. She was safe from Mr. Crawford. And when Sir Thomas came back, she had every proof that could be given in his then melancholy state of spirits of his perfect approbation and increased regard. And happy as all this must make her, she would still have been happy without any of it, for Edmund was no longer the dupe of Miss Crawford. It is true that Edmund was very far from happy himself. He was suffering from disappointment and regret, grieving over what was, and wishing for what never could be. She knew it was so, and was sorry. But it was with a sorrow so founded on satisfaction, so tending to ease, and so much in harmony with every dearest sensation, that there are few who might not have been glad to exchange their greatest gaiety for it. Sir Thomas, poor Sir Thomas, a parent and conscious of errors in his own conduct as a parent, was the longest to suffer. He felt that he ought not to have allowed the marriage, that his daughter's sentiments had been sufficiently known to him, to render him culpable in authorizing it, that in so doing he had sacrificed the right to the expedient and been governed by motives of selfishness and worldly wisdom. These were reflections that required some time to soften, but time will do almost everything. And though little comfort arose on Mrs. Rushworth's side for the misery she had occasioned, comfort was to be found greater than he had supposed in his other children. Julia's match became a less desperate business than he had considered it at first. She was humble and wishing to be forgiven, and Mr. Yates, desirous of being really received into the family, was disposed to look up to him and be guided. He was not very solid, but there was a hope of his becoming less trifling, of his being at least tolerably domestic and quiet, and at any rate there was comfort in finding his estate rather more and his debts much less than he had feared, and in being consulted and treated as the friend best worth attending to. There was comfort also in Tom, who gradually regained his health, without regaining the thoughtlessness and selfishness of his previous habits. He was the better forever for his illness. He had suffered, and he had learned to think. Two advantages that he had never known before. And the self-reproach arising from the deplorable event in Wimpole Street, to which he felt himself accessory by all the dangerous intimacy of his unjustifiable theatre, made an impression on his mind, which at the age of six and twenty, with no want of sense or good companions, was durable in its happy effects. He became what he ought to be, useful to his father, steady and quiet, and not living merely for himself. Here was comfort indeed, and quite as soon as Sir Thomas could place dependence on such sources of good, Edmund was contributing to his father's ease by improvement in the only point in which he had given him pain before—improvement in his spirits. After wandering about and sitting under trees with Fanny all the summer evenings, he had so well talked his mind into submission, as to be very tolerably cheerful again. These were the circumstances and the hopes which gradually brought their alleviation to Sir Thomas, deadening his sense of what was lost, and in part reconciling him to himself, though the anguish arising from the conviction of his own errors in the education of his daughters was never to be entirely done away. Too late he became aware how unfavourable to the character of any young people must be the totally opposite treatment which Mariah and Julia had been always experiencing at home, where the excessive indulgence and flattery of their aunt had been continually contrasted with his own severity. He saw how ill he had judged, in expecting to counteract what was wrong in Mrs. Norris by its reverse in himself. Clearly saw that he had but increased the evil by teaching them to repress their spirits in his presence so as to make their real dispositions unknown to him, and sending them for all their indulgences to a person who had been able to attach them only by the blindness of her affection and the excess of her praise. Here had been grievous mismanagement, but bad as it was he gradually grew to feel that it had not been the most direful mistake in his plan of education. Something must have been wanting within, or time would have worn away much of its ill effect. He feared that principal, active principal, had been wanting, that they had never been properly taught to govern their inclinations and tempers by that sense of duty which can alone suffice. They had been instructed theoretically in their religion, but never required to bring it into daily practice. To be distinguished for elegance and accomplishments, the authorized object of their youth could have had no useful influence that way, no moral effect on the mind. He had meant them to be good, but his cares had been directed to the understanding and manners, not the disposition, and of the necessity of self-denial and humility he feared they had never heard from any lips that could profit them. Bitterly did he deplore a deficiency which now he could scarcely comprehend to have been possible. Wretchedly did he feel that with all the cost and care of an anxious and expensive education he had brought up his daughters without their understanding their first duties, or his being acquainted with their character and temper. The high spirit and strong passions of Mrs. Rushworth especially were made known to him only in their sad result. She was not to be prevailed on to leave Mr. Crawford. She hoped to marry him, and they continued together till she was obliged to be convinced that such hope was vain, and till the disappointment and wretchedness arising from the conviction rendered her temper so bad and her feelings for him so like hatred as to make them for a while each other's punishment and thence induce a voluntary separation. She had lived with him to be reproached as the ruin of all his happiness and fanny, and carried away no better consolation in leaving him than that she had divided them. What can exceed the misery of such a mind in such a situation? Mr. Rushworth had no difficulty in procuring a divorce, and so ended a marriage contracted under such circumstances as to make any better end the effect of good luck not to be reckoned on. She had despised him and loved another, and he had been very much aware that it was so. The indignities of stupidity and the disappointments of selfish passion can excite little pity. His punishment followed his conduct, as did a deeper punishment the deeper guilt of his wife. He was released from the engagement to be mortified and unhappy till some other pretty girl could attract him into matrimony again, and he might set forward on a second and it is to be hoped more prosperous trial of the state. If duped, to be duped at least with good humor and good luck, while she must withdraw with infinitely stronger feelings to a retirement and reproach which could allow no second spring of hope or character. Where she could be placed became a subject of most melancholy and momentous consultation. Mrs. Norris, whose attachment seemed to augment with the demerits of her niece, would have had her received at home and countenanced by them all. Sir Thomas would not hear of it, and Mrs. Norris' anger against Fanny was so much the greater from considering her residence there as the motive. She persisted in placing his scruples to her account, though Sir Thomas very solemnly assured her that, had there been no young woman in question, had there been no young person of either sex belonging to him to be endangered by the society or hurt by the character of Mrs. Rushworth, he would never have offered so great an insult to the neighborhood as to expect it to notice her. As a daughter, he hoped a penitent one, she should be protected by him and secured in every comfort and supported by every encouragement to do right, which their relative situations admitted, but farther than that he could not go. Mariah had destroyed her own character, and he would not by a vain attempt to restore what never could be restored by affording his sanction to vice or in seeking to lessen its disgrace be any wise accessory to introducing such misery in another man's family as he had known himself. It ended in Mrs. Norris' resolving to quit Mansfield and devote herself to her unfortunate Mariah, and in an establishment being formed for them in another country, remote and private, where shut up together with little society, on one side no affection, on the other no judgment, it may be reasonably supposed that their tempers became their mutual punishment. Mrs. Norris' removal from Mansfield was the great supplementary comfort of Sir Thomas' life. His opinion of her had been shrinking from the day of his return from Antigua, in every transaction together from that period, in their daily intercourse, in business, or in chat. She had been regularly losing ground in his esteem, and convincing him that either time had done her much to service, or that he had considerably overrated her sense, and wonderfully born with her manners before. He had felt her as an hourly evil, which was so much the worse, as there seemed no chance of its ceasing but with life, she seemed a part of himself that must be born forever. To be relieved from her, therefore, was so great a felicity, that had she not left bitter remembrances behind her, there might have been danger of his learning almost to approve the evil which produced such a good. She was regretted by no one at Mansfield. She had never been able to attach even though she loved best, and since Mrs. Rushworth's elopement, her temper had been in a state of such irritation as to make her everywhere tormenting. Not even Fanny had tears for Aunt Norris, not even when she was gone forever. That Julia escaped better than Mariah, was owing in some measure to a favorable difference of disposition and circumstance, but in a greater to her having been less the darling of that very Aunt, less flattered and less spoiled. Her beauty and acquirements had held but second place. She had been always used to think herself a little inferior to Mariah. Her temper was naturally the easiest of the two. Her feelings, though quick, were more controllable, and education had not given her so very hurtful a degree of self-consequence. She had submitted the best to the disappointment in Henry Crawford. After the first bitterness of the conviction of being slighted was over, she had been tolerably soon in a fair way of not thinking of him again, and when the acquaintance was renewed in town and Mr. Rushworth's house became Crawford's object, she had had the merit of withdrawing herself from it and of choosing that time to pay a visit to her other friends in order to secure herself from being again too much attracted. This had been her motive in going to her cousins. Mr. Yates's convenience had had nothing to do with it. She had been allowing his attention some time but with very little idea of ever accepting him, and had not her sister's conduct burst forth as it did and her increased dread of her father and home. On that event, imagining it certain consequence to herself would be greater severity and restraint, made her hastily resolve on avoiding such immediate horrors at all risks. It is probable that Mr. Yates would never have succeeded. She had not eloped with any worse feelings than those of selfish alarm. It had appeared to her the only thing to be done. Mariah's guilt had induced Julia's folly. Henry Crawford, ruined by early independence and bad domestic example, indulged in the freaks of cold-blooded vanity a little too long. Once it had, by an opening undesigned and unmerited, led him into the way of happiness. Could he have been satisfied with the conquest of one amiable woman's affections? Could he have found sufficient exultation in overcoming the reluctance, in working himself into the esteem and tenderness of fanny price, there would have been every probability of success and felicity for him. His affection had already done something. Her influence over him had already given him some influence over her. Would he have deserved more? There can be no doubt that more would have been obtained, especially when that marriage had taken place, which would have given him the assistance of her conscience in subduing her first inclination and brought them very often together. Would he have persevered and uprightly, fanny must have been his reward, and a reward very voluntarily bestowed within a reasonable period from Edmund's marrying Mary. Had he done as he intended and as he knew he ought, by going down to Everingham after his return from Portsmouth, he might have been deciding his own happy destiny. But he was pressed to stay for Mrs. Frazier's party, his staying was made of flattering consequence, and he was to meet Mrs. Rushworth there. Curiosity and vanity were both engaged, and the temptation of immediate pleasure was too strong for a mind unused to make any sacrifice to write. He resolved to defer his Norfolk journey, resolved that writing should answer the purpose of it, or that its purpose was unimportant and stayed. He saw Mrs. Rushworth was received by her with a coldness which ought to have been repulsive, and have established a parent indifference between them forever. But he was mortified, he could not bear to be thrown off by the woman whose smiles had been so holy at his command. He must exert himself to subdue so proud a display of resentment. It was anger on Fanny's account, he must get the better of it, and make Mrs. Rushworth Mariah Bertram again in her treatment of himself. In this spirit he began the attack, and by animated perseverance had soon re-established the sort of familiar intercourse of gallantry, of flirtation, which bounded his views. But in triumphing over the discretion, which though beginning in anger might have saved them both, he had put himself in the power of feelings on her side more strong than he had supposed. She loved him. There was no withdrawing attentions avowedly dear to her. He was entangled by his own vanity, with as little excuse of love as possible, and without the smallest inconstancy of mind towards her cousin. To keep Fanny and the Bertrams from a knowledge of what was passing became his first object. Secrecy could not have been more desirable for Mrs. Rushworth's credit than he felt for his own. When he returned from Richmond, he would have been glad to see Mrs. Rushworth no more. All that followed was the result of her imprudence, and he went off with her at last because he could not help it, regretting Fanny even at the moment, but regretting her infinitely more when all the bustle of the intrigue was over, and a very few months had taught him, by the force of contrast, to place a yet higher value on the sweetness of her temper, the purity of her mind, and the excellence of her principles. That punishment, the public punishment of disgrace, should in a just measure attend his share of the offence, is we know not one of the barriers which society gives to virtue. In this world the penalty is less equal than could be wished, but without presuming to look forward to adjust her appointment hereafter, we may fairly consider a man of sense, like Henry Crawford, to be providing for himself no small portion of vexation and regret, vexation that must rise sometimes to self-approach, and regret to wretchedness, in having so requited hospitality, so injured family peace, so forfeited his best, most estimable, and endeared acquaintance, and so lost the woman whom he had rationally, as well as passionately, loved. After what had passed to wound and alienate the two families, the continuance of the burterums and grants in such close neighbourhood would have been most distressing, but the absence of the latter, for some months purposely lengthened, ended very fortunately in the necessity, or at least the practicality, of a permanent removal. Dr. Grant, through an interest on which he had almost ceased to form hopes, succeeded to a stall in Westminster, which, as affording an occasion for leaving Mansfield, an excuse for residence in London, and an increase of income to answer the expenses of the change, was highly acceptable to those who went and those who stayed. Mrs. Grant, with a temper to love and be loved, must have gone with some regret from the scenes and people she had been used to. But the happiness of disposition must, in any place and any society, secure her a great deal to enjoy. And she had again a home to offer Mary. And as Mary had had enough of her own friends, enough of vanity, ambition, love and disappointment in the course of the last half year, to be in need of the true kindness of her sister's heart and the rational tranquility of her ways. They lived together, and when Dr. Grant had brought on apoplexy and death by three great institutionary dinners in one week, they still lived together. For Mary, though perfectly resolved against ever attaching herself to a younger brother again, was long in finding among the dashing representatives, or idle heir-apparents, who were at the command of her beauty, and her twenty thousand pounds, any one who could satisfy the better taste she had acquired at Mansfield, whose character and manners could authorize a hope of the domestic happiness she had there learned to estimate, or put Edmund Bertram sufficiently out of her head. Edmund had greatly the advantage of her in this respect. He had not to wait and wish with vacant affections for an object worthy to succeed her in them. Scarcely had he done regretting Mary Crawford, and observing to Fanny how impossible it was that he should ever meet with such another woman, before it began to strike him whether a very different kind of woman might not do just as well, or a great deal better, whether Fanny herself were not growing as dear as important to him in all her smiles and all her ways as Mary Crawford had ever been, and whether it might not be a possible and hopeful undertaking to persuade her that her warm and sisterly regard for him would be foundation enough for wedded love. I purposely abstain from dates on this occasion that everyone may be at liberty to fix their own, aware that the cure of unconquerable passions and the transfer of unchanging attachments must very much as to time in different people. I only entreat everybody to believe that exactly at the time when it was quite natural that it should be so, and not a week earlier, Edmund did cease to care about Miss Crawford, and became as anxious to marry Fanny as Fanny herself could desire. With such a regard for her indeed as his had long been, a regard founded on the most endearing claims of innocence and helplessness, and completed by every recommendation of growing worth, what could be more natural than the change? Loving, guiding, protecting her, as he had been doing ever since her being ten years old, her mind in so great a degree formed by his care, and her comfort depending on his kindness, an object to him of such close and peculiar interest, dear by all his own importance with her than anyone else at Mansfield, what was there now to add, but that he should learn to prefer soft, light eyes to sparkling dark ones? And being always with her, and always talking confidentially, and his feelings exactly in that favourable state which a recent disappointment gives, those soft, light eyes could not be very long in obtaining the preeminence. Having once set out, and felt that he had done so on this road to happiness, there was nothing on the side of prudence to stop him or make his progress slow. No doubts of her deserving, no fears of opposition to taste, no need of drawing new hopes of happiness from dissimilarity of temper. Her mind, disposition, opinions and habits wanted no half concealment, no self-deception on the present, no reliance on future improvement. Even in the midst of his late infatuation, he had acknowledged Fanny's mental superiority. What must be his sense of it now, therefore? She was of course only too good for him, but as nobody minds having what is too good for them, he was very steadily earnest in the pursuit of the blessing, and it was not possible that encouragement from her should be long wanting. Timid, anxious, doubting as she was, it was still impossible that such tenderness as hers could not, at times, hold out the strongest hope of success, though it remained for a later period to tell him the whole delightful and astonishing truth. His happiness in knowing himself to have been so long the beloved of such a heart must have been great enough to warrant any strength of language in which he could clothe it to her or to himself. It must have been a delightful happiness. But there was happiness elsewhere which no description can reach—let no one presume to give the feelings of a young woman on receiving the assurance of that affection of which she had scarcely allowed herself to entertain a hope. Their own inclinations ascertained, there were no difficulties behind, no drawback of poverty or parent. It was a match which Sir Thomas's wishes had even forestalled—sick of ambitious and mercenary connections, prizing more and more the good sterling of principle and temper, and chiefly anxious to bind by the strongest securities all that remained to him of domestic felicity. He had pondered with genuine satisfaction on the more than possibility of the two young friends finding their natural consolation in each other, for all that had occurred a disappointment to either. And the joyful consent which met Edmund's application, the high sense of having realized a great acquisition in the promise of Fanny for a daughter, formed just such a contrast with his early opinion on the subject when the poor little girl's coming had been first agitated as time is forever producing between the plans and decisions of mortals for their own instruction and their neighbor's entertainment. Fanny was indeed the daughter that he wanted. His charitable kindness had been rearing a prime comfort for himself. His liberality had a rich repayment, and the general goodness of his intentions by her deserved it. He might have made her childhood happier, but it had been an error of judgment only which had given him the appearance of harshness, and deprived him of her early love. And now, on really knowing each other, their mutual attachment became very strong. After settling her at Thornton Lacey with every kind attention to her comfort, the object of almost every day was to see her there, or to get her away from it. Selfishly dear as she had long been to Lady Bertram, she could not be parted with willingly by her. No happiness of son or niece could make her wish the marriage, but it was possible to part with her, because Susan remained to supply her place. Susan became the stationary niece, delighted to be so, and equally well adapted for it by a readiness of mind and an inclination for usefulness, as Fanny had been by sweetness of temper and strong feelings of gratitude. Susan could never be spared. First as a comfort to Fanny, then as an auxiliary, and last as her substitute, she was established at Mansfield, with every appearance of equal permanency. Her more fearless disposition and happier nerves made everything easier to her there. With quickness in understanding the tempers of those she had to deal with, and no natural timidity to restrain any consequent wishes, she was soon welcome and useful to all, and after Fanny's removal, succeeded so naturally to the influence over the hourly comfort of her aunt, as gradually to become, perhaps, the most beloved of the two. In her usefulness, in Fanny's excellence, in William's continued good conduct and rising fame, and in the general well-doing and success of the other members of the family, all assisting to advance each other, and doing credit to his countenance and aid, Sir Thomas saw repeated, and forever repeated, reason to rejoice in what he had done for them all, and acknowledged the advantages of early hardship and discipline, and the consciousness of being born to struggle and endure. With so much true merit and true love, and no want of fortune and friends, the happiness of the married cousins must appear as secure as earthly happiness can be. Equally formed for domestic life and attached to country pleasures, their home was the home of affection and comfort, and to complete the picture of good, the acquisition of Mansfield living, by the death of Dr. Grant, occurred just after they had been married long enough to begin to want an increase of income, and feel their distance from the paternal abode in inconvenience. On that event they removed to Mansfield, and the parsonage there, which, under each of its two former owners, Fanny had never been able to approach but with some painful sensation of restraint or alarm, soon grew as dear to her heart, and as thoroughly perfect in her eyes, as everything else within the view and patronage of Mansfield Park had long been.