Chapter: As Fanny could not doubt that her answer was conveying a real
disappointment, she was rather in expectation, from her knowledge of
Miss Crawford's temper, of being urged again; and though no second
letter arrived for the space of a week, she had still the same feeling
when it did come.

On receiving it, she could instantly decide on its containing little
writing, and was persuaded of its having the air of a letter of haste
and business. Its object was unquestionable; and two moments were enough
to start the probability of its being merely to give her notice that
they should be in Portsmouth that very day, and to throw her into all
the agitation of doubting what she ought to do in such a case. If two
moments, however, can surround with difficulties, a third can disperse
them; and before she had opened the letter, the possibility of Mr. and
Miss Crawford's having applied to her uncle and obtained his permission
was giving her ease. This was the letter--

"A most scandalous, ill-natured rumour has just reached me, and I write,
dear Fanny, to warn you against giving the least credit to it, should it
spread into the country. Depend upon it, there is some mistake, and that
a day or two will clear it up; at any rate, that Henry is blameless, and
in spite of a moment's _etourderie_, thinks of nobody but you. Say not a
word of it; hear nothing, surmise nothing, whisper nothing till I
write again. I am sure it will be all hushed up, and nothing proved but
Rushworth's folly. If they are gone, I would lay my life they are only
gone to Mansfield Park, and Julia with them. But why would not you let
us come for you? I wish you may not repent it.--Yours, etc."

Fanny stood aghast. As no scandalous, ill-natured rumour had reached
her, it was impossible for her to understand much of this strange
letter. She could only perceive that it must relate to Wimpole Street
and Mr. Crawford, and only conjecture that something very imprudent had
just occurred in that quarter to draw the notice of the world, and to
excite her jealousy, in Miss Crawford's apprehension, if she heard it.
Miss Crawford need not be alarmed for her. She was only sorry for the
parties concerned and for Mansfield, if the report should spread so far;
but she hoped it might not. If the Rushworths were gone themselves to
Mansfield, as was to be inferred from what Miss Crawford said, it was
not likely that anything unpleasant should have preceded them, or at
least should make any impression.

As to Mr. Crawford, she hoped it might give him a knowledge of his own
disposition, convince him that he was not capable of being steadily
attached to any one woman in the world, and shame him from persisting
any longer in addressing herself.

It was very strange! She had begun to think he really loved her, and to
fancy his affection for her something more than common; and his sister
still said that he cared for nobody else. Yet there must have been some
marked display of attentions to her cousin, there must have been some
strong indiscretion, since her correspondent was not of a sort to regard
a slight one.

Very uncomfortable she was, and must continue, till she heard from
Miss Crawford again. It was impossible to banish the letter from her
thoughts, and she could not relieve herself by speaking of it to any
human being. Miss Crawford need not have urged secrecy with so much
warmth; she might have trusted to her sense of what was due to her
cousin.

The next day came and brought no second letter. Fanny was disappointed.
She could still think of little else all the morning; but, when her
father came back in the afternoon with the daily newspaper as usual, she
was so far from expecting any elucidation through such a channel that
the subject was for a moment out of her head.

She was deep in other musing. The remembrance of her first evening in
that room, of her father and his newspaper, came across her. No candle
was now wanted. The sun was yet an hour and half above the horizon. She
felt that she had, indeed, been three months there; and the sun's rays
falling strongly into the parlour, instead of cheering, made her still
more melancholy, for sunshine appeared to her a totally different
thing in a town and in the country. Here, its power was only a glare:
a stifling, sickly glare, serving but to bring forward stains and dirt
that might otherwise have slept. There was neither health nor gaiety in
sunshine in a town. She sat in a blaze of oppressive heat, in a cloud
of moving dust, and her eyes could only wander from the walls, marked by
her father's head, to the table cut and notched by her brothers, where
stood the tea-board never thoroughly cleaned, the cups and saucers wiped
in streaks, the milk a mixture of motes floating in thin blue, and the
bread and butter growing every minute more greasy than even Rebecca's
hands had first produced it. Her father read his newspaper, and her
mother lamented over the ragged carpet as usual, while the tea was
in preparation, and wished Rebecca would mend it; and Fanny was first
roused by his calling out to her, after humphing and considering over
a particular paragraph: "What's the name of your great cousins in town,
Fan?"

A moment's recollection enabled her to say, "Rushworth, sir."

"And don't they live in Wimpole Street?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then, there's the devil to pay among them, that's all! There" (holding
out the paper to her); "much good may such fine relations do you. I
don't know what Sir Thomas may think of such matters; he may be too much
of the courtier and fine gentleman to like his daughter the less. But,
by G--! if she belonged to _me_, I'd give her the rope's end as long as
I could stand over her. A little flogging for man and woman too would be
the best way of preventing such things."

Fanny read to herself that "it was with infinite concern the newspaper
had to announce to the world a matrimonial _fracas_ in the family of
Mr. R. of Wimpole Street; the beautiful Mrs. R., whose name had not long
been enrolled in the lists of Hymen, and who had promised to become
so brilliant a leader in the fashionable world, having quitted her
husband's roof in company with the well-known and captivating Mr. C.,
the intimate friend and associate of Mr. R., and it was not known even
to the editor of the newspaper whither they were gone."

"It is a mistake, sir," said Fanny instantly; "it must be a mistake, it
cannot be true; it must mean some other people."

She spoke from the instinctive wish of delaying shame; she spoke with
a resolution which sprung from despair, for she spoke what she did not,
could not believe herself. It had been the shock of conviction as she
read. The truth rushed on her; and how she could have spoken at all,
how she could even have breathed, was afterwards matter of wonder to
herself.

Mr. Price cared too little about the report to make her much answer.
"It might be all a lie," he acknowledged; "but so many fine ladies were
going to the devil nowadays that way, that there was no answering for
anybody."

"Indeed, I hope it is not true," said Mrs. Price plaintively; "it would
be so very shocking! If I have spoken once to Rebecca about that carpet,
I am sure I have spoke at least a dozen times; have not I, Betsey? And
it would not be ten minutes' work."

The horror of a mind like Fanny's, as it received the conviction of such
guilt, and began to take in some part of the misery that must ensue, can
hardly be described. At first, it was a sort of stupefaction; but every
moment was quickening her perception of the horrible evil. She could not
doubt, she dared not indulge a hope, of the paragraph being false. Miss
Crawford's letter, which she had read so often as to make every line
her own, was in frightful conformity with it. Her eager defence of her
brother, her hope of its being _hushed_ _up_, her evident agitation,
were all of a piece with something very bad; and if there was a woman
of character in existence, who could treat as a trifle this sin of the
first magnitude, who would try to gloss it over, and desire to have it
unpunished, she could believe Miss Crawford to be the woman! Now she
could see her own mistake as to _who_ were gone, or _said_ to be
gone. It was not Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth; it was Mrs. Rushworth and Mr.
Crawford.

Fanny seemed to herself never to have been shocked before. There was no
possibility of rest. The evening passed without a pause of misery, the
night was totally sleepless. She passed only from feelings of sickness
to shudderings of horror; and from hot fits of fever to cold. The event
was so shocking, that there were moments even when her heart revolted
from it as impossible: when she thought it could not be. A woman married
only six months ago; a man professing himself devoted, even _engaged_ to
another; that other her near relation; the whole family, both families
connected as they were by tie upon tie; all friends, all intimate
together! It was too horrible a confusion of guilt, too gross a
complication of evil, for human nature, not in a state of utter
barbarism, to be capable of! yet her judgment told her it was so.
_His_ unsettled affections, wavering with his vanity, _Maria's_
decided attachment, and no sufficient principle on either side, gave it
possibility: Miss Crawford's letter stampt it a fact.

What would be the consequence? Whom would it not injure? Whose views
might it not affect? Whose peace would it not cut up for ever? Miss
Crawford, herself, Edmund; but it was dangerous, perhaps, to tread
such ground. She confined herself, or tried to confine herself, to the
simple, indubitable family misery which must envelop all, if it were
indeed a matter of certified guilt and public exposure. The mother's
sufferings, the father's; there she paused. Julia's, Tom's, Edmund's;
there a yet longer pause. They were the two on whom it would fall most
horribly. Sir Thomas's parental solicitude and high sense of honour and
decorum, Edmund's upright principles, unsuspicious temper, and genuine
strength of feeling, made her think it scarcely possible for them to
support life and reason under such disgrace; and it appeared to her
that, as far as this world alone was concerned, the greatest blessing to
every one of kindred with Mrs. Rushworth would be instant annihilation.

Nothing happened the next day, or the next, to weaken her terrors. Two
posts came in, and brought no refutation, public or private. There was
no second letter to explain away the first from Miss Crawford; there was
no intelligence from Mansfield, though it was now full time for her
to hear again from her aunt. This was an evil omen. She had, indeed,
scarcely the shadow of a hope to soothe her mind, and was reduced to so
low and wan and trembling a condition, as no mother, not unkind, except
Mrs. Price could have overlooked, when the third day did bring the
sickening knock, and a letter was again put into her hands. It bore the
London postmark, and came from Edmund.

"Dear Fanny,--You know our present wretchedness. May God support you
under your share! We have been here two days, but there is nothing to
be done. They cannot be traced. You may not have heard of the last
blow--Julia's elopement; she is gone to Scotland with Yates. She left
London a few hours before we entered it. At any other time this would
have been felt dreadfully. Now it seems nothing; yet it is an heavy
aggravation. My father is not overpowered. More cannot be hoped. He is
still able to think and act; and I write, by his desire, to propose your
returning home. He is anxious to get you there for my mother's sake. I
shall be at Portsmouth the morning after you receive this, and hope to
find you ready to set off for Mansfield. My father wishes you to invite
Susan to go with you for a few months. Settle it as you like; say what
is proper; I am sure you will feel such an instance of his kindness at
such a moment! Do justice to his meaning, however I may confuse it. You
may imagine something of my present state. There is no end of the evil
let loose upon us. You will see me early by the mail.--Yours, etc."

Never had Fanny more wanted a cordial. Never had she felt such a one
as this letter contained. To-morrow! to leave Portsmouth to-morrow!
She was, she felt she was, in the greatest danger of being exquisitely
happy, while so many were miserable. The evil which brought such good
to her! She dreaded lest she should learn to be insensible of it. To be
going so soon, sent for so kindly, sent for as a comfort, and with leave
to take Susan, was altogether such a combination of blessings as set her
heart in a glow, and for a time seemed to distance every pain, and
make her incapable of suitably sharing the distress even of those
whose distress she thought of most. Julia's elopement could affect her
comparatively but little; she was amazed and shocked; but it could not
occupy her, could not dwell on her mind. She was obliged to call herself
to think of it, and acknowledge it to be terrible and grievous, or it
was escaping her, in the midst of all the agitating pressing joyful
cares attending this summons to herself.

There is nothing like employment, active indispensable employment, for
relieving sorrow. Employment, even melancholy, may dispel melancholy,
and her occupations were hopeful. She had so much to do, that not even
the horrible story of Mrs. Rushworth--now fixed to the last point of
certainty could affect her as it had done before. She had not time to
be miserable. Within twenty-four hours she was hoping to be gone; her
father and mother must be spoken to, Susan prepared, everything got
ready. Business followed business; the day was hardly long enough. The
happiness she was imparting, too, happiness very little alloyed by the
black communication which must briefly precede it--the joyful consent
of her father and mother to Susan's going with her--the general
satisfaction with which the going of both seemed regarded, and the
ecstasy of Susan herself, was all serving to support her spirits.

The affliction of the Bertrams was little felt in the family. Mrs. Price
talked of her poor sister for a few minutes, but how to find anything to
hold Susan's clothes, because Rebecca took away all the boxes and spoilt
them, was much more in her thoughts: and as for Susan, now unexpectedly
gratified in the first wish of her heart, and knowing nothing personally
of those who had sinned, or of those who were sorrowing--if she could
help rejoicing from beginning to end, it was as much as ought to be
expected from human virtue at fourteen.

As nothing was really left for the decision of Mrs. Price, or the good
offices of Rebecca, everything was rationally and duly accomplished,
and the girls were ready for the morrow. The advantage of much sleep
to prepare them for their journey was impossible. The cousin who was
travelling towards them could hardly have less than visited their
agitated spirits--one all happiness, the other all varying and
indescribable perturbation.

By eight in the morning Edmund was in the house. The girls heard his
entrance from above, and Fanny went down. The idea of immediately seeing
him, with the knowledge of what he must be suffering, brought back all
her own first feelings. He so near her, and in misery. She was ready to
sink as she entered the parlour. He was alone, and met her instantly;
and she found herself pressed to his heart with only these words, just
articulate, "My Fanny, my only sister; my only comfort now!" She could
say nothing; nor for some minutes could he say more.

He turned away to recover himself, and when he spoke again, though his
voice still faltered, his manner shewed the wish of self-command, and
the resolution of avoiding any farther allusion. "Have you breakfasted?
When shall you be ready? Does Susan go?" were questions following each
other rapidly. His great object was to be off as soon as possible. When
Mansfield was considered, time was precious; and the state of his own
mind made him find relief only in motion. It was settled that he should
order the carriage to the door in half an hour. Fanny answered for their
having breakfasted and being quite ready in half an hour. He had already
ate, and declined staying for their meal. He would walk round the
ramparts, and join them with the carriage. He was gone again; glad to
get away even from Fanny.

He looked very ill; evidently suffering under violent emotions, which he
was determined to suppress. She knew it must be so, but it was terrible
to her.

The carriage came; and he entered the house again at the same
moment, just in time to spend a few minutes with the family, and be a
witness--but that he saw nothing--of the tranquil manner in which the
daughters were parted with, and just in time to prevent their sitting
down to the breakfast-table, which, by dint of much unusual activity,
was quite and completely ready as the carriage drove from the door.
Fanny's last meal in her father's house was in character with her first:
she was dismissed from it as hospitably as she had been welcomed.

How her heart swelled with joy and gratitude as she passed the barriers
of Portsmouth, and how Susan's face wore its broadest smiles, may be
easily conceived. Sitting forwards, however, and screened by her bonnet,
those smiles were unseen.

The journey was likely to be a silent one. Edmund's deep sighs often
reached Fanny. Had he been alone with her, his heart must have opened
in spite of every resolution; but Susan's presence drove him quite into
himself, and his attempts to talk on indifferent subjects could never be
long supported.

Fanny watched him with never-failing solicitude, and sometimes catching
his eye, revived an affectionate smile, which comforted her; but the
first day's journey passed without her hearing a word from him on the
subjects that were weighing him down. The next morning produced a
little more. Just before their setting out from Oxford, while Susan was
stationed at a window, in eager observation of the departure of a
large family from the inn, the other two were standing by the fire; and
Edmund, particularly struck by the alteration in Fanny's looks, and from
his ignorance of the daily evils of her father's house, attributing an
undue share of the change, attributing _all_ to the recent event, took
her hand, and said in a low, but very expressive tone, "No wonder--you
must feel it--you must suffer. How a man who had once loved, could
desert you! But _yours_--your regard was new compared with----Fanny,
think of _me_!"

The first division of their journey occupied a long day, and brought
them, almost knocked up, to Oxford; but the second was over at a much
earlier hour. They were in the environs of Mansfield long before the
usual dinner-time, and as they approached the beloved place, the hearts
of both sisters sank a little. Fanny began to dread the meeting with her
aunts and Tom, under so dreadful a humiliation; and Susan to feel
with some anxiety, that all her best manners, all her lately acquired
knowledge of what was practised here, was on the point of being called
into action. Visions of good and ill breeding, of old vulgarisms and new
gentilities, were before her; and she was meditating much upon silver
forks, napkins, and finger-glasses. Fanny had been everywhere awake to
the difference of the country since February; but when they entered the
Park her perceptions and her pleasures were of the keenest sort. It was
three months, full three months, since her quitting it, and the
change was from winter to summer. Her eye fell everywhere on lawns
and plantations of the freshest green; and the trees, though not fully
clothed, were in that delightful state when farther beauty is known to
be at hand, and when, while much is actually given to the sight, more
yet remains for the imagination. Her enjoyment, however, was for herself
alone. Edmund could not share it. She looked at him, but he was leaning
back, sunk in a deeper gloom than ever, and with eyes closed, as if the
view of cheerfulness oppressed him, and the lovely scenes of home must
be shut out.

It made her melancholy again; and the knowledge of what must be enduring
there, invested even the house, modern, airy, and well situated as it
was, with a melancholy aspect.

By one of the suffering party within they were expected with such
impatience as she had never known before. Fanny had scarcely passed the
solemn-looking servants, when Lady Bertram came from the drawing-room
to meet her; came with no indolent step; and falling on her neck, said,
"Dear Fanny! now I shall be comfortable."

 Another letter from Mary arrives, but this one is uncharacteristically short and vague. Mary tells Fanny that if she's heard any rumors about Henry and the Rushworths and Julia to please just ignore them. Fanny is really confused. She's also surprised because she was starting to finally think that Henry actually loved her and now it seems he's done something scandalous with one of the Bertram sisters. Apparently, she assumed that Henry would just love Fanny forever with no encouragement or warm feelings from her at all. The next day Mr. Price tells Fanny that there's news of the scandal in the newspaper. Turns out, Mrs. Rushworth has left her husband and run off with Henry. Fanny is stunned and her moral sensibilities are totally horrified. Fanny thinks about how awful and evil and terrible everything is, and how the news of this will crush the rest of the family. Finally a letter arrives from Edmund confirming that Maria has had an affair and has run off with Henry, which was apocalyptic levels of scandal for this time period. This is a scandal to end all scandals. It gets worse, though: turns out Julia has eloped with Mr. Yates. At least she's married, though. Edmund tells Fanny that he'll be in Portsmouth tomorrow to bring her home and invites Susan to come back with her as well. Susan and Fanny busy themselves with packing. Edmund arrives and looks terrible - he's very depressed and stressed out. The ride back to Mansfield Park is pretty subdued. Susan is excited and nervous, but Fanny and Edmund are mainly just stressed out. Edmund offers his condolences to Fanny over her loss of Henry, but then whines that she should think of how much worse it is for him to have lost Mary. We get no details on the loss at this time. Fanny is happy to be back at Mansfield Park even with all of the drama, and is greeted warmly by her aunt and uncle.

