 CHAPTER VII OF MANSFIELD PARK Well, Fanon, how do you like Miss Crawford now? said Edmund the next day, after thinking some time on the subject himself. How did you like her yesterday? Very well, very much. I like to hear her talk. She entertains me, and she is so extremely pretty that I have great pleasure in looking at her. It is her countenance that is so attractive. She has a wonderful play of feature. But was there nothing in her conversation that struck you, Fanon, is not quite right? Oh, yes. She ought not to have spoken of her uncle, as she did. I was quite astonished. An uncle with whom she has been living so many years, and who, whatever his thoughts may be, is so very fond of her brother. Treating him, they say, quite like a son. I could not have believed it. I thought he would be struck. It was very wrong, very indecorous. And very ungrateful, I think. Ungrateful is a strong word. I do not know that her uncle has any claim to her gratitude. His wife certainly had, and it is the warmth of her respect for her aunt's memory, which misleads her here. She has awkwardly circumstance. With such warm feelings and lively spirits it must be difficult to do justice to her affection for Mrs. Crawford, without throwing a shade on the admiral. I do not pretend to know which was most to blame in their disagreements, though the admiral's present conduct might incline one to the side of his wife. But it is natural and amiable that Miss Crawford should acquit her aunt entirely. I do not censure her opinions. But there certainly is impropriety in making them public. Do not you think, said Fanny, after a little consideration, that this impropriety is a reflection itself upon Mrs. Crawford, as her niece has been entirely brought up by her. She cannot have given her right notions of what was due to the admiral. That is a fair remark. Yes, we must suppose the faults of her niece to have been those of the aunt, and it makes one sensible of the disadvantages she has been under. But I think her present home must do her good. Mrs. Grant's manners are just what they ought to be. She speaks of her brother with a very pleasing affection. Yes, except as to his writing her such short letters. She made me almost laugh. But I cannot rate so very highly the love or good nature of a brother who will not give himself the trouble of writing anything worth reading to his sisters, when they are separated. I am sure William would never have used me so, under any circumstances. And what right had she to suppose that you would not write long letters when you were absent? The right of a lively mind, Fanny, seizing on what may contribute to its own amusement or that of others. Perfectly allowable, when untingured by ill-humour or roughness. And there is not a shadow of either in the countenance or manner of Mrs. Crawford. Nothing sharp or loud or coarse. She is perfectly feminine, except in the instances we have been speaking of. There she cannot be justified. I am glad you saw it all as I did. Having formed her mind and gained her affections, he had a good chance of her thinking like him. Though at this period, and on this subject, there began now to be some danger of dissimilarity, for he was in a line of admiration of Mrs. Crawford which might lead him where Fanny could not follow. Mrs. Crawford's attractions did not lessen. The harp arrived and rather added to her beauty, wit, and good humour. For she played with the greatest obligingness, with an expression and taste which were peculiarly becoming, and there was something clever to be said at the close of every air. Edmund was at the parsonage every day to be indulged with his favourite instrument. One morning secured an invitation for the next, for the lady could not be unwilling to have a listener, and everything was soon in a fair train. A young woman, pretty, lively, with a harp as elegant as herself, and both placed near a window, cut down to the ground, and opening on a little lawn, surrounded by shrubs in the rich foliage of summer, was enough to catch any man's heart. The season, the scene, the air, were all favourable to tenderness and sentiment. Mrs. Grant and her tambour frame were not without their use. It was all in harmony. And as everything will turn to account when love is once set going, even the sandwich tray, and Dr. Grant doing the honours of it, were worth looking at. Without studying the business, however, or knowing what he was about, Edmund was beginning, at the end of a week of such intercourse, to be a good deal in love. And to the credit of the lady it may be added that, without his being a man of the world or an elder brother, without any of the arts of flattery or the gayities of small talk, he began to be agreeable to her. She felt it to be so, though she had not foreseen and could hardly understand it. For he was not pleasant by any common rule, he talked no nonsense, he paid no compliments, his opinions were unbending, his attentions tranquil and simple. There was a charm perhaps in his sincerity, his steadiness, his integrity, which Miss Crawford might be equal to feel, though not equal to discuss with herself. She did not think very much about it, however. He pleased her enough for the present, she liked to have him near her. It was enough. Fanny could not wonder that Edmund was at the parsonage every morning. She would gladly have been there too. Might she have gone in uninvited and unnoticed to hear the harp? Neither could she wonder that, when the evening stroll was over and the two families parted again, he should think it right to attend Mrs. Grant and her sister to their home, while Mr. Crawford was devoted to the ladies of the park. But she thought it a very bad exchange, and if Edmund were not there to mix the wine and water for her, would rather go without it than not. She was a little surprised that he could spend so many hours with Miss Crawford and not seem more of the sort of fault which he had already observed and of which she was almost always reminded by a something of the same nature whenever she was in her company. But so it was. Edmund was fond of speaking to her of Miss Crawford, but he seemed to think it enough that the admiral had since been spared, and she scrupled to point out her own remarks to him lest it should appear like ill-nature. The first actual pain which Miss Crawford occasioned her was the consequence of an inclination to learn to ride, which the former caught, soon after her being settled at Mansfield, from the example of the young ladies at the park, and which, when Edmund's acquaintance with her increased, led to his encouraging the wish, and the offer of his own quiet mare for the purpose of her first attempts, as the best fitted for a beginner that either stable could furnish. No pain, no injury, however, was designed by him to his cousin in this offer. She was not to lose a day's exercise by it. The mare was only to be taken down to the parsonage half an hour before her ride were to begin, and Fanny, on its first being proposed, so far from feeling slighted, was almost overpowered with gratitude that he should be asking her leave for it. Miss Crawford made her first assay with great credit to herself, and no inconvenience to Fanny. Edmund, who had taken down the mare and presided at the whole, returned with it in excellent time, before either Fanny or the steady old coachman, who always attended her when she rode without her cousins, were ready to set forward. The second day's trial was not so guiltless. Miss Crawford's enjoyment of riding was such that she did not know how to leave off. Active and fearless, and though rather small, strongly made, she seemed formed for a horsewoman. And to the pure genuine pleasure of the exercise, something was probably added in Edmund's attendance and instructions, and something more in the conviction of very much surpassing her sex in general by her early progress to make her unwilling to dismount. Fanny was ready and waiting, and Mrs. Norris was beginning to scold her for not being gone, and still no horse was announced, no Edmund appeared. To avoid her aunt and look for him, she went out. The houses, though scarcely half a mile apart, were not within sight of each other. But by walking fifty yards from the hall door she could look down the park and command a view of the parsonage and all its domains, gently rising beyond the village road. And in Dr. Grant's meadow she immediately saw the group, Edmund and Miss Crawford both on horseback, riding side by side, Dr. and Mrs. Grant and Mr. Crawford, with two or three grooms, standing about and looking on. A happy party it appeared to her, all interested in one object, cheerful beyond doubt, for the sound of merriment ascended even to her. It was a sound which should not make her cheerful, she wondered that Edmund should forget her, and felt a pang. She could not turn her eyes from the meadow, she could not help watching all that passed. At first Miss Crawford and her companion made the circuit of the field, which was not small, at a foot-space. Then at her apparent suggestion they rose into a canter. And to Fanny's timid nature it was most astonishing to see how well she sat. After a few minutes they stopped entirely. Edmund was close to her, he was speaking to her, he was evidently directing her management of the bridle, he had hold of her hand, she saw it, or the imagination supplied what the eye could not reach. She must not wonder at all this, what could be more natural than that Edmund should be making himself useful and proving his good nature by any one. She could not but think indeed that Mr. Crawford might as well have saved him the trouble, that it would have been particularly proper and becoming in a brother to have done it himself. But Mr. Crawford, with all his boasted good nature and all his coachmanship, probably knew nothing of the matter, and had no active kindness in comparison of Edmund. She began to think it rather hard upon the mayor to have such double duty, if she were forgotten the poor mayor should be remembered. Her feelings for one and the other were soon a little tranquilized by seeing the party in the meadow disperse, and Miss Crawford still on horseback, but attended by Edmund on foot, passed through a gate into the lane, and so into the park, and make towards the spot where she stood. She began then to be afraid of appearing rude and impatient, and walked to meet them with a great anxiety to avoid the suspicion. My dear Miss Price! said Miss Crawford as soon as she was at all within hearing. I am come to make my own apologies for keeping you waiting, but I have nothing in the world to say for myself. I knew it was very late, and that I was behaving extremely ill, and therefore, if you please, you must forgive me. Selfishness must always be forgiven, you know, because there is no hope of a cure. Fanny's answer was extremely civil, and Edmund added his conviction that she could be in no hurry. For there is more than enough time for my cousin to ride twice as far as she ever goes, said he. And you have been promoting her comfort by preventing her from setting off half an hour sooner. Clouds are now coming up, and she will not suffer from the heat as she would have done then. I wish you may not be fatigued by so much exercise. I wish you had saved yourself this walk home. No part of it fatigues me but getting off this horse, I assure you, said she, as she sprang down with his help. I am very strong. Nothing ever fatigues me but doing what I do not like. Miss Price, I give way to you with a very bad grace, but I sincerely hope you will have a pleasant ride, and that I may have nothing but good to hear of this dear, delightful, beautiful animal. The old coachman, who had been waiting about with his own horse, now joining them, Fanny was lifted on hers, and they set off across another part of the park, her feelings of discomfort not lightened by seeing, as she looked back, that the others were walking down the hill together to the village, nor did her attendant do her much good by his comments on Miss Crawford's great cleverness as a horsewoman, which she had been watching with an interest almost equal to her own. It is a pleasure to see a lady with such a good heart for riding, said he. I never see one sit a horse better. She did not seem to have a thought of fear. Very different from you, Miss, when you first began six years ago come next Easter. Lord bless you, how you did tremble when Sir Thomas first had put you on. In the drawing room Miss Crawford was also celebrated. Her merit in being gifted by nature with strength and courage was fully appreciated by the Miss Bertrams. Her delight in riding was like their own, her early excellence in it was like their own, and they had great pleasure in praising it. I was sure she would ride well, said Julia. She is the make for it. Her figure is as neat as her brother's. Yes, added Mariah. And her spirits are as good, and she has the same energy of character. I cannot but think that good horsemanship has a great deal to do with the mind. When they parted at night Edmund asked Fanny whether she meant to ride the next day. No, I do not know. Not if you want the mare. Was her answer. I do not want her at all for myself, said he. But whenever you are next inclined to stay at home I think Miss Crawford would be glad to have her a longer time, for a whole morning in short. She has a great desire to get as far as mansfield common. Mrs. Grant has been telling her of its fine views, and I have no doubt of her being perfectly equal to it. But any morning will do for this. She will be extremely sorry to interfere with you. It would be very wrong as she did. She only rides for pleasure. You for health. I shall not ride tomorrow, certainly, said Fanny. I have been out very often lately and would rather stay at home. You know I am strong enough now to walk very well. Edmund looked pleased, which must be Fanny's comfort, and the ride to mansfield common took place the next morning. The party included all the young people but herself, and was much enjoyed at the time, and doubly enjoyed again in the evening discussion. A successful scheme of this sort generally brings on another, and the having been to mansfield common disposed them all for going somewhere else the day after. There were many other views to be shown, and though the weather was hot, there were shady lanes wherever they wanted to go. A young party is always provided with a shady lane. Four fine mornings successively were spent in this manner in showing the Crawford's the country and doing the honours of its finest spots. Everything answered, it was all gaiety and good humour, the heat only supplying inconvenience enough to be talked of with pleasure, till the fourth day, when the happiness of one of the party was exceedingly clouded. Miss Bertram was the one. Edmund and Julia were to dine at the parsonage, and she was excluded. It was meant and done by Mrs. Grant with perfect good humour on Mr. Rushworth's account, who was partly expected at the park that day. But it was felt as a very grievous injury, and her good manners were severely taxed to conceal her vexation and anger till she reached home. As Mr. Rushworth did not come, the injury was increased, and she had not even the relief of showing her power over him, she could only be sullen to her mother, aunt and cousin, and throw as great a gloom as possible over their dinner and dessert. Between ten and eleven Edmund and Julia walked into the drawing-room, fresh with the evening air, glowing and cheerful, the very reverse of what they found in the three ladies sitting there, for Mariah would scarcely raise her eyes from her book, and Lady Bertram was half asleep, and even Mrs. Norris, discomposed by her niece's ill humour, and having asked one or two questions about the dinner, which were not immediately attended to, seemed almost determined to say no more. For a few minutes the brother and sister were too eager in their praise of the night and their remarks on the stars to think beyond themselves. But when the first pause came, Edmund, looking around, said, But where is Fanny? She gone to bed. No, not that I know of. replied Mrs. Norris. She was here a moment ago. Her own gentle voice, speaking from the other end of the room, which was a very long one, told them that she was on the sofa. Mrs. Norris began scolding. That is a very foolish trick, Fanny, to be idling away all the evening upon a sofa. Why cannot you come and sit here and employ yourself as we do? If you have no work of your own, I can supply you from the poor basket. There is all the new calico that was bought last week not touched yet. I am sure I almost broke my back by cutting it out. You should learn to think of other people and take my word for it. It is a shocking trick for a young person to be always lolling upon a sofa. Before half this was said, Fanny was returned to her seat at the table, and had taken up her work again. And Julia, who is in high good humour from the pleasures of the day, did her the justice of exclaiming. I must say, ma'am, that Fanny is as little upon the sofa as anybody in the house. Fanny! said Edmund after looking at her attentively. I am sure you have the headache. She could not deny it, but said it was not very bad. I can hardly believe you. He replied, I know your looks too well. How long have you had it? Since a little before dinner. It is nothing but the heat. Did you go out in the heat? Go out? To be sure she did, said Mrs. Norris. Would you have her stay within such a fine day as this? Were we not all out? Even your mother was out today for above an hour. Yes, indeed, Edmund, added her ladyship, who had been thoroughly awakened by Mrs. Norris's sharp reprimand to Fanny. I was out above an hour. I sat three-quarters of an hour in the flower garden, while Fanny cut the roses. And very pleasant it was, I assure you, but very hot. It was shady enough in the alcove, but I declare I quite dreaded the coming home again. Fanny has been cutting roses, has she? Yes. And I'm afraid they will be the last this year. Poor thing! She found it hot enough, but they were so full-blown that one could not wait. There was no help for it, certainly. Rejoined Mrs. Norris in rather a softened voice. But I question whether her headache might not be caught then, sister. There is nothing so likely to give it a standing and stooping in a hot sun, but I dare say it will be well tomorrow. Suppose you let her have your aromatic vinegar, I always forget to have mine filled. She has got it, said Lady Bertram. She has had it ever since she came back from your house the second time. What? Cried Edmund. Has she been walking as well as cutting roses? Walking across the hot park to your house and doing it twice, Mum? No wonder her headaches. Mrs. Norris was talking to Julia, and did not hear. I was afraid it would be too much for her, said Lady Bertram. But when the roses were gathered, you aunt wished to have them. And then you know they must be taken home. But were there roses enough to oblige her to go twice? No, but they were to be put into the spare room to dry. And, unluckily, Fanny forgot to lock the door of the room and bring away the key, so she was obliged to go again. Edmund got up and walked about the room, saying... And could nobody be implored on such an errand but Fanny? Upon my word, Mum, it has been a very ill-managed business. I am sure I do not know how it was to have been done better. Cried Mrs. Norris, unable to be longer deaf. Unless I had gone myself, indeed, but I cannot be in two places at once, and I was talking to Mr. Green at that very time about your mother's dairy made by her desire, and had promised John Groom to write to Mrs. Jeffries about his son, and the poor fellow was waiting for me half an hour. I think nobody can justly accuse me of sparing myself upon any occasion, but really, I cannot do everything at once. And as for Fanny's just stepping down to my house for me, it is not much above a quarter of a mile. I cannot think I was unreasonable to ask it. How often do I pace it three times a day, early and late, iron or weather's too, and say nothing about it? I wish Fanny had half your strength, Mum. If Fanny would be more regular in her exercise, she would not be knocked up so soon. She has not been out on horseback now this long while, and I am persuaded that when she does not ride, she ought to walk. If she had been riding before, I should not have asked it of her, but I thought it would rather do her good after stooping along the roses, for there is nothing so refreshing as a walk after a fatigue of that kind, and though the sun was strong, it was not so very hot. Between ourselves, Edmund. Nodding significantly at his mother. It was cutting the roses, and dawdling about in the flower garden that did the mischief. I am afraid it was, indeed. Said the more candid Lady Bertram, who had overheard her. I am very much afraid. She caught the headache there, for the heat was enough to kill anybody. It was as much as I could bear myself. Sitting and calling to pug, and trying to keep him from the flower beds, was almost too much for me. Edmund said no more to either Lady, but going quietly to another table, on which the supper-tree yet remained, brought a glass of Madeira to Fanny, and obliged her to drink the greater part. She wished to be able to decline it, but the tears, which a variety of feelings created, made it easier to swallow than to speak. Vexed as Edmund was with his mother and aunt, he was still more angry with himself. His own forgetfulness of her was worse than anything which they had done. Nothing of this would have happened had she been properly considered, but she had been left four days together without any choice of companions or exercise, and without any excuse for avoiding whatever her unreasonable aunts might require. He was ashamed to think that for four days together she had not had the power of riding, and very seriously resolved, however unwilling he must be to check a pleasure of Miss Crawford's, that it should never happen again. Fanny went to bed with her heart as full as on the first evening of her arrival at the park. The state of her spirits had probably had its share in her indisposition, for she had been feeling neglected and been struggling against discontent and envy for some days past. As she lent on the sofa, to which she had retreated that she might not be seen, the pain of her mind had been much beyond that in her head, and the sudden change which Edmund's kindness had then occasioned made her hardly know how to support herself. CHAPTER VIII. of Mansfield Park by Jane Austen. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Fanny's rides recommend the very next day, and as it was a pleasant, fresh-feeling morning, less hot than the weather had lately been, Edmund trusted that her losses, both of health and pleasure, would be soon made good. While she was gone, Mr. Rushworth arrived, escorting his mother, who came to be civil and to show her civility especially in urging the execution of the plan for visiting Southerton, which had been started a fortnight before, and which, in consequence of her subsequent absence from home, had since lain dormant. Mrs. Norris and her nieces were all well pleased with its revival, and an early day was named and agreed to, provided Mr. Crawford should be disengaged, the young ladies did not forget that stipulation, and though Mrs. Norris would willingly have answered for his being so, they would neither authorize the liberty nor run the risk, and at last, on a hint from Miss Bertram, Mr. Rushworth discovered that the properest thing to be done was for him to walk down to the parsonage directly, and call on Mr. Crawford, and inquire whether Wednesday would suit him or not. Before his return, Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford came in, having been out some time, and taken a different route to the house, they had not met him. Comfortable hopes, however, were given that he would find Mr. Crawford at home. The Southerton scheme was mentioned, of course. It was hardly possible, indeed, that anything else should be talked of, for Mrs. Norris was in high spirits about it, and Mrs. Rushworth, a well-meaning, civil, prosing, pompous woman, who thought nothing of consequence, but as it related to her own and her son's concerns, had not yet given over-pressing Lady Bertram to be of the party. Lady Bertram constantly declined it, but her placid manner of refusal made Mrs. Rushworth still think she wished to come, till Mrs. Norris's more numerous words and louder tone convinced her of the truth. The fatigue would be too much for my sister, a great deal too much, I assure you, my dear Mrs. Rushworth, ten miles there and ten back, you know, you must excuse my sister on this occasion and accept about two dear girls and myself without her. Southerton is the only place that could give her a wish to go so far, but it cannot be, indeed. She will have a companion in Fanny Price, you know, so it will all do very well, and as for Edmund, he is not here to speak for himself. I will answer for his being most happy to join the party. He can go on horseback, you know. Mrs. Rushworth being obliged to yield to Lady Bertram staying at home could only be sorry. The loss of her ladyship's company would be a great drawback, and she should have been extremely happy to have seen the young lady too, Miss Price, who had never been at Southerton yet, and it was a pity she should not see the place. You are very kind, you are all kindness, my dear madam, cried Mrs. Norris. But as to Fanny, she will have opportunities in plenty of things, Southerton. She has time enough before her, and her going now is quite out of the question. Lady Bertram could not possibly spare her. Oh, no! I cannot do without Fanny. Mrs. Rushworth proceeded next, under the conviction that everybody must be wanting to see Southerton, to include Miss Crawford in the invitation, and though Mrs. Grant, who had not been at the trouble of visiting Mrs. Rushworth on her coming into the neighbourhood, civilly declined it on her own account, she was glad to secure any pleasure for her sister, and Mary, properly pressed and persuaded, was not long in accepting her share of the civility. Mr. Rushworth came back from the parsonage successful, and Edmund made his appearance just in time to learn what had been settled for Wednesday, to attend Mrs. Rushworth to her carriage, and walk halfway down the park with the two other ladies. On his return to the breakfast-room, he found Mrs. Norris trying to make up her mind as to whether Miss Crawford's being of the party were desirable or not, or whether her brother's barouche would not be full without her. The Miss Bertram's laughed at the idea, assuring her that the barouche would hold for perfectly well, independent of the box, on which one might go with him. But why is it necessary? said Edmund. That Crawford's carriage or his only should be employed. Why is no use to be made of my mother's shares? I could not, when the scheme was first meant in the other day, understand why a visit from the family were not to be made in the carriage of the family. What? cried Julia. Go barks up three in a post-chase in this weather, when we may have seats in a barouche. No, my dear Edmund, that will not quite do. Besides, said Mariah, I know that Mr. Crawford depends upon taking us, after what passed at first he would claim it as a promise. And, my dear Edmund. Added, Mrs. Norris. Taking out two carriages, when one will do, would be trouble for nothing, and between ourselves, Coachman is not very fond of the roads between this and Southerton. He always complains bitterly of the narrow lanes scratching his carriage, and, you know, one should not like to have dear Sir Thomas, when he comes home, find all the varnish scratched off. There would not be a very handsome reason for using Mr. Crawford's, said Mariah. But the truth is, that Wilcox is a stupid old fellow, and does not know how to drive. I will answer for it, that we shall find no inconvenience from narrow roads on Wednesday. There is no hardship, I suppose, nothing unpleasant, said Edmund. In going on the barouche-box? Unpleasant, cried Mariah. Oh dear, I believe it would be generally thought the favourite seat. There can be no comparison as to one's view of the country. Probably Miss Crawford will choose the barouche-box herself. Well, there can be no objection then to Fanny's going with you. There can be no doubt of your having room for her. Fanny? Repeted Mrs. Norris. My dear Edmund, there is no idea of her going with us. She stays with her aunt. I told Mrs. Rushworth so. She is not expected. You can have no reason, I imagine, madame. Said he, addressing his mother. For wishing Fanny not to be of the party, but as it relates to yourself, to your own comfort. If you could do without her, you would not wish to keep her at home. To be sure. Not. But I cannot do without her. You can if I stay at home with you, as I mean to do. There is a general cry out at this. Yes. He continued. There is no necessity for my going, and I mean to stay at home. Fanny has a great desire to see Sotherton. I know she wishes it very much. She has not often the gratification of the kind. And I am sure, mum, you would be glad to give her the pleasure now. Oh, yes. Very glad. If your aunt sees no objection. Mrs. Norris was very ready with the only objection which could remain. There having positively assured Mrs. Rushworth that Fanny could not go, and the very strange appearance there would consequently be in taking her, which seemed to her a difficulty quite impossible to be got over. It must have the strangest appearance. It would be something so very unceremonious, so bordering on disrespect for Mrs. Rushworth, whose own manners were such a pattern of good breeding and attention, that she really did not feel equal to it. Mrs. Norris had no affection for Fanny, and no wish of procuring her pleasure at any time. But her opposition to Edmund now arose more from partiality for her own scheme, because it was her own, than from anything else. She felt that she had arranged everything extremely well, and that any alteration must be for the worse. When Edmund therefore told her in reply, as he did when she would give him the hearing, that she need not distress herself on Mrs. Rushworth's account, because he had taken the opportunity, as he walked with her through the hall, of mentioning Miss Price as one who would probably be of the party, and had directly received a very sufficient invitation for his cousin, Mrs. Norris was too much vexed to submit with a very good grace, and would only say— Very well, very well, just as you choose, settle it your own way. I am sure I do not care about it. It seems very odd, said Mariah, that you should be staying at home instead of Fanny. I am sure she ought to be very much obliged to you, added Julia, hastily leaving the room as she spoke, from a consciousness that she ought to offer to stay at home herself. Fanny will feel quite as grateful as the occasion requires, was Edmund's only reply, and the subject dropped. Fanny's gratitude, when she heard the plan, was in fact much greater than her pleasure. She felt Edmund's kindness with all, and more than all, the sensibility, which he, unsuspicious of her fond attachment, could be aware of. But that he should forego any enjoyment on her account gave her pain, and her own satisfaction in seeing Sutherton would be nothing without him. The next meeting of the two Mansfield families produced another alteration in the plan, and one that was admitted with general approbation. Mrs. Grant offered herself as companion for the day to Lady Bertram in lieu of her son, and Dr. Grant was to join them at dinner. Lady Bertram was very well pleased to have it so, and the young ladies were in spirits again. Even Edmund was very thankful for an arrangement which restored him to his share of the party, and Mrs. Norris thought it an excellent plan, and had it at her tongue's end, and was on the point of proposing it, when Mrs. Grant spoke. Wednesday was fine, and soon after breakfast the barouche arrived, Mr. Crawford driving his sisters, and as everybody was ready, there was nothing to be done, but for Mrs. Grant to alight and the others to take their places. The place of all places, the envied seat, the post of honour, was unappropriated, to whose happy lot was it to fall. While each of the Miss Bertrams were meditating how best, and with the most appearance of obliging the others to secure it, the matter was settled by Mrs. Grant's saying as she stepped from the carriage. As there are five of you, it will be better that one should sit with Henry, and as you were saying lately that you wished you could drive, Julia, I think this will be a good opportunity for you to take a lesson. Happy Julia! Unhappy Mariah! The former was on the barouche-box in a moment, the latter took her seat within, in gloom and mortification, and the carriage drove off amid the good wishes of the two remaining ladies, and the barking of pug in his mistress's arms. Their road was through a pleasant country, and Fanny, whose rides had never been extensive, was soon beyond her knowledge, and was very happy in observing all that was new, and admiring all that was pretty. She was not often invited to join in the conversation of the others, nor did she desire it. Her own thoughts and reflections were habitually her best companions, and in observing the appearance of the country, the bearings of the roads, the difference of soil, the state of the harvest, the cottages, the cattle, the children, she found entertainment that could only have been heightened by having Edmund to speak to of what she felt. That was the only point of resemblance between her and the lady who sat by her. In everything but a value for Edmund, Miss Crawford was very unlike her. She had none of Fanny's delicacy of taste, of mind, of feeling. She saw nature, in animate nature, with little observation. Her attention was all for men and women, her talents for the light and lively. In looking back after Edmund, however, when there was any stretch of road behind them, or when he gained on them in ascending a considerable hill, they were united, and a, there he is, broke at the same moment from them both, more than once. For the first seven miles Miss Bertram had very little real comfort. Her prospect always ended in Mr. Crawford and her sister sitting side by side, full of conversation and merriment, and to see only his expressive profile as he turned with a smile to Julia, or to catch the laugh of the other, was a perpetual source of irritation, which her own sense of propriety could but just smooth over. When Julia looked back, it was with a countenance of delight, and whenever she spoke to them, it was in the highest spirits. Her view of the country was charming. She wished they could all see it. Et cetera. But her only offer of exchange was addressed to Miss Crawford, as they gained the summit of a long hill, and was not more inviting than this. Here is a fine burst of country. I wish you had my seat, but I dare say you will not take it. Let me press you ever so much. And Miss Crawford could hardly answer before they were moving again at a good pace. When they came within the influence of Sutherton associations, it was better for Miss Bertram, who might be said to have two strings to her bow. She had Rushworth feelings and Crawford feelings, and in the vicinity of Sutherton the former had considerable effect. Mr. Rushworth's consequence was hers. She could not tell Miss Crawford that. Those woods belonged to Sutherton. She could not carelessly observe that. She believed that it was now all Mr. Rushworth's property on each side of the road. Without elation of heart, and it was a pleasure to increase with their approach to the capital freehold mansion and ancient menorial residence of the family with all its rights of court lead and court baron. Now we shall have no more rough road, Miss Crawford. Our difficulties are over. The rest of the way is such as it ought to be. Mr. Rushworth has made it since he succeeded to the estate. Here begins the village. Those cottages are really a disgrace. The church-spire is reckoned remarkably handsome. I am glad the church is not so close to the great house as often happens in old places. The annoyance of the bells must be terrible. There is the parsonage, a tidy-looking house, and I understand the clergyman and his wife are very decent people. Those are arms houses built by some other family. To the right is the steward's house. He is a very respectable man. Now we are coming to the large gates. But we have nearly a mile through the park still. It is not ugly, you see, at this end. There is some fine timber. But the situation of the house is dreadful. We go downhill to it for half a mile, and it is a pity for it would not be an ill-looking place if it had a better approach. Miss Crawford was not slow to admire. She pretty well gassed Miss Bertram's feelings, and made it a point of honour to promote her enjoyment to the utmost. Mrs. Norris was all delight and volubility, and even Fanny had something to say in admiration and might be heard with complacency. Her eye was eagerly taking in everything within her reach, and after being at some pains to get a view of the house, and observing that— It was a sort of building which she could not look at but with respect. She added, Now, where is the avenue? The house fronts the east, I perceive. The avenue, therefore, must be at the back of it. Mr. Rushworth talked of the west front. Yes, it is exactly behind the house. Begins at a little distance, in a sense, for half a mile to the extremity of the grounds. You may see something of a tear, something of the more distant trees. It is oak entirely. Miss Bertram could now speak with decided information of what she had known nothing about when Mr. Rushworth had asked her opinion, and her spirits were in as happy a flutter as vanity and pride could furnish when they drove up to the spacious stone steps before the principal entrance. In the drawing-room they were met with equal cordiality by the mother, and Miss Bertram had all the distinction with each that she could wish. After the business of arriving was over, it was first necessary to eat, and the doors were thrown open to admit them through one or two intermediate rooms into the appointed dining-parlor, where a collation was prepared with abundance and elegance. Much was said, and much was ate, and all went well. The particular object of the day was then considered. How would Mr. Crawford like, in what manner would he choose, to take a survey of the grounds? Mr. Rushworth mentioned his curicle. Mr. Crawford suggested the greater desirableness of some carriage which might convey more than two. To be depriving themselves of the advantage of other eyes and other judgments might be an evil even beyond the loss of present pleasure. Mrs. Rushworth proposed that the chage should be taken also, but this was scarcely received as an amendment. The young ladies neither smiled nor spoke. Her next proposition of showing the house to such of them as had not been there before was more acceptable, for Miss Bertram was pleased to have its size displayed, and all were glad to be doing something. The whole party rose accordingly, and under Mrs. Rushworth's guidance were shown through a number of rooms, all lofty, and many large, and amply furnished in the taste of fifty years back, with shining floors, solid mahogany, rich damask, marble, gilding, and carving, each handsome in its way. Of pictures there were abundance, and some few good, but the larger part were family portraits, no longer anything to anybody but Mrs. Rushworth, who had been at great pains to learn all that the housekeeper could teach, and was now almost equally well qualified to show the house. On the present occasion she addressed herself chiefly to Miss Crawford and Fanny, but there was no comparison in the willingness of their attention, for Miss Crawford, who had seen scores of great houses, and cared for none of them, had only the appearance of civilly listening, while Fanny, to whom everything was almost as interesting as it was new, attended with unaffected earnestness to all that Mrs. Rushworth could relate of the family in former times, its rise and grandeur, regal visits, and loyal efforts, delighted to connect anything with history already known, or warm her imagination with scenes of the past. The situation of the house excluded the possibility of much prospect from any of the rooms, and while Fanny and some of the others were attending Mrs. Rushworth, Henry Crawford was looking grave and shaking his head at the windows. Every room on the west front looked across a lawn to the beginning of the avenue, immediately beyond tall iron palisades and gates. Having visited many more rooms than could be supposed to be of any other use than to contribute to the window-tacks, and find employment for house-maids. Now, said Mrs. Rushworth, we are coming to the chapel, which properly we ought to enter from above, and look down upon, but as we are quite among friends, I will take you in this way, if you will excuse me. They entered. Fanny's imagination had prepared her for something grander than a mere spacious oblong room fitted up for the purposes of devotion, with nothing more striking or more solemn than the profusion of mahogany, and the crimson velvet cushions appearing over the ledge of the family gallery above. I am disappointed, said she, in a low voice to Edmund. This is not my idea of a chapel. There is nothing awful here, nothing melancholy, nothing grand. Here are no aisles, no arches, no inscriptions, no banners. No banners, cousin, to be blown by the night wind of heaven. No signs that a Scottish monarch sleeps below. You forget, Fanny, how lately all this has been built, and for how confined a purpose compared with the old chapels of castles and monasteries. It was only for the private use of the family. They have been buried, I suppose, in the parish church. There you must look for the banners and the achievements. It was foolish of me not to think of all that, but I am disappointed. Mrs. Rushworth began her relation. This chapel was fitted up, as you see it, in James II's time. Before that period, as I understand, the pews were only wainskirt, and there is some reason to think that the linings and cushions of the pulpit and family seat were only purple cloth. But this is not quite certain. It is a handsome chapel, and was formerly in constant use both morning and evening. Prayers were always read in it by the domestic chaplain within the memory of many, but the late Mr. Rushworth left it off. Every generation has its improvements," said Miss Crawford, with a smile to Edmund. Mrs. Rushworth was gone to repeat her lesson to Mr. Crawford, and Edmund, Fanny and Miss Crawford remained in a cluster together. It is a pity," cried Fanny, that the custom should have been discontinued. It was a valuable part of former times. There is something in a chapel and chaplain so much in character with a great house, with one's ideas of what such a household should be. A whole family assembling regularly for the purpose of prayer is fine. Very fine indeed," said Miss Crawford, laughing. It must do the heads of the family a great deal of good to force all the poor housemaids and footmen to leave business and pleasure, and say their prayers here twice a day, while they are inventing excuses themselves for staying away. That is hardly Fanny's idea of a family assembling," said Edmund. If the master and mistress do not attend themselves, there must be more harm than good in the custom. At any rate, it is safer to leave people to their own devices on such subjects. Everybody likes to go their own way, to choose their own time and manner of devotion. The obligation of attendance, the formality, the restraint, the length of time—all together it is a formidable thing, and what nobody likes. And if the good people who used to kneel and gape in that gallery could have foreseen that the time would ever come when men and women might lie another ten minutes in bed, when they work with a headache, without danger of reprobation, because chapel was missed, they would have jumped with joy and envy. Can not you imagine with what unwilling feelings the former bells of the House of Rushworth did many a time repair to this chapel? The young Mrs. Eleanor's and Mrs. Bridget's starched up into seeming piety, but with heads full of something very different, especially if the poor chaplain were not worth looking at, and in those days, I fancy, Parsons were very inferior even to what they are now. For a few moments she was unanswered, Fanny coloured and looked at Edmund, but felt too angry for speech, and he needed a little recollection before he could say, Your lively mind can hardly be serious, even on serious subjects. You have given us an amusing sketch and human nature cannot say it was not so. We must all feel at times the difficulty of fixing our thoughts as we could wish, but if you are supposing it a frequent thing, that is to say, a weakness grown into a habit from neglect, what could be expected from the private devotions of such persons? Do you think the minds which have suffered which are indulged in wanderings in a chapel would be more collected in a closet? Yes, yes, very likely. They would have two chances at least in their favour. There would be less to distract the attention from without, and it would not be tried so long. The mind which does not struggle against itself under one circumstance would find objects to distract it in the other, I believe, and the influence of the place and example may often rouse better feelings than I have begun with. The greater length of the service, however, I admit to be sometimes too hard a stretch upon the mind, one wishes it were not so, but I have not yet left Oxford long enough to forget what chapel prayers are. While this was passing the rest of the party being scattered about the chapel, Julia called Mr. Crawford's attention to her sister by saying, Do look at Mr. Rushworth and Mariah standing side by side exactly as if the ceremony were going to be performed. Have not they completely the air of it? Mr. Crawford smiled his acquiescence, and stepping forward to Mariah, said in a voice which she only could hear, I do not like to see Miss Bertram so near the altar. Starting the lady instinctively moved a step or two, but recovering herself in a moment affected to laugh, and asked him in a tone not much louder. Ha! If he would give her away. I am afraid I should do it very awkwardly. was his reply, with a look of meaning. Julia, joining them at the moment, carried on the joke. Pwn my word, it is really a pity that it should not take place directly, if we had but a proper license, for here we are, altogether, and nothing in the world could be more snug and pleasant. She talked and laughed about it with so little caution as to catch the comprehension of Mr. Rushworth and his mother, and expose her sister to the whispered gallantries of her lover, while Mrs. Rushworth spoke with proper smiles and dignity of its being a most happy event to her, whenever it took place. If Edmund were but in orders! cried Julia, and running to where he stood with Miss Crawford and Fanny. My dear Edmund, if you were but in orders now you might perform the ceremony directly. How unlucky that you are not ordained! Mr. Rushworth and Mariah are quite ready. Miss Crawford's countenance, as Julia spoke, might have amused a disinterested observer. She looked almost aghast under the new idea she was receiving. Fanny pitied her. How distressed she will be at what she said just now! passed across her mind. Ordained! said Miss Crawford. What! are you to be a clergyman? Yes. I shall think orders soon after my father's return. Probably at Christmas. Miss Crawford, rallying her spirits and recovering her complexion, replied only. If I had known this before, I would have spoken of the cloth with more respect. And turned the subject. The chapel was soon afterwards left to the silence and stillness which reigned in it, with few interruptions throughout the year. Miss Bertram, displeased with her sister, led the way, and all seemed to feel that they had been there long enough. The lower part of the house had been now entirely shown, and Mrs. Rushworth, never weary in the cause, would have proceeded towards the principal staircase and taken them through all the rooms above, if her son had not interposed with a doubt of there being time enough. For if— Said he, with the sort of self-evident proposition which many a clearer head does not always avoid. We are too long your year with the house. We shall not have time for what is to be done out of doors. It is past two, and we are to die in at five. Mrs. Rushworth submitted, and the question of surveying the grounds, with the who and the how, was likely to be more fully agitated, and Mrs. Norris was beginning to arrange by what junction of carriages and horses most could be done, when the young people, meeting with an outward door, temptingly open on a flight of steps which led immediately to turf and shrubs, and all the suites of pleasure grounds, as by one impulse, one wish for air and liberty, all walked out. Suppose we turn down here for the present? said Mrs. Rushworth, civilly taking the hint and following them. Here are the greatest number of our plants, and here are the curious pheasants. Query! said Mr. Crawford, looking round him. Whether we may not find something to employ us here before we go farther. I see walls of great promise. Mr. Rushworth, shall we summon a council on this lawn? James. said Mrs. Rushworth to her son. I believe the wilderness will be new to all the party. The Miss Bertrams have never seen the wilderness yet. No objection was made, but for some time there seemed no inclination to move in any plan or to any distance. All were attracted at first by the plants or the pheasants, and all dispersed about in happy independence. Mr. Crawford was the first to move forward to examine the capabilities of that end of the house. The lawn, bounded on each side by a high wall, contained beyond the first planted area a bowling-green, and beyond the bowling-green a long terrace-walk, backed by iron palisades, and commanding a view over them into the tops of the trees of the wilderness immediately adjoining. It was a good spot for fault finding. Mr. Crawford was soon followed by Miss Bertram and Mr. Rushworth, and when, after a little time, the others began to form into parties, these three were found in busy consultation on the terrace by Edmund, Miss Crawford, and Fanny, who seemed as naturally to unite, and who, after a short participation of their regrets and difficulties, left them and walked on. The remaining three, Mrs. Rushworth, Mrs. Norris, and Julia, were still far behind, for Julia, whose happy star no longer prevailed, was obliged to keep by the side of Mrs. Rushworth, and restrain her impatient feet to that lady's slow pace, while her aunt, having fallen in with the housekeeper, who was come out to feed the pheasants, was lingering behind in gossip with her. Poor Julia, the only one out of the nine not tolerably satisfied with their lot, was now in a state of complete penance, and as different from the Julia of the barouche-box as could well be imagined. The politeness which she had been brought up to exercise as a duty made it impossible for her to escape, while the want of that higher species of self-command, not just consideration of others, that knowledge of her own heart, that principle of right, which had not formed any essential part of her education, made her miserable under it. This is insufferably hot," said Miss Crawford, when they had taken one turn on the terrace, and were drawing a second time to the door in the middle which opened to the wilderness. Shall any of us object to being comfortable? Here is a nice little wood, if one can but get into it. What happiness if the door should not be locked? But of course it is, for in these great places the gardeners are the only people who can go where they like. They were, however, proved not to be locked, and they were all agreed in turning joyfully through it, and leaving the unmitigated glare of day behind. A considerable flight of steps landed them in the wilderness, which was a planted wood of about two acres, and though chiefly of larch and laurel, and beach cut down, and though laid out with too much regularity, was darkness and shade, and natural beauty, compared with the bowling green and the terrace. They all felt the refreshment of it, and for some time could only walk and admire. At length, after a short pause, Miss Crawford began with. So you were to be a clergyman, Mr. Bertram. This is rather a surprise to me. Why, should it surprise you, must suppose, be designed for some profession, and might perceive that I am neither a lawyer, nor a soldier, nor a sailor? Very true. But in short, it had not occurred to me. And you know there is generally an uncle or a grandfather that leave a fortune to the second son? A very praiseworthy practice, said Edmund. But not quite universal. I am one of the exceptions, and being one must do something for myself. But why are you to be a clergyman? I thought that was always the lot of the youngest, where there are many to choose before him. Do you think the church itself never chosen then? Never is a black word. But, yes, in the never of conversation, which means not very often, I do think it. For what is to be done in the church? Men love to distinguish themselves, and in either of the other lines distinction may be gained, but not in the church. A clergyman is nothing. The nothing of conversation has its gradations, I hope, as well as the never. A clergyman cannot be high in state or fashion. He must not head mobs or set the tone in dress. But I cannot call that situation nothing, which has the charge of all that is of the first importance to mankind, individually or collectively considered, temporally and eternally, which has the guardianship of religion and morals, and consequently the manners which result from their influence. No one here can call the office nothing. If the man who holds it is so, it is by the neglect of his duty, by foregoing its just importance, and stepping out of his place to appear what he ought not to appear. You assign greater consequence to the clergyman than one has been used to hear given, or than I can quite comprehend. One does not see much of this influence and importance in society, and how can it be acquired were they are so seldom seen themselves? How can two sermons a week, even supposing them worth hearing, supposing the preacher to have the sense to prefer blares to his own, do all that you speak of? Govern the conduct and fashion the manners of a large congregation for the rest of the week. One scarcely sees a clergyman out of his pulpit. You are speaking of London. I am speaking of the nation at large. The metropolis, I imagine, is a pretty fair sample of the rest. Not I should hope of the proportion of virtue to vice throughout the kingdom. We do not look in great cities for our best morality. It is not there that respectable people of any denomination can do most good, and it certainly is not there that the influence of the clergy can be most felt. A fine preacher is followed and admired, but it is not in fine preaching only that a good clergyman will be useful in his parish and his neighborhood, where the parish and neighborhood are of a size capable of knowing his private character, and observing his general conduct, which in London can rarely be the case. The clergy are lost there in the crowds of their parishioners. They are known to the largest part only as preachers. And with regard to their influencing public manners, Miss Crawford must not misunderstand me, or suppose I mean to call them arbiters of good breeding, the regulators of refinement and courtesy, the masters of the ceremonies of life. The manners I speak of might rather be called conduct, perhaps, the result of good principles. The effect in short of those doctrines which it is their duty to teach and recommend, and it will, I believe, be everywhere found that, as the clergy are, or are not, what they ought to be, so are the rest of the nation. Certainly, said Fanny, with gentle earnestness. There, cried Miss Crawford, you have quite convinced Miss Price already. I wish I could convince Miss Crawford, too. I do not think you ever will, said she with an arch smile. I am just as much surprised now as I was at first that you should intend to take orders. You really are fit for something better. Come, do change your mind. It is not too late. Go into the law. Go into the law, with as much ease as I was told to go into this wilderness. Now you are going to say something about law being the worst wilderness of the two. But I forstall you. Remember, I have forstalled you. And you need not hurry when the object is only to prevent my saying a bon mot, for there is not the least wit in my nature. I am a very matter-of-fact, plain spoken being, and may blunder on the borders of a repartee for half an hour together without striking it out. A general silence succeeded. Each was thoughtful. Fanny made the first interruption by saying, I wonder that I should be tired with only walking in this sweet wood. But the next time we come to a seat, if it is not disagreeable to you, I should be glad to sit down for a little while. Oh, my dear Fanny! cried Edmund, immediately drawing her arm within his. How thoughtless I have been. I hope you're not very tired. Perhaps! Turning to Miss Crawford. My other companion may do me the honour of taking an arm. Thank you, but I am not at all tired. She took it, however, as she spoke, and the gratification of having her do so, a feeling such a connection for the first time, made him a little forgetful of Fanny. You scarcely touch me, said he. You do not make me of any use. What a difference in the weight of a woman's arm from that of a man. At Oxford I have been a good deal used to have a man lean on me for the length of a street, and you are only a fly in the comparison. I am really not tired, which I almost wonder at. For we must have walked at least a mile in this wood. Do not you think we have? Not half a mile. Was his sturdy answer, for he was not yet so much in love as to measure distance, or reckon time, with feminine lawlessness. Oh, you do not consider how much we have wound about. We have taken such a very serpentine course, and the wood itself must be half a mile long in a straight line, for we have never seen the end of it yet, since we left the first great path. But if you remember, before we left that first great path, we saw directly to the end of it. We looked down the whole vista, and saw it closed by iron gates, and it could not have been more than a furlong in length. Oh, I know nothing of your furlongs, but I am sure it is a very long wood, that we have been winding in and out ever since we came into it. And therefore, when I say that we have walked a mile in it, I must speak within compass. We have been exactly a quart of an hour here. Said Edmund, taking out his watch. Do you think we are walking four miles an hour? Oh, do not attack me with your watch. A watch is always too fast, too slow. I cannot be dictated to by a watch. A few steps farther brought them out at the bottom of the very walk they had been talking of, and standing back, well shaded and sheltered, and looking over a ha-ha into the park, was a comfortable-sized bench, on which they all sat down. I am afraid you are very tired, Fanny. Said Edmund, observing her. Why would you not speak sooner? This will be a bad day's amusement for you if you are to be knocked up. Every sort of exercise fatigues her so soon, Miss Crawford, except riding. How abominable in you, then, to let me engross her horses I did all last week. I am ashamed of you, and of myself, but it shall never happen again. Your attentiveness and consideration makes me more sensible of my own neglect. Fanny's interest seems in safer hands with you than with me. That she should be tired now, however, gives me no surprise, for there is nothing in the course of one's duty so fatiguing as what we have been doing this morning. Seeing a great house, dawdling from one room to another, straining one's eyes and one's attention, hearing what one does not understand, admiring what one does not care for. It is generally allowed to be the greatest bore in the world, and Miss Price has found it so, though she did not know it. I shall soon be rested, said Fanny. To sit in the shade on a fine day and look upon verdure is the most perfect refreshment. After sitting a little while, Miss Crawford was up again. I must move, said she. Resting fatigues me. I have looked across the ha-ha till I am weary. I must go and look through that iron gate at the same view, without being able to see it so well. Edmund left the seat likewise. Now, Miss Crawford, if you will look up the walk, you will convince yourself that it cannot be half a mile long or half-half a mile. It is an immense distance, said she. I see that with a glance. He still reasoned with her, but in vain. She would not calculate. She would not compare. She would only smile and assert. The greatest degree of rational consistency could not have been more engaging, and they talked with mutual satisfaction. At last it was agreed that they should endeavor to determine the dimensions of the wood by walking a little more about it. They would go to one end of it, in the line they were then in, for there was a straight green walk along the bottom by the side of the ha-ha, and perhaps turn a little way in some other direction, if it seemed likely to assist them, and be back in a few minutes. Fanny said she was rested, and would have moved too, but this was not suffered. Edmund urged her remaining where she was with an earnestness which she could not resist, and she was left on the bench to think with pleasure of her cousin's care, but with great regret that she was not stronger. She watched them till they had turned the corner, and listened till all sound of them had ceased. She began to be surprised at being left so long, and to listen with an anxious desire of hearing their steps and their voices again. She listened, and at length she heard. She heard voices and feet approaching, but she had just satisfied herself that it was not those who she wanted, when Miss Bertram, Mr. Rushworth, and Mr. Crawford issued from the same path which she had drawn herself, and were before her. Miss Price? All alone? And— My dear Fanny, how comes this? Were the first salutations. She told her story. Poor dear Fanny! cried her cousin. How ill you have been used by them! You had better have stayed with us. Then, seating herself with a gentleman on either side, she resumed the conversation which had engaged them before, and discussed the possibility of improvements with much animation. Nothing was fixed on. But Henry Crawford was full of ideas and projects, and generally speaking whatever he proposed was immediately proved, first by her, and then by Mr. Rushworth, whose principal business seemed to be to hear the others, and who scarcely risked an original thought of his own, beyond a wish that they had seen his friend Smith's place. After some minutes spent in this way, Miss Bertram, observing the iron gate, expressed a wish of passing through it into the park, that their views and their plans might be more comprehensive. It was the very thing of all others to be wished. It was the best, it was the only way of proceeding with any advantage, in Henry Crawford's opinion, and he directly saw a knoll not half a mile off, which would give them exactly the requisite command of the house. Go therefore they must to that knoll, and through that gate. But the gate was locked. Mr. Rushworth wished he had brought the key, he had been very near thinking whether he should not bring the key, he was determined he would never come without the key again. But still this did not remove the present evil. They could not get through, and as Miss Bertram's inclination for so doing did by no means lesson, it ended in Mr. Rushworth's declaring outright that he would go and fetch the key. He set off, accordingly. It is undoubtedly the best thing we can do now, as we are so far from the house already. Said Mr. Crawford when he was gone. Yes, there is nothing else to be done. For now, sincerely, do not you find the place altogether worse than you expected. No, indeed, far otherwise. I find it better, grander, more complete in its style, though that style may not be the best, and to tell you the truth. Speaking rather lower. I do not think that I shall ever see Sutherton again with so much pleasure as I do now. Another summer will hardly improve it to me. After a moment's embarrassment, the lady replied, You are too much a man of the world not to see with the eyes of the world. If other people think Sutherton improved, I have no doubt that you will. I am afraid I am not quite so much the man of the world as might be good for me in some points. My feelings are not quite so evanescent, nor my memory of the past under such easy dominion, as one finds to be the case with men of the world. This was followed by a short silence. Miss Bertram began again. You seem to enjoy your drive here very much this morning. I was glad to see you so well entertained. You and Julia were laughing the whole way. Were we? Yes, I believe we were. But I have not the least recollection at what. Oh, I believe I was relating to her some ridiculous stories of an old Irish groom of my uncles. Your sister loves to laugh. You think her more lighthearted than I am? More easily amused. He replied. Consequently, you know. Smiling. Better company. I could not have hoped to entertain you with Irish anecdotes during a ten-mile drive. Naturally, I believe I am as lively as Julia, but I have more to think of now. You have, undoubtedly. And there are situations in which very high spirits would denote insensibility. Your prospects, however, are too fair to justify want of spirits. You have a very smiling scene before you. Do you mean literally or figuratively? Literally, I conclude. Yes, certainly the sun shines and the park looks very cheerful. But unluckily that iron gate, that ha ha, gives me a feeling of restraint and hardship. I cannot get out, as the Starling said. As she spoke, and it was with expression, she walked to the gate. He followed her. Mr. Rushworth is so long-fetching this key. And for the world you would not get out without the key and without Mr. Rushworth's authority and protection, or I think you might with little difficulty pass round the edge of the gate, here with my assistance. I think it might be done, if you really wish to be more at large and could allow yourself to think it not prohibited. Prohibited? Nonsense. I certainly can get out that way, and I will. Mr. Rushworth will be here in a moment, you know. We shall not be out of sight. Or if we are, Miss Price will be so good as to tell him that he will find us near that knoll, the Grove of Oak on the knoll. Fanny, feeling all this to be wrong, could not help making an effort to prevent it. You will hurt yourself, Miss Bertram. She cried. You will certainly hurt yourself against those spikes. You will tear your gown. You will be in danger of slipping into the ha-ha. You had better not go. Her cousin was safe on the other side while these words were spoken, and smiling with all the good humour of success, she said. Thank you, my dear Fanny, but I am my gown or alive and well, and so good-bye. Fanny was again left to her solitude, and with no increase of pleasant feelings, for she was sorry for almost all that she had seen and heard. Astonished at Miss Bertram and angry with Mr. Crawford. By taking a circuitous route, and as it appeared to her very unreasonable direction to the knoll, they were soon beyond her eye, and for some minutes longer she remained without sight or sound of any companion. She seemed to have the little wood all to herself. She could almost have thought that Edmund and Miss Crawford had left it, but that it was impossible for Edmund to forget her so entirely. She was again roused from disagreeable musings by sudden footsteps. Somebody was coming at a quick pace down the principal walk. She expected Mr. Rushworth, but it was Julia, who, hot and out of breath, and with a look of disappointment, cried out on seeing her. Hey, Day! Where are the others? I thought Mariah and Mr. Crawford were with you. Fanny explained. A pretty trick upon my word. I cannot see them anywhere. Looking eagerly into the park. But they cannot be very far off, and I think I am equal to as much as Mariah, even without help. But Julia, Mr. Rushworth, will be here in a moment with the key. Do wait for Mr. Rushworth? Not I, indeed. I have had enough of the family for one morning. White child, I have but this moment escaped from his horrible mother. Such a penance as I have been enduring, while you were sitting here so composed and so happy. It might have been as well, perhaps, if you had been in my place, but you always contrived to keep out of these scrapes. This was a most unjust reflection, but Fanny could allow for it, and let it pass. Julia was vexed, and her temper was hasty, but she felt that it would not last, and therefore, taking no notice, only asked her if she had not seen Mr. Rushworth. Yes, yes, we saw him. He was posting away as if upon life and death, and could but just spare time to tell us his errand and where you all were. It is a pity he should have so much trouble for nothing. That is Miss Mariah's concern. I am not obliged to punish myself for her sins. The mother I could not avoid as long as my tiresome aunt was dancing about with the housekeeper, but the son I can get away from. And she immediately scrambled across the fence and walked away, not attending to Fanny's last question of whether she had seen anything of Miss Crawford and Edmund. The sort of dread in which Fanny now sat of seeing Mr. Rushworth prevented her thinking so much of their continued absence, however, as she might have done. She felt that he had been very ill-used, and was quite unhappy in having to communicate what had passed. He joined her within five minutes after Julie's exit, and though she made the best of the story, he was evidently mortified and displeased in no common degree. At first he scarcely said anything. His looks only expressed his extreme surprise and vexation, and he walked to the gate and stood there, without seeming to know what to do. They desired me to stay. My cousin Mariah charged me to say that you would find them at that knoll or theirabouts. I do not believe I shall go any farther, said he sullenly. I see nothing of them. By the time I get to the knoll, they may be gone somewhere else. I have had walking enough. And he sat down with the most gloomy countenance by Fanny. I am very sorry, said she. It is very unlucky. And she longed to be able to say something more to the purpose. After an interval of silence— I think they might as well have stayed for me, said he. Miss Bertram thought she would follow her. I should not have had to follow her if she had stayed. This could not be denied, and Fanny was silenced. After another pause he went on. Pray, Miss Price, are you such a great admirer of this Mr. Crawford, as some people are? For my part I can see nothing in him. I do not think him at all handsome. Handsome? No one can call such an undersized man handsome. He is not five foot nine. I should not wonder if he is not more than five foot eight. I think he is an ill-looking fellow. In my opinion these Crawfords are no addition at all. We did very well without them. A small sigh escaped Fanny here, and she did not know how to contradict him. If I had made any difficulty about fetching the key, there might have been some excuse. But I went the very moment she said she wanted it. Nothing could be more obliging than your manner, I am sure. And I dare say you walked as fast as you could. But still it is some distance, you know, from this spot to the house, quite into the house. And when people are waiting they are bad judges of time, and every half-minute seems like five. He got up and walked to the gate again, and— Wished he had had the key about him at the time. Fanny thought she discerned in his standing there an indication of relenting, which encouraged her to another attempt, and she said therefore— It is a pity you should not join them. They expected to have a better view of the house from that part of the park, and will be thinking how it may be improved, and nothing of that sort, you know, can be settled without you. She found herself more successful in sending away than in retaining a companion. Mr. Rushworth was worked on. Well— Said he. If you really think how I'd better go, it would be foolish to bring the key for nothing. And letting himself out, he walked off without farther ceremony. Fanny's thoughts were now all engrossed by the two who had left her so long ago, and getting quite impatient, she resolved to go in search of them. She followed their steps along the bottom walk, and had just turned up into another, when the voice and the laugh of Miss Crawford once more caught her ear, the sound approached, and a few more windings brought them before her. They were just returned into the wilderness from the park, to which a side gate, not fastened, had tempted them very soon after they're leaving her, and they had been across a portion of the park into the very avenue which Fanny had been hoping the whole morning to reach at last, and had been sitting down under one of the trees. This was their history. It was evident that they had been spending their time pleasantly, and were not aware of the length of their absence. Fanny's best consolation was in being assured that Edmund had wished for her very much, and that he should certainly have come back for her, had she not been tired already. But this was not quite sufficient to do away with the pain of having been left a whole hour, when he had talked of only a few minutes, nor to banish the sort of curiosity she felt to know what they'd been conversing about all that time. And the result of the whole was to her disappointment and depression, as they prepared by general agreement to return to the house. On reaching the bottom of the steps to the terrace, Mrs. Rushworth and Mrs. Norris presented themselves at the top, just ready for the wilderness, at the end of an hour and a half from their leaving the house. Mrs. Norris had been too well employed to move faster. Whatever cross-accidents had occurred to intercept the pleasures of her nieces, she had found a mourning of complete enjoyment. For the housekeeper, after a great many courtesies on the subjects of pheasants, had taken her to the dairy, told her all about their cows, and given her the recipe for a famous cream cheese. And since Julie is leaving them, they had been met by the gardener, with whom she had made a most satisfactory acquaintance, for she had set him right as to his grandson's illness, convinced him that it was an ague, and promised him a charm for it. And he, in return, had shown her all his choice as nursery of plants, and actually presented her with a very curious specimen of heath. On this Roncontra they all returned to the house together, there to lounge away the time as they could with sofas and chitchat and quarterly reviews, till the return of the others, and the arrival of dinner. It was late before the Miss Bertrams and the two gentlemen came in, and their ramble did not appear to have been more than partially agreeable, or at all productive of anything useful with regard to the object of the day. By their own accounts they had been all walking after each other, and the junction which had taken place at last seemed to Fanny's observation to have been as much too late for re-establishing harmony as it conversedly had been for determining on any alteration. She felt as she looked at Julia and Mr. Rushworth that hers was not the only dissatisfied bosom amongst them. There was gloom on the face of each. Mr. Crawford and Miss Bertram were much more gay, and she thought that he was taking particular pains, during dinner, to do away with any little resentment of the other two, and restore general good humour. Dinner was soon followed by tea and coffee, a ten-mile drive home allowed no waste of hours, and from the time of their sitting down to table it was a quick succession of busy nothings till the carriage came to the door, and Mrs. Norris, having fidgeted about, and obtained a few pheasants' eggs and a cream cheese from the housekeeper, and made abundance of civil speeches to Mrs. Rushworth, was ready to lead the way. At the same moment Mr. Crawford, approaching Julia, said, I hope I am not to lose my companion, unless she is afraid of the evening air in so exposed a seat. The request had not been foreseen, but was very graciously received, and Julia's day was likely to end almost as well as it began. Miss Bertram had made up her mind to something different, and was a little disappointed, but her conviction of being really the one preferred comforted her under it, and enabled her to receive Mr. Rushworth's parting attentions as she ought. He was certainly better pleased to hand her into the barouche than to assist her in ascending the box, and his complacency seemed confirmed by the arrangement. Well, Fanny, this has been a fine day for you, upon my word! said Mrs. Norris as they drove through the park. Nothing but pleasure from beginning to end. I'm sure you ought to be very much obliged to your aunt Bertram and me for contriving to let you go. A pretty good day's amusement you have had. Mariah was just discontented enough to say directly, I think you have done pretty well yourself, Mum. Your lap seems full of good things, and here's a basket of something between us which has been knocking my elbow unmercifully. My dear, it is only a beautiful little heath, which that nice old gardener would make me take. But if it is in your way, I will have it in my lap directly. There, Fanny, you shall carry that parcel for me. Take great care of it. Do not let it fall. It is a cream cheese, just like the excellent one we had at dinner. Nothing would satisfy that good old Mrs. Whittaker but my taking one of the cheeses. I stood out as long as I could till the tears almost came into her eyes, and I knew it was just the thought that my sister would be delighted with. That Mrs. Whittaker is a treasure. She was quite shocked when I asked her where the wine was allowed at the second table, and she has turned away two housemates for wearing white gowns. Take care of the cheese, Fanny. Now, I can manage the other parcel and the basket very well. What else have you been sponging? Said Mariah, half pleased that Southerton should be so complimented. Spunging, my dear? It is nothing but four of those beautiful pheasant's eggs, which Mrs. Whittaker would quite force upon me. She would not take a denial. She said it must be such an amusement to me, as she understood I lived quite alone to have a few living creatures of that sort, and so to be sure it will. I shall get the dairy-maid to set them under the first spare hen, and if they come to good I can have them moved to my own house and borrow a coop, and it will be great delight to me in my lonely hours to attend to them, and if I have good luck your mother shall have some. It was a beautiful evening, mild and still, and the drive was as pleasant as the serenity of nature could make it. But when Mrs. Norris ceased speaking, it was altogether a silent drive to those within. Their spirits were in general exhausted, and to determine whether the day had afforded most pleasure or pain might occupy the meditations of almost all. The day at Southerton, with all its imperfections, afforded the Miss Bertram's much more agreeable feelings than were derived from the letters from Antigua, which soon afterwards reached Mansfield. It was much pleasanter to think of Henry Crawford than of their father, and to think of their father in England again within a certain period, which these letters obliged them to do, was a most unwelcome exercise. November was the black month fixed for his return. Sir Thomas wrote of it with as much decision as experience and anxiety could authorize. His business was so nearly concluded as to justify him in proposing to take his passage in the September packet, and he consequently looked forward with the hope of being with his beloved family again early in November. Mariah was more to be pitied than Julia, for to her the father brought a husband, and the return of the friend most solicitous for her happiness would unite her to the lover, on whom she had chosen that happiness should depend. It was a gloomy prospect, and all she could do was to throw a mist over it, and hope when the mist cleared away she should see something else. It would hardly be early in November. There were generally delays, a bad passage or something. That favoring something which everybody who shuts their eyes while they look or their understandings while they reason feels the comfort of. It would probably be the middle of November at least. The middle of November was three months off. Three months comprised thirteen weeks. Much might happen in thirteen weeks. Sir Thomas would have been deeply mortified by a suspicion of half that his daughters felt on the subject of his return, and would hardly have found consolation in a knowledge of the interest it excited in the breast of another young lady. Miss Crawford, on walking up with her brother to spend the evening at Mansfield Park, heard the good news, and though seeming to have no concern in the affair beyond politeness, and to have vented all her feelings in a quiet congratulation, heard it with an attention not so easily satisfied. Mrs. Norris gave the particulars of the letters, and the subject was dropped. But after tea, as Miss Crawford was standing at an open window with Edmund and Fanny looking out on a twilight scene, while the Miss Bertrams, Mr. Rushworth, and Henry Crawford were all busy with candles at the Piano Forte, she suddenly revived it by turning round towards the group and saying, How happy Mr. Rushworth looks! He is thinking of November. Edmund looked round at Mr. Rushworth too, but had nothing to say. Your father's return will be a very interesting event. It will indeed, after such an absence. An absence not only long, but including so many dangers. It will be the forerunner also of other interesting events, your sister's marriage, and your taking orders. Yes. Don't be affronted," said she, laughing. But it does put me in mind of some of the old heathen heroes who, after performing great exploits in a foreign land, offered sacrifices to the gods on their safe return. There is no sacrifice in the case. Replied Edmund with a serious smile and glancing at the Piano Forte again. It is entirely her own doing. Oh, yes, I know it is. I was merely joking. She is done no more than what every young woman would do, and I have no doubt of her being extremely happy. My other sacrifice, of course, you do not understand. My taking orders, I assure you, is quite as voluntary as Mariah's marrying. It is fortunate that your inclination and your father's convenience should accord so well. There is very good living kept for you, I understand hereabouts. Which you suppose has biased me. But that, I am sure it has not, cried Fanny. Thank you for your good word, Fanny, but it is more than I would affirm myself. On the contrary, the knowing that there was such a provision for me probably did bias me. Nor can I think it wrong that it should. There was no natural disinclination to be overcome, and I see no reason why a man should make a worse clergyman for knowing that he will have a competence early in life. I was in safe hands. I hope I should not have been influenced myself in a wrong way, and I am sure my father was too conscientious to have allowed it. I have no doubt that I was biased, but I think it was blamelessly. It is the same sort of thing, said Fanny, after a short pause. As for the son of an admiral to go into the navy, or the son of a general to be in the army, and nobody sees anything wrong in that, nobody wonders that they should prefer the line where their friends can serve them best, or suspects them to be less in earnest in it than they appear. No, my dear Miss Price, and for reasons good. The profession, either navy or army, is its own justification. It has everything in its favour—heroism, danger, bustle, fashion. Soldiers and sailors are always acceptable in society. Nobody can wonder that men are soldiers and sailors. But the motives of a man who takes orders with a certainty of preferment may be fairly suspected, you think, said Edmund. To be justified in your eyes, he must do it in the most complete uncertainty of any provision. What? Take orders without a living? No, that is madness indeed, absolute madness. Shall I ask you how the church is to be filled if a man is neither to take orders with a living nor without? No, for you certainly would not know what to say. But I must beg some advantage to the clergyman from your own argument, as he cannot be influenced by those feelings which you rank highly as temptation and reward to the soldier and sailor in their choice of a profession. As heroism and noise and fashion are all against him, he ought to be less liable to the suspicion of wanting sincerity or good intentions than the choice of his. Oh, no doubt he is very sincere in preferring an income ready-made to the trouble of working for one, and has the best intentions of doing nothing all the rest of his days but eat, drink, and grow fat. It is indolence, Mr. Bertram, indeed, indolence and love of ease, a want of all laudable ambition, of taste for good company, or of inclination to take the trouble of being agreeable, which make men clergyman. A clergyman has nothing to do but be slovenly and selfish, read the newspaper, watch the weather, and quarrel with his wife. His curate does all the work, and the business of his own life is to dine. There are such clergymen, no doubt, but I think they are not so common as to justify Miss Crawford in esteeming it their general character. I suspect that in this comprehensive end, may I say, commonplace censure, you are not judging from yourself but from prejudiced persons whose opinions you have been in the habit of hearing. It is impossible that your own observation can have given you much knowledge of the clergy. You have been personally acquainted with very few of a set of men you condemn so conclusively. You are speaking what you have been told at your uncle's table. I speak what appears to me the general opinion, and where an opinion is general, it is usually correct. Though I have not seen much of the domestic lives of clergymen, it is seen by too many to leave any deficiency of information. Where any one body of educated men of whatever denomination are condemned indiscriminately, there must be a deficiency of information or— Smiling of something else. Your uncle and his brother admirals perhaps knew little of clergymen beyond the chaplains whom, good or bad, they were always wishing away. Poor William! He has met with great kindness from the chaplain of the Antwerp. Was a tender apostrophe of Fanny's, very much to the purpose of her own feelings, if not of the conversation. I have been so little addicted to take my opinions from my uncle, said Miss Crawford, that I can hardly suppose, and since you push me so hard I must observe that I am not entirely without the means of seeing what clergymen are, being at this present time the guest of my own brother, Dr. Grant. And though Dr. Grant is most kind and obliging to me, and though he is really a gentleman, and I daresay a good scholar and clever, and often preaches good sermons and is very respectable, I see him to be an indolent selfish bon vivant, who must have his palate consulted in everything, who will not stir a finger for the convenience of any one, and whom, moreover, if the cook makes a blunder, is out of humour with his excellent wife. To own the truth, Henry and I were partly driven out this very evening by a disappointment about a green goose, which he could not get the better of. My poor sister was forced to stay and bear it. I do not wonder if your disapprobation upon my word. It is a great defect of temper made worse by a very faulty habit of self-indulgence, and to see your sister suffering from it must be exceedingly painful to such feelings as yours. Fanny, it goes against us. We cannot attempt to defend Dr. Grant. No. replied Fanny. But we need not give up his profession for all that, because whatever profession Dr. Grant had chosen he would have taken a—not a good temper into it, and as he must, either in the navy or army, have had a great many more people under his command than he has now, I think more would have been made unhappy by him as a sailor or soldier than as a clergyman. Besides, I cannot but suppose that whatever there may be to wish otherwise in Dr. Grant would have been in a greater danger of becoming worse in a more active and worldly profession, where he would have had less time and obligation, where he might have escaped that knowledge of himself, the frequency at least, of that knowledge which it is impossible he should escape as he is now. A man, a sensible man like Dr. Grant, cannot be in the habit of teaching others their duty every week, cannot go to church twice every Sunday, and preach such very good sermons in so good a manner as he does, without being the better for it himself. It must make him think, and I have no doubt that he often are endeavours to restrain himself than he would if he had been anything but a clergyman. We cannot prove to the contrary to be sure. But I wish you a better fate, Miss Price, than to be the wife of a man whose amuableness depends upon his own sermons. For though he may preach himself into a good humour every Sunday, it will be bad enough to have him quarrelling about green geese from Monday morning till Saturday night. I think the man who could often quarrel with Fanny, said Edmund affectionately, must be beyond the reach of any sermons. Fanny turned farther into the window, and Miss Crawford had only time to say in a pleasant manner. I fancy Miss Price has been more used to deserve praise than to hear it. When being earnestly invited by the Miss Bertrams to join in a glee, she tripped off to the instrument, leaving Edmund looking after her in an ecstasy of admiration of all her many virtues, from her obliging manners down to her light and graceful tread. There goes good humour, I am sure! said he presently. There goes a tempo which would never give pain. How well she walks! And how readily she falls in with the inclination of others, joining them the moment she is asked. What a pity! he added after an instant's reflection, that she should have been in such hands. Fanny agreed to it, and had the pleasure of seeing him continue at the window with her, in spite of the expected glee, and of having his eyes soon turned, like hers, towards the scene without, where all that was solemn and soothing and lovely appeared in the brilliancy of an unclouded night, and the contrast of the deep shade of the woods. Fanny spoke her feelings. Here's Harmony, said she. Here's Repose. Here's what may leave all painting and all music behind, and what poetry only can attempt to describe. Here's what may tranquilise every care and lift the heart to rapture. When I look out on such a night as this, I feel as if there could be neither wickedness nor sorrow in the world, and there certainly would be less of both if the sublimity of nature were more attended to, and people were carried more out of themselves by contemplating such a scene. I like to hear your enthusiasm, Fanny. It is a lovely night, and there are much to be pityed who have not been taught to feel in some degree as you do, who have not at least been given a taste for nature in early life. They lose a great deal. You taught me to think and feel on the subject, cousin. I had a very apt scholar. There's our tourist looking very bright. Yes, and the bear. I wish I could see Cassie appear. We must go out on the lawn for that. Should you be afraid? Not in the least. It is a great while since we have had any stargazing. Yes, I do not know how it has happened. The glee began. We will state all this is finished, Fanny. Said he, turning his back on the window, and as it advanced, she had the mortification of seeing him advance too, moving forward by gentle degrees towards the instrument, and when it ceased he was close by the singers, among the most urgent in requesting to hear the glee again. Fanny sighed alone at the window, till scolded away by Mrs. Norris's threats of catching cold. End of CHAPTER XI. CHAPTER XII OF MAN'S FIELD PARK by Jane Austen. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Sir Thomas was to return in November, and his eldest son had duties to call him earlier home. The approach of September brought tidings of Mr. Bertram, first in a letter to the gamekeeper, and then in a letter to Edmund, and by the end of August he arrived himself to be gay, agreeable, and gallant again as occasion served, or Miss Crawford demanded, to tell of races and weymouth, and parties and friends, to which she might have listened six weeks before with some interest, and altogether to give her the fullest conviction, by the power of actual comparison, of her preferring his younger brother. It was very vexatious, and she was heartily sorry for it, but so it was, and so far from now meaning to marry the elder, she did not even want to attract him beyond what the simplest claims of conscious beauty required. His lengthened absence from Mansfield, without anything but pleasure and view, and his own will to consult, made it perfectly clear that he did not care about her, and his indifference was so much more than equaled by her own, that were he now to step forth the owner of Mansfield Park, the Sir Thomas complete, which he was to be in time, she did not believe she could accept him. The season and duties which brought Mr. Bertram back to Mansfield, took Mr. Crawford into Norfolk. Everingham could not do without him in the beginning of September. He went for a fortnight. A fortnight of such dullness to the Miss Bertrams, as ought to have put them both on their guard, and made even Julia admit, in her jealousy of her sister, the absolute necessity of distrusting his attentions, and wishing him not to return. And a fortnight of sufficient leisure, in the intervals of shooting and sleeping, to have convinced the gentleman that he ought to keep longer away, had he been more in the habit of examining his own motives, and of reflecting to what the indulgence of his idle vanity was tending. But, thoughtless and selfish from prosperity and bad example, he would not look beyond the present moment. The sisters, handsome, clever, and encouraging, were an amusement to his sated mind, and finding nothing in Norfolk to equal the social pleasures of Mansfield, he gladly returned to it at the time appointed, and was welcomed thither quite as gladly by those whom he came to trifle with further. Mariah was only Mr. Rushworth to attend her, and doomed to the repeated details of his day's sport, good or bad, his boast of his dogs, his jealousy of his neighbours, his doubts of their qualifications, and his zeal after poachers, subjects which will not find their way to female feelings without some talent on one side, or some attachment on the other, had missed Mr. Crawford grievously. And Julia, unengaged and unemployed, felt all the right of missing him much more. Each sister believed herself the favourite. Julia might be justified in doing so by the hints of Mrs. Grant, inclined to credit what she wished, and Mariah by the hints of Mr. Crawford himself. Everything returned into the same channel as before his absence, his manners being to each so animated and agreeable as to lose no ground with either, and just stopping short of the consistence, the steadiness, the solicitude, and the warmth, which might excite general notice. Fanny was the only one of the party who found anything to dislike, but since the day at Southerton, she could never see Mr. Crawford with either sister without observation, and seldom without wonder or censure, and had her confidence in her own judgment being equal to her exercise of it in every other respect, had she been sure that she was seeing clearly, and judging candidly, she would probably have made some important communications to her usual confidant. As it was, however, she only hazarded a hint, and the hint was lost. I am rather surprised, said she, that Mr. Crawford should come back again so soon, after being here so long before, for seven weeks, for I had understood he was so very fond of change and moving about, that I thought something would certainly occur when he was once gone to take him elsewhere. He is used to much gayer places than Mansfield. It is to his credit, was Edmund's answer. And I dare say it gives his sister pleasure. She does not like his unsettled habits. What a favourite he is with my cousins. Yes, his manners to women are such as must please. Mrs. Grant, I believe, suspects him of a preference for Julia. I have never seen much symptom of it, but I wish it may be so. He has no thoughts but what a serious attachment would remove. If Miss Bertram were not engaged, said Fanny cautiously, I could sometimes almost think that he admired her more than Julia, which is perhaps more in favour of his liking Julia best than you, Fanny, may be aware. For I believe that it often happens that a man, before he is quite made up his own mind, will distinguish the sister, or intimate friend, of the woman he is rarely thinking of, more than the woman herself. Crawford has too much sense to stay here if he found himself in any danger from Mariah. And I am not at all afraid for her, after such a proof as she has given that her feelings are not strong. Fanny supposed she must have been mistaken, and meant to think differently in future. But with all that submission to Edmund could do, and all the help of the coinciding looks and hints which she occasionally noticed in some of the others, and which seemed to say that Julia was Mr. Crawford's choice, she knew not always what to think. She was privy one evening to the hopes of her aunt Norris on the subject, as well as to her feelings, and the feelings of Mrs. Rushworth on a point of some similarity, and could not help wondering as she listened, and glad would she have been not to be obliged to listen, for it was while all the other young people were dancing, and she sitting, most unwillingly, among the chaperones at the fire, longing for the re-entrance of her elder cousin, on whom all her own hopes of a partner then depended. It was Fanny's first ball, though without the preparation or splendour of many a young lady's first ball, being the thought only of the afternoon, built on the late acquisition of a violin player in the servant's hall, and the possibility of raising five couple with the help of Mrs. Grant, and a new intimate friend of Mr. Bertram's just arrived on a visit. It had, however, been a very happy one to Fanny through four dances, and she was quite grieved to be losing even a quarter of an hour. While waiting and wishing, looking now at the dancers and now at the door, this dialogue between the two above-mentioned ladies was forced on her. I think, Mum, said Mrs. Norris, her eyes directed towards Mr. Rushworth and Mariah, who were partners for the second time. We shall see some happy faces again now. Yes, Mum, indeed. There will be some satisfaction in looking on now, and I think it was rather a pity they should have been obliged to part. Young folks in their situation should be excused complying with the common forms. I wonder my son did not propose it. I daresay he did, Mum. Mr. Rushworth is never remiss. But dear Mariah has such a strict sense of propriety, so much of that true delicacy which one seldom meets with nowadays, Mrs. Rushworth, that wish of avoiding particularity. Dear Mum, only look at her face at this moment, how different from what it was the last two dances. Miss Bertram did indeed look happy. Her eyes were sparkling with pleasure, and she was speaking with great animation. For Julia and her partner, Mr. Crawford, were close to her. They were all in a cluster together. How she had looked before Fanny could not recollect, for she had been dancing with Edmund herself, and had not thought about her. Mrs. Norris continued. It is quite delightful, Mum, to see young people so properly happy, so well suited, and so much the thing. I cannot but think of dear Sir Thomas's delight. And what do you say, Mum, to the chance of another match? Mr. Rushworth has set a good example, and such things are very catching. Mrs. Rushworth, who saw nothing but her son, was quite at a loss. The couple above, Mum. Do you see no symptoms there? Oh, dear! Miss Julia and Mr. Crawford. Yes, indeed, a very pretty match. What is his property? Four thousand a year. Very well. Those who have not more must be satisfied with what they have. Four thousand a year is a pretty estate, and he seems a very genteel, steady young man, so I hope Miss Julia will be very happy. It is not a settled thing, Mum, yet. We only speak a bit among friends, but I have very little doubt it will be. He is growing extremely particular in his attentions. Fanny could listen no farther. Listening and wondering were all suspended for a time, for Mr. Bircham was in the room again, and though feeling it would be a great honour to be asked by him, she thought it must happen. He came towards their little circle, but instead of asking her to dance, drew a chair near her, and gave her an account of the present state of a sick horse and the opinion of the groom, from whom he had just parted. Fanny found that it was not to be, and in the modesty of her nature immediately felt that she had been unreasonable in expecting it. When he had told of his horse, he took a newspaper from the table, and looking over it, said in a languid way, If you want to dance, Fanny, I will stand up with you. With more than equal civility the offer was declined. She did not wish to dance. I'm glad of it, said he in a much brisker tone, and throwing down the newspaper again. For I am tired to death. I only wonder how the good people can keep it up so long. They had need all be in love to find any amusement in such folly, and so they are, I fancy. If you look at them, you may see they are so many couple of lovers, all but Gates and Mrs. Grant, and between ourselves, she, poor woman, must want a lover as much as any of them. A desperate dull life hers must be with a doctor. Making a sly face as he spoke towards the chair of the latter, who proving, however, to be close at his elbow, made so instantaneous a change of expression and subject necessary, as Fanny, in spite of everything, could hardly help laughing at. A strange business this in America, Dr. Grant. What is your opinion? I always come to you to know what I am to think of public matters. My dear Tom! cried his aunt soon afterwards. As you are not dancing, I dare say you will have no objection to join us in a rubber, shall you? Then leaving her seat and coming to him to enforce the proposal, added in a whisper, We want to make a table for Mrs. Rushworth, you know. Your mother is quite anxious about it, but cannot very well spare time to sit down herself because of her fringe. Now, you and I and Dr. Grant will just do, and though we play but half crowns, you know, you may bet half guineas with him. I should be most happy, replied he aloud, and jumping up with alacrity. It would give me the greatest pleasure that I am this moment going to dance. Come, Fanny. Taking her hand. Do not be dawdling any longer, or the dance will be over. Fanny was let off very willingly, though it was impossible for her to feel much gratitude towards her cousin, or distinguish, as he certainly did, between the selfishness of another person and his own. A pretty modest request upon my word. He indignantly exclaimed as they walked away. To want to nail me to a card table for the next two hours with herself and Dr. Grant, who are always quarreling, and that poking old woman who knows no more of wist than of algebra. I wish my good aunt would be a little less busy, and to ask me in such a way, too, without ceremony before them all so as to leave me no possibility of refusing. That is what I dislike most particularly. It raises my spleen more than anything to have the pretense of being asked, of being given a choice, and at the same time addressed in such a way as to oblige one to do the very thing whatever it be. If I had not luckily thought of standing up with you, I could not have got out of it. It is a great deal too bad, but when my aunt has got a fancy in her head, nothing can stop her.