Chapter: The novelty of travelling, and the happiness of being with William, soon
produced their natural effect on Fanny's spirits, when Mansfield Park
was fairly left behind; and by the time their first stage was ended, and
they were to quit Sir Thomas's carriage, she was able to take leave of
the old coachman, and send back proper messages, with cheerful looks.

Of pleasant talk between the brother and sister there was no end.
Everything supplied an amusement to the high glee of William's mind, and
he was full of frolic and joke in the intervals of their higher-toned
subjects, all of which ended, if they did not begin, in praise of the
Thrush, conjectures how she would be employed, schemes for an action
with some superior force, which (supposing the first lieutenant out of
the way, and William was not very merciful to the first lieutenant) was
to give himself the next step as soon as possible, or speculations upon
prize-money, which was to be generously distributed at home, with only
the reservation of enough to make the little cottage comfortable,
in which he and Fanny were to pass all their middle and later life
together.

Fanny's immediate concerns, as far as they involved Mr. Crawford, made
no part of their conversation. William knew what had passed, and from
his heart lamented that his sister's feelings should be so cold towards
a man whom he must consider as the first of human characters; but he was
of an age to be all for love, and therefore unable to blame; and knowing
her wish on the subject, he would not distress her by the slightest
allusion.

She had reason to suppose herself not yet forgotten by Mr. Crawford. She
had heard repeatedly from his sister within the three weeks which had
passed since their leaving Mansfield, and in each letter there had been
a few lines from himself, warm and determined like his speeches. It
was a correspondence which Fanny found quite as unpleasant as she had
feared. Miss Crawford's style of writing, lively and affectionate, was
itself an evil, independent of what she was thus forced into reading
from the brother's pen, for Edmund would never rest till she had read
the chief of the letter to him; and then she had to listen to his
admiration of her language, and the warmth of her attachments. There
had, in fact, been so much of message, of allusion, of recollection, so
much of Mansfield in every letter, that Fanny could not but suppose it
meant for him to hear; and to find herself forced into a purpose of
that kind, compelled into a correspondence which was bringing her the
addresses of the man she did not love, and obliging her to administer
to the adverse passion of the man she did, was cruelly mortifying. Here,
too, her present removal promised advantage. When no longer under the
same roof with Edmund, she trusted that Miss Crawford would have no
motive for writing strong enough to overcome the trouble, and that at
Portsmouth their correspondence would dwindle into nothing.

With such thoughts as these, among ten hundred others, Fanny proceeded
in her journey safely and cheerfully, and as expeditiously as could
rationally be hoped in the dirty month of February. They entered Oxford,
but she could take only a hasty glimpse of Edmund's college as they
passed along, and made no stop anywhere till they reached Newbury, where
a comfortable meal, uniting dinner and supper, wound up the enjoyments
and fatigues of the day.

The next morning saw them off again at an early hour; and with no
events, and no delays, they regularly advanced, and were in the environs
of Portsmouth while there was yet daylight for Fanny to look around her,
and wonder at the new buildings. They passed the drawbridge, and
entered the town; and the light was only beginning to fail as, guided
by William's powerful voice, they were rattled into a narrow street,
leading from the High Street, and drawn up before the door of a small
house now inhabited by Mr. Price.

Fanny was all agitation and flutter; all hope and apprehension. The
moment they stopped, a trollopy-looking maidservant, seemingly in
waiting for them at the door, stepped forward, and more intent on
telling the news than giving them any help, immediately began with, "The
Thrush is gone out of harbour, please sir, and one of the officers has
been here to--" She was interrupted by a fine tall boy of eleven years
old, who, rushing out of the house, pushed the maid aside, and while
William was opening the chaise-door himself, called out, "You are just
in time. We have been looking for you this half-hour. The Thrush went
out of harbour this morning. I saw her. It was a beautiful sight. And
they think she will have her orders in a day or two. And Mr. Campbell
was here at four o'clock to ask for you: he has got one of the Thrush's
boats, and is going off to her at six, and hoped you would be here in
time to go with him."

A stare or two at Fanny, as William helped her out of the carriage, was
all the voluntary notice which this brother bestowed; but he made no
objection to her kissing him, though still entirely engaged in detailing
farther particulars of the Thrush's going out of harbour, in which
he had a strong right of interest, being to commence his career of
seamanship in her at this very time.

Another moment and Fanny was in the narrow entrance-passage of the
house, and in her mother's arms, who met her there with looks of true
kindness, and with features which Fanny loved the more, because they
brought her aunt Bertram's before her, and there were her two sisters:
Susan, a well-grown fine girl of fourteen, and Betsey, the youngest of
the family, about five--both glad to see her in their way, though with
no advantage of manner in receiving her. But manner Fanny did not want.
Would they but love her, she should be satisfied.

She was then taken into a parlour, so small that her first conviction
was of its being only a passage-room to something better, and she stood
for a moment expecting to be invited on; but when she saw there was
no other door, and that there were signs of habitation before her, she
called back her thoughts, reproved herself, and grieved lest they should
have been suspected. Her mother, however, could not stay long enough
to suspect anything. She was gone again to the street-door, to welcome
William. "Oh! my dear William, how glad I am to see you. But have you
heard about the Thrush? She is gone out of harbour already; three days
before we had any thought of it; and I do not know what I am to do about
Sam's things, they will never be ready in time; for she may have her
orders to-morrow, perhaps. It takes me quite unawares. And now you must
be off for Spithead too. Campbell has been here, quite in a worry about
you; and now what shall we do? I thought to have had such a comfortable
evening with you, and here everything comes upon me at once."

Her son answered cheerfully, telling her that everything was always for
the best; and making light of his own inconvenience in being obliged to
hurry away so soon.

"To be sure, I had much rather she had stayed in harbour, that I might
have sat a few hours with you in comfort; but as there is a boat ashore,
I had better go off at once, and there is no help for it. Whereabouts
does the Thrush lay at Spithead? Near the Canopus? But no matter; here's
Fanny in the parlour, and why should we stay in the passage? Come,
mother, you have hardly looked at your own dear Fanny yet."

In they both came, and Mrs. Price having kindly kissed her daughter
again, and commented a little on her growth, began with very natural
solicitude to feel for their fatigues and wants as travellers.

"Poor dears! how tired you must both be! and now, what will you have? I
began to think you would never come. Betsey and I have been watching for
you this half-hour. And when did you get anything to eat? And what would
you like to have now? I could not tell whether you would be for some
meat, or only a dish of tea, after your journey, or else I would have
got something ready. And now I am afraid Campbell will be here before
there is time to dress a steak, and we have no butcher at hand. It is
very inconvenient to have no butcher in the street. We were better off
in our last house. Perhaps you would like some tea as soon as it can be
got."

They both declared they should prefer it to anything. "Then, Betsey, my
dear, run into the kitchen and see if Rebecca has put the water on; and
tell her to bring in the tea-things as soon as she can. I wish we could
get the bell mended; but Betsey is a very handy little messenger."

Betsey went with alacrity, proud to shew her abilities before her fine
new sister.

"Dear me!" continued the anxious mother, "what a sad fire we have got,
and I dare say you are both starved with cold. Draw your chair nearer,
my dear. I cannot think what Rebecca has been about. I am sure I told
her to bring some coals half an hour ago. Susan, you should have taken
care of the fire."

"I was upstairs, mama, moving my things," said Susan, in a fearless,
self-defending tone, which startled Fanny. "You know you had but just
settled that my sister Fanny and I should have the other room; and I
could not get Rebecca to give me any help."

Farther discussion was prevented by various bustles: first, the driver
came to be paid; then there was a squabble between Sam and Rebecca about
the manner of carrying up his sister's trunk, which he would manage all
his own way; and lastly, in walked Mr. Price himself, his own loud voice
preceding him, as with something of the oath kind he kicked away his
son's port-manteau and his daughter's bandbox in the passage, and called
out for a candle; no candle was brought, however, and he walked into the
room.

Fanny with doubting feelings had risen to meet him, but sank down again
on finding herself undistinguished in the dusk, and unthought of. With
a friendly shake of his son's hand, and an eager voice, he instantly
began--"Ha! welcome back, my boy. Glad to see you. Have you heard the
news? The Thrush went out of harbour this morning. Sharp is the
word, you see! By G--, you are just in time! The doctor has been here
inquiring for you: he has got one of the boats, and is to be off for
Spithead by six, so you had better go with him. I have been to Turner's
about your mess; it is all in a way to be done. I should not wonder if
you had your orders to-morrow: but you cannot sail with this wind, if
you are to cruise to the westward; and Captain Walsh thinks you will
certainly have a cruise to the westward, with the Elephant. By G--, I
wish you may! But old Scholey was saying, just now, that he thought you
would be sent first to the Texel. Well, well, we are ready, whatever
happens. But by G--, you lost a fine sight by not being here in the
morning to see the Thrush go out of harbour! I would not have been out
of the way for a thousand pounds. Old Scholey ran in at breakfast-time,
to say she had slipped her moorings and was coming out, I jumped up, and
made but two steps to the platform. If ever there was a perfect beauty
afloat, she is one; and there she lays at Spithead, and anybody in
England would take her for an eight-and-twenty. I was upon the platform
two hours this afternoon looking at her. She lays close to the Endymion,
between her and the Cleopatra, just to the eastward of the sheer hulk."

"Ha!" cried William, "_that's_ just where I should have put her myself.
It's the best berth at Spithead. But here is my sister, sir; here is
Fanny," turning and leading her forward; "it is so dark you do not see
her."

With an acknowledgment that he had quite forgot her, Mr. Price now
received his daughter; and having given her a cordial hug, and observed
that she was grown into a woman, and he supposed would be wanting a
husband soon, seemed very much inclined to forget her again. Fanny
shrunk back to her seat, with feelings sadly pained by his language and
his smell of spirits; and he talked on only to his son, and only of the
Thrush, though William, warmly interested as he was in that subject,
more than once tried to make his father think of Fanny, and her long
absence and long journey.

After sitting some time longer, a candle was obtained; but as there was
still no appearance of tea, nor, from Betsey's reports from the kitchen,
much hope of any under a considerable period, William determined to
go and change his dress, and make the necessary preparations for
his removal on board directly, that he might have his tea in comfort
afterwards.

As he left the room, two rosy-faced boys, ragged and dirty, about eight
and nine years old, rushed into it just released from school, and coming
eagerly to see their sister, and tell that the Thrush was gone out of
harbour; Tom and Charles. Charles had been born since Fanny's going
away, but Tom she had often helped to nurse, and now felt a particular
pleasure in seeing again. Both were kissed very tenderly, but Tom she
wanted to keep by her, to try to trace the features of the baby she had
loved, and talked to, of his infant preference of herself. Tom, however,
had no mind for such treatment: he came home not to stand and be talked
to, but to run about and make a noise; and both boys had soon burst from
her, and slammed the parlour-door till her temples ached.

She had now seen all that were at home; there remained only two brothers
between herself and Susan, one of whom was a clerk in a public office
in London, and the other midshipman on board an Indiaman. But though she
had _seen_ all the members of the family, she had not yet _heard_ all
the noise they could make. Another quarter of an hour brought her a
great deal more. William was soon calling out from the landing-place of
the second story for his mother and for Rebecca. He was in distress
for something that he had left there, and did not find again. A key was
mislaid, Betsey accused of having got at his new hat, and some slight,
but essential alteration of his uniform waistcoat, which he had been
promised to have done for him, entirely neglected.

Mrs. Price, Rebecca, and Betsey all went up to defend themselves, all
talking together, but Rebecca loudest, and the job was to be done as
well as it could in a great hurry; William trying in vain to send Betsey
down again, or keep her from being troublesome where she was; the whole
of which, as almost every door in the house was open, could be plainly
distinguished in the parlour, except when drowned at intervals by the
superior noise of Sam, Tom, and Charles chasing each other up and down
stairs, and tumbling about and hallooing.

Fanny was almost stunned. The smallness of the house and thinness of the
walls brought everything so close to her, that, added to the fatigue of
her journey, and all her recent agitation, she hardly knew how to
bear it. _Within_ the room all was tranquil enough, for Susan having
disappeared with the others, there were soon only her father and herself
remaining; and he, taking out a newspaper, the accustomary loan of a
neighbour, applied himself to studying it, without seeming to recollect
her existence. The solitary candle was held between himself and the
paper, without any reference to her possible convenience; but she had
nothing to do, and was glad to have the light screened from her aching
head, as she sat in bewildered, broken, sorrowful contemplation.

She was at home. But, alas! it was not such a home, she had not such a
welcome, as--she checked herself; she was unreasonable. What right had
she to be of importance to her family? She could have none, so long lost
sight of! William's concerns must be dearest, they always had been, and
he had every right. Yet to have so little said or asked about herself,
to have scarcely an inquiry made after Mansfield! It did pain her to
have Mansfield forgotten; the friends who had done so much--the dear,
dear friends! But here, one subject swallowed up all the rest. Perhaps
it must be so. The destination of the Thrush must be now preeminently
interesting. A day or two might shew the difference. _She_ only was to
blame. Yet she thought it would not have been so at Mansfield. No, in
her uncle's house there would have been a consideration of times and
seasons, a regulation of subject, a propriety, an attention towards
everybody which there was not here.

The only interruption which thoughts like these received for nearly half
an hour was from a sudden burst of her father's, not at all calculated
to compose them. At a more than ordinary pitch of thumping and hallooing
in the passage, he exclaimed, "Devil take those young dogs! How they are
singing out! Ay, Sam's voice louder than all the rest! That boy is fit
for a boatswain. Holla, you there! Sam, stop your confounded pipe, or I
shall be after you."

This threat was so palpably disregarded, that though within five minutes
afterwards the three boys all burst into the room together and sat down,
Fanny could not consider it as a proof of anything more than their
being for the time thoroughly fagged, which their hot faces and panting
breaths seemed to prove, especially as they were still kicking each
other's shins, and hallooing out at sudden starts immediately under
their father's eye.

The next opening of the door brought something more welcome: it was for
the tea-things, which she had begun almost to despair of seeing that
evening. Susan and an attendant girl, whose inferior appearance informed
Fanny, to her great surprise, that she had previously seen the upper
servant, brought in everything necessary for the meal; Susan looking, as
she put the kettle on the fire and glanced at her sister, as if divided
between the agreeable triumph of shewing her activity and usefulness,
and the dread of being thought to demean herself by such an office. "She
had been into the kitchen," she said, "to hurry Sally and help make the
toast, and spread the bread and butter, or she did not know when they
should have got tea, and she was sure her sister must want something
after her journey."

Fanny was very thankful. She could not but own that she should be very
glad of a little tea, and Susan immediately set about making it, as if
pleased to have the employment all to herself; and with only a little
unnecessary bustle, and some few injudicious attempts at keeping her
brothers in better order than she could, acquitted herself very well.
Fanny's spirit was as much refreshed as her body; her head and heart
were soon the better for such well-timed kindness. Susan had an open,
sensible countenance; she was like William, and Fanny hoped to find her
like him in disposition and goodwill towards herself.

In this more placid state of things William reentered, followed not
far behind by his mother and Betsey. He, complete in his lieutenant's
uniform, looking and moving all the taller, firmer, and more graceful
for it, and with the happiest smile over his face, walked up directly
to Fanny, who, rising from her seat, looked at him for a moment in
speechless admiration, and then threw her arms round his neck to sob out
her various emotions of pain and pleasure.

Anxious not to appear unhappy, she soon recovered herself; and wiping
away her tears, was able to notice and admire all the striking parts
of his dress; listening with reviving spirits to his cheerful hopes of
being on shore some part of every day before they sailed, and even of
getting her to Spithead to see the sloop.

The next bustle brought in Mr. Campbell, the surgeon of the Thrush, a
very well-behaved young man, who came to call for his friend, and for
whom there was with some contrivance found a chair, and with some hasty
washing of the young tea-maker's, a cup and saucer; and after another
quarter of an hour of earnest talk between the gentlemen, noise rising
upon noise, and bustle upon bustle, men and boys at last all in motion
together, the moment came for setting off; everything was ready, William
took leave, and all of them were gone; for the three boys, in spite
of their mother's entreaty, determined to see their brother and Mr.
Campbell to the sally-port; and Mr. Price walked off at the same time to
carry back his neighbour's newspaper.

Something like tranquillity might now be hoped for; and accordingly,
when Rebecca had been prevailed on to carry away the tea-things,
and Mrs. Price had walked about the room some time looking for a
shirt-sleeve, which Betsey at last hunted out from a drawer in the
kitchen, the small party of females were pretty well composed, and the
mother having lamented again over the impossibility of getting Sam ready
in time, was at leisure to think of her eldest daughter and the friends
she had come from.

A few inquiries began: but one of the earliest--"How did sister Bertram
manage about her servants?" "Was she as much plagued as herself to get
tolerable servants?"--soon led her mind away from Northamptonshire, and
fixed it on her own domestic grievances, and the shocking character of
all the Portsmouth servants, of whom she believed her own two were the
very worst, engrossed her completely. The Bertrams were all forgotten
in detailing the faults of Rebecca, against whom Susan had also much
to depose, and little Betsey a great deal more, and who did seem so
thoroughly without a single recommendation, that Fanny could not help
modestly presuming that her mother meant to part with her when her year
was up.

"Her year!" cried Mrs. Price; "I am sure I hope I shall be rid of her
before she has staid a year, for that will not be up till November.
Servants are come to such a pass, my dear, in Portsmouth, that it is
quite a miracle if one keeps them more than half a year. I have no hope
of ever being settled; and if I was to part with Rebecca, I should
only get something worse. And yet I do not think I am a very difficult
mistress to please; and I am sure the place is easy enough, for there is
always a girl under her, and I often do half the work myself."

Fanny was silent; but not from being convinced that there might not be a
remedy found for some of these evils. As she now sat looking at Betsey,
she could not but think particularly of another sister, a very pretty
little girl, whom she had left there not much younger when she went into
Northamptonshire, who had died a few years afterwards. There had been
something remarkably amiable about her. Fanny in those early days had
preferred her to Susan; and when the news of her death had at last
reached Mansfield, had for a short time been quite afflicted. The sight
of Betsey brought the image of little Mary back again, but she would
not have pained her mother by alluding to her for the world. While
considering her with these ideas, Betsey, at a small distance, was
holding out something to catch her eyes, meaning to screen it at the
same time from Susan's.

"What have you got there, my love?" said Fanny; "come and shew it to
me."

It was a silver knife. Up jumped Susan, claiming it as her own, and
trying to get it away; but the child ran to her mother's protection,
and Susan could only reproach, which she did very warmly, and evidently
hoping to interest Fanny on her side. "It was very hard that she was not
to have her _own_ knife; it was her own knife; little sister Mary had
left it to her upon her deathbed, and she ought to have had it to keep
herself long ago. But mama kept it from her, and was always letting
Betsey get hold of it; and the end of it would be that Betsey would
spoil it, and get it for her own, though mama had _promised_ her that
Betsey should not have it in her own hands."

Fanny was quite shocked. Every feeling of duty, honour, and tenderness
was wounded by her sister's speech and her mother's reply.

"Now, Susan," cried Mrs. Price, in a complaining voice, "now, how can
you be so cross? You are always quarrelling about that knife. I wish you
would not be so quarrelsome. Poor little Betsey; how cross Susan is to
you! But you should not have taken it out, my dear, when I sent you to
the drawer. You know I told you not to touch it, because Susan is so
cross about it. I must hide it another time, Betsey. Poor Mary little
thought it would be such a bone of contention when she gave it me to
keep, only two hours before she died. Poor little soul! she could but
just speak to be heard, and she said so prettily, 'Let sister Susan have
my knife, mama, when I am dead and buried.' Poor little dear! she was so
fond of it, Fanny, that she would have it lay by her in bed, all through
her illness. It was the gift of her good godmother, old Mrs. Admiral
Maxwell, only six weeks before she was taken for death. Poor little
sweet creature! Well, she was taken away from evil to come. My own
Betsey" (fondling her), "_you_ have not the luck of such a good
godmother. Aunt Norris lives too far off to think of such little people
as you."

Fanny had indeed nothing to convey from aunt Norris, but a message to
say she hoped that her god-daughter was a good girl, and learnt her
book. There had been at one moment a slight murmur in the drawing-room
at Mansfield Park about sending her a prayer-book; but no second sound
had been heard of such a purpose. Mrs. Norris, however, had gone home
and taken down two old prayer-books of her husband with that idea; but,
upon examination, the ardour of generosity went off. One was found
to have too small a print for a child's eyes, and the other to be too
cumbersome for her to carry about.

Fanny, fatigued and fatigued again, was thankful to accept the first
invitation of going to bed; and before Betsey had finished her cry at
being allowed to sit up only one hour extraordinary in honour of sister,
she was off, leaving all below in confusion and noise again; the boys
begging for toasted cheese, her father calling out for his rum and
water, and Rebecca never where she ought to be.

There was nothing to raise her spirits in the confined and scantily
furnished chamber that she was to share with Susan. The smallness of
the rooms above and below, indeed, and the narrowness of the passage and
staircase, struck her beyond her imagination. She soon learned to think
with respect of her own little attic at Mansfield Park, in _that_ house
reckoned too small for anybody's comfort.

 Fanny and William have a nice trip to Portsmouth. We learn that William is sad that Fanny isn't marrying Henry, since Henry was so helpful and cool about getting him promoted within the navy. We also learn that, lately, Fanny has been having to share the letters Mary sent her with Edmund, and that these letters really seemed addressed at Edmund anyway. So Fanny's pretty glad she could escape the situation for a bit. But she quickly starts missing Mansfield once she arrives at the Price house. The house is in total chaos. Turns out William has to ship out far earlier than they thought and everyone's running around in a frenzy. Fanny is quickly greeted and is ushered inside. Mrs. Price makes a huge fuss over William and his brother Sam, who's also heading out to sea for the first time and needs to get all his stuff packed as well. Everyone is busy talking about William's ship, and the house is noisy and messy and totally chaotic in general. Rebecca the maid is nowhere to be found and the youngest kid, Betsey, is running around. Fanny's sister Susan comes in and speaks very boldly, which shocks shy Fanny. Fanny's dad then comes in talking about William's ship and ignores his daughter. William finally gets their dad to notice Fanny, and he tells her she looks nice and must be wanting a husband right about now. Fanny can smell alcohol on her dad. Her younger brothers, Tom and Charles, burst in and start running around crazily with Sam. We learn that Fanny has two other brothers who live elsewhere doing school/job training things. Tea is finally served after a really long delay and no one seems overly excited that Fanny is back in town. Fanny is shocked by how noisy and chaotic everything is and how tiny the house is. She's sad that no one at the Price house cares at all about Mansfield Park. The boys start running around and wrestling and their dad yells at them ineffectually. Susan gets Fanny some tea and seems like the least crazy of the entire bunch. William comes down in his uniform and Fanny is overwhelmed. He then heads out with his friend and leaves Fanny alone with the family. The group finally calm down some and ask Fanny questions about Mansfield Park. Mrs. Price complains about how awful her servants are. Fanny then recalls a little sister she had before she left for Mansfield Park. Turns out, this little sister died a few years after she left. Betsey then comes over and shows Fanny a knife she has. We're assuming this is some sort of butter knife and not, like, a butcher knife, since the girl is five and that would just be wrong. Susan jumps up and says that the knife is hers and that their poor dead sister Mary left it to her on her deathbed. Why Mary loved her knife so much is anyone's guess. The girls argue and Mrs. Price tells Susan to just relax. Fanny is shocked some more and heads off to bed. But then she's shocked yet again by how small the room is and how noisy the house remains.

