Chapter: Tom Bertram had of late spent so little of his time at home that he
could be only nominally missed; and Lady Bertram was soon astonished
to find how very well they did even without his father, how well Edmund
could supply his place in carving, talking to the steward, writing to
the attorney, settling with the servants, and equally saving her
from all possible fatigue or exertion in every particular but that of
directing her letters.

The earliest intelligence of the travellers' safe arrival at Antigua,
after a favourable voyage, was received; though not before Mrs. Norris
had been indulging in very dreadful fears, and trying to make Edmund
participate them whenever she could get him alone; and as she depended
on being the first person made acquainted with any fatal catastrophe,
she had already arranged the manner of breaking it to all the others,
when Sir Thomas's assurances of their both being alive and well made it
necessary to lay by her agitation and affectionate preparatory speeches
for a while.

The winter came and passed without their being called for; the accounts
continued perfectly good; and Mrs. Norris, in promoting gaieties for her
nieces, assisting their toilets, displaying their accomplishments,
and looking about for their future husbands, had so much to do as, in
addition to all her own household cares, some interference in those of
her sister, and Mrs. Grant's wasteful doings to overlook, left her very
little occasion to be occupied in fears for the absent.

The Miss Bertrams were now fully established among the belles of the
neighbourhood; and as they joined to beauty and brilliant acquirements
a manner naturally easy, and carefully formed to general civility and
obligingness, they possessed its favour as well as its admiration. Their
vanity was in such good order that they seemed to be quite free from it,
and gave themselves no airs; while the praises attending such behaviour,
secured and brought round by their aunt, served to strengthen them in
believing they had no faults.

Lady Bertram did not go into public with her daughters. She was too
indolent even to accept a mother's gratification in witnessing their
success and enjoyment at the expense of any personal trouble, and the
charge was made over to her sister, who desired nothing better than a
post of such honourable representation, and very thoroughly relished
the means it afforded her of mixing in society without having horses to
hire.

Fanny had no share in the festivities of the season; but she enjoyed
being avowedly useful as her aunt's companion when they called away the
rest of the family; and, as Miss Lee had left Mansfield, she naturally
became everything to Lady Bertram during the night of a ball or a party.
She talked to her, listened to her, read to her; and the tranquillity
of such evenings, her perfect security in such a _tete-a-tete_ from any
sound of unkindness, was unspeakably welcome to a mind which had seldom
known a pause in its alarms or embarrassments. As to her cousins'
gaieties, she loved to hear an account of them, especially of the
balls, and whom Edmund had danced with; but thought too lowly of her
own situation to imagine she should ever be admitted to the same, and
listened, therefore, without an idea of any nearer concern in them. Upon
the whole, it was a comfortable winter to her; for though it brought
no William to England, the never-failing hope of his arrival was worth
much.

The ensuing spring deprived her of her valued friend, the old grey pony;
and for some time she was in danger of feeling the loss in her health as
well as in her affections; for in spite of the acknowledged importance
of her riding on horse-back, no measures were taken for mounting her
again, "because," as it was observed by her aunts, "she might ride one
of her cousin's horses at any time when they did not want them," and as
the Miss Bertrams regularly wanted their horses every fine day, and had
no idea of carrying their obliging manners to the sacrifice of any real
pleasure, that time, of course, never came. They took their cheerful
rides in the fine mornings of April and May; and Fanny either sat at
home the whole day with one aunt, or walked beyond her strength at
the instigation of the other: Lady Bertram holding exercise to be as
unnecessary for everybody as it was unpleasant to herself; and Mrs.
Norris, who was walking all day, thinking everybody ought to walk
as much. Edmund was absent at this time, or the evil would have
been earlier remedied. When he returned, to understand how Fanny was
situated, and perceived its ill effects, there seemed with him but one
thing to be done; and that "Fanny must have a horse" was the resolute
declaration with which he opposed whatever could be urged by the
supineness of his mother, or the economy of his aunt, to make it appear
unimportant. Mrs. Norris could not help thinking that some steady old
thing might be found among the numbers belonging to the Park that would
do vastly well; or that one might be borrowed of the steward; or that
perhaps Dr. Grant might now and then lend them the pony he sent to the
post. She could not but consider it as absolutely unnecessary, and even
improper, that Fanny should have a regular lady's horse of her own, in
the style of her cousins. She was sure Sir Thomas had never intended it:
and she must say that, to be making such a purchase in his absence, and
adding to the great expenses of his stable, at a time when a large part
of his income was unsettled, seemed to her very unjustifiable. "Fanny
must have a horse," was Edmund's only reply. Mrs. Norris could not see
it in the same light. Lady Bertram did: she entirely agreed with her son
as to the necessity of it, and as to its being considered necessary by
his father; she only pleaded against there being any hurry; she only
wanted him to wait till Sir Thomas's return, and then Sir Thomas might
settle it all himself. He would be at home in September, and where would
be the harm of only waiting till September?

Though Edmund was much more displeased with his aunt than with his
mother, as evincing least regard for her niece, he could not help paying
more attention to what she said; and at length determined on a method of
proceeding which would obviate the risk of his father's thinking he
had done too much, and at the same time procure for Fanny the immediate
means of exercise, which he could not bear she should be without. He had
three horses of his own, but not one that would carry a woman. Two
of them were hunters; the third, a useful road-horse: this third he
resolved to exchange for one that his cousin might ride; he knew where
such a one was to be met with; and having once made up his mind, the
whole business was soon completed. The new mare proved a treasure; with
a very little trouble she became exactly calculated for the purpose,
and Fanny was then put in almost full possession of her. She had not
supposed before that anything could ever suit her like the old grey
pony; but her delight in Edmund's mare was far beyond any former
pleasure of the sort; and the addition it was ever receiving in the
consideration of that kindness from which her pleasure sprung, was
beyond all her words to express. She regarded her cousin as an example
of everything good and great, as possessing worth which no one but
herself could ever appreciate, and as entitled to such gratitude from
her as no feelings could be strong enough to pay. Her sentiments towards
him were compounded of all that was respectful, grateful, confiding, and
tender.

As the horse continued in name, as well as fact, the property of Edmund,
Mrs. Norris could tolerate its being for Fanny's use; and had Lady
Bertram ever thought about her own objection again, he might have
been excused in her eyes for not waiting till Sir Thomas's return in
September, for when September came Sir Thomas was still abroad, and
without any near prospect of finishing his business. Unfavourable
circumstances had suddenly arisen at a moment when he was beginning to
turn all his thoughts towards England; and the very great uncertainty
in which everything was then involved determined him on sending home his
son, and waiting the final arrangement by himself. Tom arrived safely,
bringing an excellent account of his father's health; but to very little
purpose, as far as Mrs. Norris was concerned. Sir Thomas's sending away
his son seemed to her so like a parent's care, under the influence of a
foreboding of evil to himself, that she could not help feeling dreadful
presentiments; and as the long evenings of autumn came on, was so
terribly haunted by these ideas, in the sad solitariness of her cottage,
as to be obliged to take daily refuge in the dining-room of the Park.
The return of winter engagements, however, was not without its effect;
and in the course of their progress, her mind became so pleasantly
occupied in superintending the fortunes of her eldest niece, as
tolerably to quiet her nerves. "If poor Sir Thomas were fated never to
return, it would be peculiarly consoling to see their dear Maria well
married," she very often thought; always when they were in the company
of men of fortune, and particularly on the introduction of a young man
who had recently succeeded to one of the largest estates and finest
places in the country.

Mr. Rushworth was from the first struck with the beauty of Miss Bertram,
and, being inclined to marry, soon fancied himself in love. He was
a heavy young man, with not more than common sense; but as there was
nothing disagreeable in his figure or address, the young lady was well
pleased with her conquest. Being now in her twenty-first year, Maria
Bertram was beginning to think matrimony a duty; and as a marriage with
Mr. Rushworth would give her the enjoyment of a larger income than her
father's, as well as ensure her the house in town, which was now a prime
object, it became, by the same rule of moral obligation, her evident
duty to marry Mr. Rushworth if she could. Mrs. Norris was most zealous
in promoting the match, by every suggestion and contrivance likely to
enhance its desirableness to either party; and, among other means, by
seeking an intimacy with the gentleman's mother, who at present lived
with him, and to whom she even forced Lady Bertram to go through ten
miles of indifferent road to pay a morning visit. It was not long before
a good understanding took place between this lady and herself. Mrs.
Rushworth acknowledged herself very desirous that her son should marry,
and declared that of all the young ladies she had ever seen, Miss
Bertram seemed, by her amiable qualities and accomplishments, the best
adapted to make him happy. Mrs. Norris accepted the compliment,
and admired the nice discernment of character which could so well
distinguish merit. Maria was indeed the pride and delight of them
all--perfectly faultless--an angel; and, of course, so surrounded by
admirers, must be difficult in her choice: but yet, as far as Mrs.
Norris could allow herself to decide on so short an acquaintance, Mr.
Rushworth appeared precisely the young man to deserve and attach her.

After dancing with each other at a proper number of balls, the young
people justified these opinions, and an engagement, with a due reference
to the absent Sir Thomas, was entered into, much to the satisfaction
of their respective families, and of the general lookers-on of the
neighbourhood, who had, for many weeks past, felt the expediency of Mr.
Rushworth's marrying Miss Bertram.

It was some months before Sir Thomas's consent could be received; but,
in the meanwhile, as no one felt a doubt of his most cordial pleasure
in the connexion, the intercourse of the two families was carried
on without restraint, and no other attempt made at secrecy than Mrs.
Norris's talking of it everywhere as a matter not to be talked of at
present.

Edmund was the only one of the family who could see a fault in the
business; but no representation of his aunt's could induce him to find
Mr. Rushworth a desirable companion. He could allow his sister to be
the best judge of her own happiness, but he was not pleased that her
happiness should centre in a large income; nor could he refrain from
often saying to himself, in Mr. Rushworth's company--"If this man had
not twelve thousand a year, he would be a very stupid fellow."

Sir Thomas, however, was truly happy in the prospect of an alliance
so unquestionably advantageous, and of which he heard nothing but the
perfectly good and agreeable. It was a connexion exactly of the right
sort--in the same county, and the same interest--and his most hearty
concurrence was conveyed as soon as possible. He only conditioned that
the marriage should not take place before his return, which he was again
looking eagerly forward to. He wrote in April, and had strong hopes
of settling everything to his entire satisfaction, and leaving Antigua
before the end of the summer.

Such was the state of affairs in the month of July; and Fanny had just
reached her eighteenth year, when the society of the village received
an addition in the brother and sister of Mrs. Grant, a Mr. and Miss
Crawford, the children of her mother by a second marriage. They were
young people of fortune. The son had a good estate in Norfolk, the
daughter twenty thousand pounds. As children, their sister had been
always very fond of them; but, as her own marriage had been soon
followed by the death of their common parent, which left them to the
care of a brother of their father, of whom Mrs. Grant knew nothing, she
had scarcely seen them since. In their uncle's house they had found a
kind home. Admiral and Mrs. Crawford, though agreeing in nothing else,
were united in affection for these children, or, at least, were no
farther adverse in their feelings than that each had their favourite, to
whom they showed the greatest fondness of the two. The Admiral delighted
in the boy, Mrs. Crawford doted on the girl; and it was the lady's death
which now obliged her _protegee_, after some months' further trial at
her uncle's house, to find another home. Admiral Crawford was a man of
vicious conduct, who chose, instead of retaining his niece, to bring his
mistress under his own roof; and to this Mrs. Grant was indebted for her
sister's proposal of coming to her, a measure quite as welcome on one
side as it could be expedient on the other; for Mrs. Grant, having by
this time run through the usual resources of ladies residing in the
country without a family of children--having more than filled her
favourite sitting-room with pretty furniture, and made a choice
collection of plants and poultry--was very much in want of some variety
at home. The arrival, therefore, of a sister whom she had always loved,
and now hoped to retain with her as long as she remained single, was
highly agreeable; and her chief anxiety was lest Mansfield should not
satisfy the habits of a young woman who had been mostly used to London.

Miss Crawford was not entirely free from similar apprehensions, though
they arose principally from doubts of her sister's style of living and
tone of society; and it was not till after she had tried in vain to
persuade her brother to settle with her at his own country house,
that she could resolve to hazard herself among her other relations. To
anything like a permanence of abode, or limitation of society, Henry
Crawford had, unluckily, a great dislike: he could not accommodate his
sister in an article of such importance; but he escorted her, with the
utmost kindness, into Northamptonshire, and as readily engaged to fetch
her away again, at half an hour's notice, whenever she were weary of the
place.

The meeting was very satisfactory on each side. Miss Crawford found a
sister without preciseness or rusticity, a sister's husband who looked
the gentleman, and a house commodious and well fitted up; and Mrs. Grant
received in those whom she hoped to love better than ever a young man
and woman of very prepossessing appearance. Mary Crawford was remarkably
pretty; Henry, though not handsome, had air and countenance; the manners
of both were lively and pleasant, and Mrs. Grant immediately gave them
credit for everything else. She was delighted with each, but Mary was
her dearest object; and having never been able to glory in beauty of her
own, she thoroughly enjoyed the power of being proud of her sister's.
She had not waited her arrival to look out for a suitable match for her:
she had fixed on Tom Bertram; the eldest son of a baronet was not too
good for a girl of twenty thousand pounds, with all the elegance
and accomplishments which Mrs. Grant foresaw in her; and being a
warm-hearted, unreserved woman, Mary had not been three hours in the
house before she told her what she had planned.

Miss Crawford was glad to find a family of such consequence so very near
them, and not at all displeased either at her sister's early care, or
the choice it had fallen on. Matrimony was her object, provided she
could marry well: and having seen Mr. Bertram in town, she knew that
objection could no more be made to his person than to his situation in
life. While she treated it as a joke, therefore, she did not forget to
think of it seriously. The scheme was soon repeated to Henry.

"And now," added Mrs. Grant, "I have thought of something to make it
complete. I should dearly love to settle you both in this country; and
therefore, Henry, you shall marry the youngest Miss Bertram, a nice,
handsome, good-humoured, accomplished girl, who will make you very
happy."

Henry bowed and thanked her.

"My dear sister," said Mary, "if you can persuade him into anything
of the sort, it will be a fresh matter of delight to me to find myself
allied to anybody so clever, and I shall only regret that you have
not half a dozen daughters to dispose of. If you can persuade Henry
to marry, you must have the address of a Frenchwoman. All that English
abilities can do has been tried already. I have three very particular
friends who have been all dying for him in their turn; and the pains
which they, their mothers (very clever women), as well as my dear aunt
and myself, have taken to reason, coax, or trick him into marrying, is
inconceivable! He is the most horrible flirt that can be imagined. If
your Miss Bertrams do not like to have their hearts broke, let them
avoid Henry."

"My dear brother, I will not believe this of you."

"No, I am sure you are too good. You will be kinder than Mary. You
will allow for the doubts of youth and inexperience. I am of a cautious
temper, and unwilling to risk my happiness in a hurry. Nobody can
think more highly of the matrimonial state than myself. I consider the
blessing of a wife as most justly described in those discreet lines of
the poet--'Heaven's _last_ best gift.'"

"There, Mrs. Grant, you see how he dwells on one word, and only look
at his smile. I assure you he is very detestable; the Admiral's lessons
have quite spoiled him."

"I pay very little regard," said Mrs. Grant, "to what any young person
says on the subject of marriage. If they profess a disinclination for
it, I only set it down that they have not yet seen the right person."

Dr. Grant laughingly congratulated Miss Crawford on feeling no
disinclination to the state herself.

"Oh yes! I am not at all ashamed of it. I would have everybody marry if
they can do it properly: I do not like to have people throw themselves
away; but everybody should marry as soon as they can do it to
advantage."



The young people were pleased with each other from the first. On each
side there was much to attract, and their acquaintance soon promised as
early an intimacy as good manners would warrant. Miss Crawford's beauty
did her no disservice with the Miss Bertrams. They were too handsome
themselves to dislike any woman for being so too, and were almost as
much charmed as their brothers with her lively dark eye, clear brown
complexion, and general prettiness. Had she been tall, full formed, and
fair, it might have been more of a trial: but as it was, there could be
no comparison; and she was most allowably a sweet, pretty girl, while
they were the finest young women in the country.

Her brother was not handsome: no, when they first saw him he was
absolutely plain, black and plain; but still he was the gentleman, with
a pleasing address. The second meeting proved him not so very plain:
he was plain, to be sure, but then he had so much countenance, and his
teeth were so good, and he was so well made, that one soon forgot he was
plain; and after a third interview, after dining in company with him at
the Parsonage, he was no longer allowed to be called so by anybody. He
was, in fact, the most agreeable young man the sisters had ever known,
and they were equally delighted with him. Miss Bertram's engagement made
him in equity the property of Julia, of which Julia was fully aware; and
before he had been at Mansfield a week, she was quite ready to be fallen
in love with.

Maria's notions on the subject were more confused and indistinct. She
did not want to see or understand. "There could be no harm in her liking
an agreeable man--everybody knew her situation--Mr. Crawford must take
care of himself." Mr. Crawford did not mean to be in any danger! the
Miss Bertrams were worth pleasing, and were ready to be pleased; and he
began with no object but of making them like him. He did not want them
to die of love; but with sense and temper which ought to have made him
judge and feel better, he allowed himself great latitude on such points.

"I like your Miss Bertrams exceedingly, sister," said he, as he returned
from attending them to their carriage after the said dinner visit; "they
are very elegant, agreeable girls."

"So they are indeed, and I am delighted to hear you say it. But you like
Julia best."

"Oh yes! I like Julia best."

"But do you really? for Miss Bertram is in general thought the
handsomest."

"So I should suppose. She has the advantage in every feature, and I
prefer her countenance; but I like Julia best; Miss Bertram is certainly
the handsomest, and I have found her the most agreeable, but I shall
always like Julia best, because you order me."

"I shall not talk to you, Henry, but I know you _will_ like her best at
last."

"Do not I tell you that I like her best _at_ _first_?"

"And besides, Miss Bertram is engaged. Remember that, my dear brother.
Her choice is made."

"Yes, and I like her the better for it. An engaged woman is always more
agreeable than a disengaged. She is satisfied with herself. Her cares
are over, and she feels that she may exert all her powers of pleasing
without suspicion. All is safe with a lady engaged: no harm can be
done."

"Why, as to that, Mr. Rushworth is a very good sort of young man, and it
is a great match for her."

"But Miss Bertram does not care three straws for him; _that_ is your
opinion of your intimate friend. _I_ do not subscribe to it. I am sure
Miss Bertram is very much attached to Mr. Rushworth. I could see it in
her eyes, when he was mentioned. I think too well of Miss Bertram to
suppose she would ever give her hand without her heart."

"Mary, how shall we manage him?"

"We must leave him to himself, I believe. Talking does no good. He will
be taken in at last."

"But I would not have him _taken_ _in_; I would not have him duped; I
would have it all fair and honourable."

"Oh dear! let him stand his chance and be taken in. It will do just as
well. Everybody is taken in at some period or other."

"Not always in marriage, dear Mary."

"In marriage especially. With all due respect to such of the present
company as chance to be married, my dear Mrs. Grant, there is not one in
a hundred of either sex who is not taken in when they marry. Look where
I will, I see that it _is_ so; and I feel that it _must_ be so, when I
consider that it is, of all transactions, the one in which people expect
most from others, and are least honest themselves."

"Ah! You have been in a bad school for matrimony, in Hill Street."

"My poor aunt had certainly little cause to love the state; but,
however, speaking from my own observation, it is a manoeuvring business.
I know so many who have married in the full expectation and confidence
of some one particular advantage in the connexion, or accomplishment, or
good quality in the person, who have found themselves entirely deceived,
and been obliged to put up with exactly the reverse. What is this but a
take in?"

"My dear child, there must be a little imagination here. I beg your
pardon, but I cannot quite believe you. Depend upon it, you see but
half. You see the evil, but you do not see the consolation. There will
be little rubs and disappointments everywhere, and we are all apt to
expect too much; but then, if one scheme of happiness fails, human
nature turns to another; if the first calculation is wrong, we make
a second better: we find comfort somewhere--and those evil-minded
observers, dearest Mary, who make much of a little, are more taken in
and deceived than the parties themselves."

"Well done, sister! I honour your _esprit_ _du_ _corps_. When I am a
wife, I mean to be just as staunch myself; and I wish my friends in
general would be so too. It would save me many a heartache."

"You are as bad as your brother, Mary; but we will cure you both.
Mansfield shall cure you both, and without any taking in. Stay with us,
and we will cure you."

The Crawfords, without wanting to be cured, were very willing to stay.
Mary was satisfied with the Parsonage as a present home, and Henry
equally ready to lengthen his visit. He had come, intending to spend
only a few days with them; but Mansfield promised well, and there was
nothing to call him elsewhere. It delighted Mrs. Grant to keep them both
with her, and Dr. Grant was exceedingly well contented to have it so: a
talking pretty young woman like Miss Crawford is always pleasant society
to an indolent, stay-at-home man; and Mr. Crawford's being his guest was
an excuse for drinking claret every day.

The Miss Bertrams' admiration of Mr. Crawford was more rapturous than
anything which Miss Crawford's habits made her likely to feel. She
acknowledged, however, that the Mr. Bertrams were very fine young men,
that two such young men were not often seen together even in London, and
that their manners, particularly those of the eldest, were very good.
_He_ had been much in London, and had more liveliness and gallantry than
Edmund, and must, therefore, be preferred; and, indeed, his being the
eldest was another strong claim. She had felt an early presentiment that
she _should_ like the eldest best. She knew it was her way.

Tom Bertram must have been thought pleasant, indeed, at any rate; he was
the sort of young man to be generally liked, his agreeableness was of
the kind to be oftener found agreeable than some endowments of a higher
stamp, for he had easy manners, excellent spirits, a large acquaintance,
and a great deal to say; and the reversion of Mansfield Park, and a
baronetcy, did no harm to all this. Miss Crawford soon felt that he and
his situation might do. She looked about her with due consideration, and
found almost everything in his favour: a park, a real park, five miles
round, a spacious modern-built house, so well placed and well screened
as to deserve to be in any collection of engravings of gentlemen's
seats in the kingdom, and wanting only to be completely new
furnished--pleasant sisters, a quiet mother, and an agreeable man
himself--with the advantage of being tied up from much gaming at present
by a promise to his father, and of being Sir Thomas hereafter. It
might do very well; she believed she should accept him; and she began
accordingly to interest herself a little about the horse which he had to
run at the B---- races.

These races were to call him away not long after their acquaintance
began; and as it appeared that the family did not, from his usual goings
on, expect him back again for many weeks, it would bring his passion to
an early proof. Much was said on his side to induce her to attend the
races, and schemes were made for a large party to them, with all the
eagerness of inclination, but it would only do to be talked of.

And Fanny, what was _she_ doing and thinking all this while? and what
was _her_ opinion of the newcomers? Few young ladies of eighteen could
be less called on to speak their opinion than Fanny. In a quiet way,
very little attended to, she paid her tribute of admiration to Miss
Crawford's beauty; but as she still continued to think Mr. Crawford
very plain, in spite of her two cousins having repeatedly proved the
contrary, she never mentioned _him_. The notice, which she excited
herself, was to this effect. "I begin now to understand you all,
except Miss Price," said Miss Crawford, as she was walking with the Mr.
Bertrams. "Pray, is she out, or is she not? I am puzzled. She dined at
the Parsonage, with the rest of you, which seemed like being _out_; and
yet she says so little, that I can hardly suppose she _is_."

Edmund, to whom this was chiefly addressed, replied, "I believe I know
what you mean, but I will not undertake to answer the question. My
cousin is grown up. She has the age and sense of a woman, but the outs
and not outs are beyond me."

"And yet, in general, nothing can be more easily ascertained. The
distinction is so broad. Manners as well as appearance are, generally
speaking, so totally different. Till now, I could not have supposed it
possible to be mistaken as to a girl's being out or not. A girl not out
has always the same sort of dress: a close bonnet, for instance; looks
very demure, and never says a word. You may smile, but it is so, I
assure you; and except that it is sometimes carried a little too far,
it is all very proper. Girls should be quiet and modest. The most
objectionable part is, that the alteration of manners on being
introduced into company is frequently too sudden. They sometimes pass in
such very little time from reserve to quite the opposite--to confidence!
_That_ is the faulty part of the present system. One does not like to
see a girl of eighteen or nineteen so immediately up to every thing--and
perhaps when one has seen her hardly able to speak the year before. Mr.
Bertram, I dare say _you_ have sometimes met with such changes."

"I believe I have, but this is hardly fair; I see what you are at. You
are quizzing me and Miss Anderson."

"No, indeed. Miss Anderson! I do not know who or what you mean. I am
quite in the dark. But I _will_ quiz you with a great deal of pleasure,
if you will tell me what about."

"Ah! you carry it off very well, but I cannot be quite so far imposed
on. You must have had Miss Anderson in your eye, in describing an
altered young lady. You paint too accurately for mistake. It was exactly
so. The Andersons of Baker Street. We were speaking of them the other
day, you know. Edmund, you have heard me mention Charles Anderson.
The circumstance was precisely as this lady has represented it. When
Anderson first introduced me to his family, about two years ago, his
sister was not _out_, and I could not get her to speak to me. I sat
there an hour one morning waiting for Anderson, with only her and a
little girl or two in the room, the governess being sick or run away,
and the mother in and out every moment with letters of business, and I
could hardly get a word or a look from the young lady--nothing like a
civil answer--she screwed up her mouth, and turned from me with such an
air! I did not see her again for a twelvemonth. She was then _out_. I
met her at Mrs. Holford's, and did not recollect her. She came up to me,
claimed me as an acquaintance, stared me out of countenance; and talked
and laughed till I did not know which way to look. I felt that I must
be the jest of the room at the time, and Miss Crawford, it is plain, has
heard the story."

"And a very pretty story it is, and with more truth in it, I dare say,
than does credit to Miss Anderson. It is too common a fault. Mothers
certainly have not yet got quite the right way of managing their
daughters. I do not know where the error lies. I do not pretend to set
people right, but I do see that they are often wrong."

"Those who are showing the world what female manners _should_ be," said
Mr. Bertram gallantly, "are doing a great deal to set them right."

"The error is plain enough," said the less courteous Edmund; "such girls
are ill brought up. They are given wrong notions from the beginning.
They are always acting upon motives of vanity, and there is no more
real modesty in their behaviour _before_ they appear in public than
afterwards."

"I do not know," replied Miss Crawford hesitatingly. "Yes, I cannot
agree with you there. It is certainly the modestest part of the
business. It is much worse to have girls not out give themselves the
same airs and take the same liberties as if they were, which I have seen
done. That is worse than anything--quite disgusting!"

"Yes, _that_ is very inconvenient indeed," said Mr. Bertram. "It leads
one astray; one does not know what to do. The close bonnet and demure
air you describe so well (and nothing was ever juster), tell one what
is expected; but I got into a dreadful scrape last year from the want of
them. I went down to Ramsgate for a week with a friend last September,
just after my return from the West Indies. My friend Sneyd--you have
heard me speak of Sneyd, Edmund--his father, and mother, and sisters,
were there, all new to me. When we reached Albion Place they were out;
we went after them, and found them on the pier: Mrs. and the two Miss
Sneyds, with others of their acquaintance. I made my bow in form; and
as Mrs. Sneyd was surrounded by men, attached myself to one of her
daughters, walked by her side all the way home, and made myself as
agreeable as I could; the young lady perfectly easy in her manners, and
as ready to talk as to listen. I had not a suspicion that I could be
doing anything wrong. They looked just the same: both well-dressed, with
veils and parasols like other girls; but I afterwards found that I had
been giving all my attention to the youngest, who was not _out_, and
had most excessively offended the eldest. Miss Augusta ought not to have
been noticed for the next six months; and Miss Sneyd, I believe, has
never forgiven me."

"That was bad indeed. Poor Miss Sneyd. Though I have no younger
sister, I feel for her. To be neglected before one's time must be very
vexatious; but it was entirely the mother's fault. Miss Augusta should
have been with her governess. Such half-and-half doings never prosper.
But now I must be satisfied about Miss Price. Does she go to balls? Does
she dine out every where, as well as at my sister's?"

"No," replied Edmund; "I do not think she has ever been to a ball. My
mother seldom goes into company herself, and dines nowhere but with Mrs.
Grant, and Fanny stays at home with _her_."

"Oh! then the point is clear. Miss Price is not out."



Mr. Bertram set off for--------, and Miss Crawford was prepared to
find a great chasm in their society, and to miss him decidedly in the
meetings which were now becoming almost daily between the families;
and on their all dining together at the Park soon after his going, she
retook her chosen place near the bottom of the table, fully expecting to
feel a most melancholy difference in the change of masters. It would
be a very flat business, she was sure. In comparison with his brother,
Edmund would have nothing to say. The soup would be sent round in a most
spiritless manner, wine drank without any smiles or agreeable trifling,
and the venison cut up without supplying one pleasant anecdote of any
former haunch, or a single entertaining story, about "my friend such a
one." She must try to find amusement in what was passing at the upper
end of the table, and in observing Mr. Rushworth, who was now making his
appearance at Mansfield for the first time since the Crawfords' arrival.
He had been visiting a friend in the neighbouring county, and that
friend having recently had his grounds laid out by an improver, Mr.
Rushworth was returned with his head full of the subject, and very eager
to be improving his own place in the same way; and though not saying
much to the purpose, could talk of nothing else. The subject had
been already handled in the drawing-room; it was revived in the
dining-parlour. Miss Bertram's attention and opinion was evidently his
chief aim; and though her deportment showed rather conscious superiority
than any solicitude to oblige him, the mention of Sotherton Court,
and the ideas attached to it, gave her a feeling of complacency, which
prevented her from being very ungracious.

"I wish you could see Compton," said he; "it is the most complete thing!
I never saw a place so altered in my life. I told Smith I did not know
where I was. The approach _now_, is one of the finest things in the
country: you see the house in the most surprising manner. I declare,
when I got back to Sotherton yesterday, it looked like a prison--quite a
dismal old prison."

"Oh, for shame!" cried Mrs. Norris. "A prison indeed? Sotherton Court is
the noblest old place in the world."

"It wants improvement, ma'am, beyond anything. I never saw a place that
wanted so much improvement in my life; and it is so forlorn that I do
not know what can be done with it."

"No wonder that Mr. Rushworth should think so at present," said Mrs.
Grant to Mrs. Norris, with a smile; "but depend upon it, Sotherton will
have _every_ improvement in time which his heart can desire."

"I must try to do something with it," said Mr. Rushworth, "but I do not
know what. I hope I shall have some good friend to help me."

"Your best friend upon such an occasion," said Miss Bertram calmly,
"would be Mr. Repton, I imagine."

"That is what I was thinking of. As he has done so well by Smith, I
think I had better have him at once. His terms are five guineas a day."

"Well, and if they were _ten_," cried Mrs. Norris, "I am sure _you_ need
not regard it. The expense need not be any impediment. If I were you,
I should not think of the expense. I would have everything done in the
best style, and made as nice as possible. Such a place as Sotherton
Court deserves everything that taste and money can do. You have space to
work upon there, and grounds that will well reward you. For my own part,
if I had anything within the fiftieth part of the size of Sotherton, I
should be always planting and improving, for naturally I am excessively
fond of it. It would be too ridiculous for me to attempt anything where
I am now, with my little half acre. It would be quite a burlesque. But
if I had more room, I should take a prodigious delight in improving and
planting. We did a vast deal in that way at the Parsonage: we made it
quite a different place from what it was when we first had it. You young
ones do not remember much about it, perhaps; but if dear Sir Thomas were
here, he could tell you what improvements we made: and a great deal more
would have been done, but for poor Mr. Norris's sad state of health.
He could hardly ever get out, poor man, to enjoy anything, and _that_
disheartened me from doing several things that Sir Thomas and I used to
talk of. If it had not been for _that_, we should have carried on the
garden wall, and made the plantation to shut out the churchyard, just
as Dr. Grant has done. We were always doing something as it was. It was
only the spring twelvemonth before Mr. Norris's death that we put in the
apricot against the stable wall, which is now grown such a noble tree,
and getting to such perfection, sir," addressing herself then to Dr.
Grant.

"The tree thrives well, beyond a doubt, madam," replied Dr. Grant. "The
soil is good; and I never pass it without regretting that the fruit
should be so little worth the trouble of gathering."

"Sir, it is a Moor Park, we bought it as a Moor Park, and it cost
us--that is, it was a present from Sir Thomas, but I saw the bill--and I
know it cost seven shillings, and was charged as a Moor Park."

"You were imposed on, ma'am," replied Dr. Grant: "these potatoes have as
much the flavour of a Moor Park apricot as the fruit from that tree. It
is an insipid fruit at the best; but a good apricot is eatable, which
none from my garden are."

"The truth is, ma'am," said Mrs. Grant, pretending to whisper across
the table to Mrs. Norris, "that Dr. Grant hardly knows what the natural
taste of our apricot is: he is scarcely ever indulged with one, for it
is so valuable a fruit; with a little assistance, and ours is such a
remarkably large, fair sort, that what with early tarts and preserves,
my cook contrives to get them all."

Mrs. Norris, who had begun to redden, was appeased; and, for a little
while, other subjects took place of the improvements of Sotherton. Dr.
Grant and Mrs. Norris were seldom good friends; their acquaintance had
begun in dilapidations, and their habits were totally dissimilar.

After a short interruption Mr. Rushworth began again. "Smith's place
is the admiration of all the country; and it was a mere nothing before
Repton took it in hand. I think I shall have Repton."

"Mr. Rushworth," said Lady Bertram, "if I were you, I would have a
very pretty shrubbery. One likes to get out into a shrubbery in fine
weather."

Mr. Rushworth was eager to assure her ladyship of his acquiescence, and
tried to make out something complimentary; but, between his submission
to _her_ taste, and his having always intended the same himself, with
the superadded objects of professing attention to the comfort of ladies
in general, and of insinuating that there was one only whom he was
anxious to please, he grew puzzled, and Edmund was glad to put an end
to his speech by a proposal of wine. Mr. Rushworth, however, though not
usually a great talker, had still more to say on the subject next his
heart. "Smith has not much above a hundred acres altogether in his
grounds, which is little enough, and makes it more surprising that the
place can have been so improved. Now, at Sotherton we have a good seven
hundred, without reckoning the water meadows; so that I think, if so
much could be done at Compton, we need not despair. There have been two
or three fine old trees cut down, that grew too near the house, and
it opens the prospect amazingly, which makes me think that Repton, or
anybody of that sort, would certainly have the avenue at Sotherton down:
the avenue that leads from the west front to the top of the hill,
you know," turning to Miss Bertram particularly as he spoke. But Miss
Bertram thought it most becoming to reply--

"The avenue! Oh! I do not recollect it. I really know very little of
Sotherton."

Fanny, who was sitting on the other side of Edmund, exactly opposite
Miss Crawford, and who had been attentively listening, now looked at
him, and said in a low voice--

"Cut down an avenue! What a pity! Does it not make you think of Cowper?
'Ye fallen avenues, once more I mourn your fate unmerited.'"

He smiled as he answered, "I am afraid the avenue stands a bad chance,
Fanny."

"I should like to see Sotherton before it is cut down, to see the place
as it is now, in its old state; but I do not suppose I shall."

"Have you never been there? No, you never can; and, unluckily, it is out
of distance for a ride. I wish we could contrive it."

"Oh! it does not signify. Whenever I do see it, you will tell me how it
has been altered."

"I collect," said Miss Crawford, "that Sotherton is an old place, and a
place of some grandeur. In any particular style of building?"

"The house was built in Elizabeth's time, and is a large, regular, brick
building; heavy, but respectable looking, and has many good rooms. It
is ill placed. It stands in one of the lowest spots of the park; in that
respect, unfavourable for improvement. But the woods are fine, and
there is a stream, which, I dare say, might be made a good deal of. Mr.
Rushworth is quite right, I think, in meaning to give it a modern dress,
and I have no doubt that it will be all done extremely well."

Miss Crawford listened with submission, and said to herself, "He is a
well-bred man; he makes the best of it."

"I do not wish to influence Mr. Rushworth," he continued; "but, had I
a place to new fashion, I should not put myself into the hands of an
improver. I would rather have an inferior degree of beauty, of my own
choice, and acquired progressively. I would rather abide by my own
blunders than by his."

"_You_ would know what you were about, of course; but that would not
suit _me_. I have no eye or ingenuity for such matters, but as they are
before me; and had I a place of my own in the country, I should be most
thankful to any Mr. Repton who would undertake it, and give me as much
beauty as he could for my money; and I should never look at it till it
was complete."

"It would be delightful to _me_ to see the progress of it all," said
Fanny.

"Ay, you have been brought up to it. It was no part of my education; and
the only dose I ever had, being administered by not the first favourite
in the world, has made me consider improvements _in_ _hand_ as the
greatest of nuisances. Three years ago the Admiral, my honoured uncle,
bought a cottage at Twickenham for us all to spend our summers in;
and my aunt and I went down to it quite in raptures; but it being
excessively pretty, it was soon found necessary to be improved, and for
three months we were all dirt and confusion, without a gravel walk to
step on, or a bench fit for use. I would have everything as complete
as possible in the country, shrubberies and flower-gardens, and rustic
seats innumerable: but it must all be done without my care. Henry is
different; he loves to be doing."

Edmund was sorry to hear Miss Crawford, whom he was much disposed to
admire, speak so freely of her uncle. It did not suit his sense of
propriety, and he was silenced, till induced by further smiles and
liveliness to put the matter by for the present.

"Mr. Bertram," said she, "I have tidings of my harp at last. I am
assured that it is safe at Northampton; and there it has probably been
these ten days, in spite of the solemn assurances we have so often
received to the contrary." Edmund expressed his pleasure and surprise.
"The truth is, that our inquiries were too direct; we sent a servant,
we went ourselves: this will not do seventy miles from London; but this
morning we heard of it in the right way. It was seen by some farmer, and
he told the miller, and the miller told the butcher, and the butcher's
son-in-law left word at the shop."

"I am very glad that you have heard of it, by whatever means, and hope
there will be no further delay."

"I am to have it to-morrow; but how do you think it is to be conveyed?
Not by a wagon or cart: oh no! nothing of that kind could be hired in
the village. I might as well have asked for porters and a handbarrow."

"You would find it difficult, I dare say, just now, in the middle of a
very late hay harvest, to hire a horse and cart?"

"I was astonished to find what a piece of work was made of it! To want
a horse and cart in the country seemed impossible, so I told my maid to
speak for one directly; and as I cannot look out of my dressing-closet
without seeing one farmyard, nor walk in the shrubbery without passing
another, I thought it would be only ask and have, and was rather grieved
that I could not give the advantage to all. Guess my surprise, when
I found that I had been asking the most unreasonable, most impossible
thing in the world; had offended all the farmers, all the labourers,
all the hay in the parish! As for Dr. Grant's bailiff, I believe I had
better keep out of _his_ way; and my brother-in-law himself, who is all
kindness in general, looked rather black upon me when he found what I
had been at."

"You could not be expected to have thought on the subject before; but
when you _do_ think of it, you must see the importance of getting in
the grass. The hire of a cart at any time might not be so easy as you
suppose: our farmers are not in the habit of letting them out; but, in
harvest, it must be quite out of their power to spare a horse."

"I shall understand all your ways in time; but, coming down with the
true London maxim, that everything is to be got with money, I was a
little embarrassed at first by the sturdy independence of your country
customs. However, I am to have my harp fetched to-morrow. Henry, who is
good-nature itself, has offered to fetch it in his barouche. Will it not
be honourably conveyed?"

Edmund spoke of the harp as his favourite instrument, and hoped to be
soon allowed to hear her. Fanny had never heard the harp at all, and
wished for it very much.

"I shall be most happy to play to you both," said Miss Crawford; "at
least as long as you can like to listen: probably much longer, for
I dearly love music myself, and where the natural taste is equal the
player must always be best off, for she is gratified in more ways than
one. Now, Mr. Bertram, if you write to your brother, I entreat you to
tell him that my harp is come: he heard so much of my misery about it.
And you may say, if you please, that I shall prepare my most plaintive
airs against his return, in compassion to his feelings, as I know his
horse will lose."

"If I write, I will say whatever you wish me; but I do not, at present,
foresee any occasion for writing."

"No, I dare say, nor if he were to be gone a twelvemonth, would you ever
write to him, nor he to you, if it could be helped. The occasion would
never be foreseen. What strange creatures brothers are! You would not
write to each other but upon the most urgent necessity in the world; and
when obliged to take up the pen to say that such a horse is ill, or such
a relation dead, it is done in the fewest possible words. You have but
one style among you. I know it perfectly. Henry, who is in every other
respect exactly what a brother should be, who loves me, consults me,
confides in me, and will talk to me by the hour together, has never
yet turned the page in a letter; and very often it is nothing more
than--'Dear Mary, I am just arrived. Bath seems full, and everything
as usual. Yours sincerely.' That is the true manly style; that is a
complete brother's letter."

"When they are at a distance from all their family," said Fanny,
colouring for William's sake, "they can write long letters."

"Miss Price has a brother at sea," said Edmund, "whose excellence as a
correspondent makes her think you too severe upon us."

"At sea, has she? In the king's service, of course?"

Fanny would rather have had Edmund tell the story, but his determined
silence obliged her to relate her brother's situation: her voice was
animated in speaking of his profession, and the foreign stations he had
been on; but she could not mention the number of years that he had been
absent without tears in her eyes. Miss Crawford civilly wished him an
early promotion.

"Do you know anything of my cousin's captain?" said Edmund; "Captain
Marshall? You have a large acquaintance in the navy, I conclude?"

"Among admirals, large enough; but," with an air of grandeur, "we know
very little of the inferior ranks. Post-captains may be very good sort
of men, but they do not belong to _us_. Of various admirals I could tell
you a great deal: of them and their flags, and the gradation of their
pay, and their bickerings and jealousies. But, in general, I can assure
you that they are all passed over, and all very ill used. Certainly, my
home at my uncle's brought me acquainted with a circle of admirals. Of
_Rears_ and _Vices_ I saw enough. Now do not be suspecting me of a pun,
I entreat."

Edmund again felt grave, and only replied, "It is a noble profession."

"Yes, the profession is well enough under two circumstances: if it make
the fortune, and there be discretion in spending it; but, in short, it
is not a favourite profession of mine. It has never worn an amiable form
to _me_."

Edmund reverted to the harp, and was again very happy in the prospect of
hearing her play.

The subject of improving grounds, meanwhile, was still under
consideration among the others; and Mrs. Grant could not help addressing
her brother, though it was calling his attention from Miss Julia
Bertram.

"My dear Henry, have _you_ nothing to say? You have been an improver
yourself, and from what I hear of Everingham, it may vie with any place
in England. Its natural beauties, I am sure, are great. Everingham,
as it _used_ to be, was perfect in my estimation: such a happy fall of
ground, and such timber! What would I not give to see it again?"

"Nothing could be so gratifying to me as to hear your opinion of it,"
was his answer; "but I fear there would be some disappointment: you
would not find it equal to your present ideas. In extent, it is a mere
nothing; you would be surprised at its insignificance; and, as for
improvement, there was very little for me to do--too little: I should
like to have been busy much longer."

"You are fond of the sort of thing?" said Julia.

"Excessively; but what with the natural advantages of the ground, which
pointed out, even to a very young eye, what little remained to be done,
and my own consequent resolutions, I had not been of age three
months before Everingham was all that it is now. My plan was laid
at Westminster, a little altered, perhaps, at Cambridge, and at
one-and-twenty executed. I am inclined to envy Mr. Rushworth for having
so much happiness yet before him. I have been a devourer of my own."

"Those who see quickly, will resolve quickly, and act quickly,"
said Julia. "_You_ can never want employment. Instead of envying Mr.
Rushworth, you should assist him with your opinion."

Mrs. Grant, hearing the latter part of this speech, enforced it warmly,
persuaded that no judgment could be equal to her brother's; and as
Miss Bertram caught at the idea likewise, and gave it her full support,
declaring that, in her opinion, it was infinitely better to consult
with friends and disinterested advisers, than immediately to throw the
business into the hands of a professional man, Mr. Rushworth was very
ready to request the favour of Mr. Crawford's assistance; and Mr.
Crawford, after properly depreciating his own abilities, was quite at
his service in any way that could be useful. Mr. Rushworth then began to
propose Mr. Crawford's doing him the honour of coming over to Sotherton,
and taking a bed there; when Mrs. Norris, as if reading in her two
nieces' minds their little approbation of a plan which was to take Mr.
Crawford away, interposed with an amendment.

"There can be no doubt of Mr. Crawford's willingness; but why should not
more of us go? Why should not we make a little party? Here are many that
would be interested in your improvements, my dear Mr. Rushworth, and
that would like to hear Mr. Crawford's opinion on the spot, and that
might be of some small use to you with _their_ opinions; and, for my
own part, I have been long wishing to wait upon your good mother again;
nothing but having no horses of my own could have made me so remiss; but
now I could go and sit a few hours with Mrs. Rushworth, while the rest
of you walked about and settled things, and then we could all return
to a late dinner here, or dine at Sotherton, just as might be most
agreeable to your mother, and have a pleasant drive home by moonlight.
I dare say Mr. Crawford would take my two nieces and me in his barouche,
and Edmund can go on horseback, you know, sister, and Fanny will stay at
home with you."

Lady Bertram made no objection; and every one concerned in the going
was forward in expressing their ready concurrence, excepting Edmund, who
heard it all and said nothing.



"Well, Fanny, and 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,
Fanny, as 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 faults 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 you 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 is awkwardly
circumstanced. 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 the niece
to have been those of the aunt; and it makes one more 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 whatever may contribute
to its own amusement or that of others; perfectly allowable, when
untinctured by ill-humour or roughness; and there is not a shadow of
either in the countenance or manner of Miss 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 Miss Crawford, which might lead him where Fanny
could not follow. Miss 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 every thing 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 gaieties 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
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 see 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 being first
proposed, so far from feeling slighted, was almost over-powered with
gratitude that he should be asking her leave for it.

Miss Crawford made her first essay 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
demesnes, gently rising beyond the village road; and in Dr. Grant's
meadow she immediately saw the group--Edmund and Miss Crawford both on
horse-back, 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 a
doubt, for the sound of merriment ascended even to her. It was a sound
which did 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's pace; 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 mare to have such double duty; if
she were forgotten, the poor mare should be remembered.

Her feelings for one and the other were soon a little tranquillised
by seeing the party in the meadow disperse, and Miss Crawford still on
horseback, but attended by Edmund on foot, pass 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 time enough 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 horse-woman, which he 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 you put 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 has the make for it.
Her figure is as neat as her brother's."

"Yes," added Maria, "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 would be extremely sorry to
interfere with you. It would be very wrong if she did. _She_ rides only
for pleasure; _you_ for health."

"I shall not ride to-morrow, 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 shewn; 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 shewing the Crawfords 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 invited 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 shewing 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 Maria 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? Is
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 was 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 not we _all_ out? Even your mother
was out to-day 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 am 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 a rather
softened voice; "but I question whether her headache might not be caught
_then_, sister. There is nothing so likely to give it as standing and
stooping in a hot sun; but I dare say it will be well to-morrow. 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, ma'am? No
wonder her head aches."

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, your 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
employed on such an errand but Fanny? Upon my word, ma'am, 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 dairymaid, by _her_ desire,
and had promised John Groom to write to Mrs. Jefferies 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, ay, and in all weathers too, and say nothing about
it?"

"I wish Fanny had half your strength, ma'am."

"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 being stooping among 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-tray 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 leant
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.



Fanny's rides recommenced 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 shew her civility especially, in urging the
execution of the plan for visiting Sotherton, 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 authorise 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 Sotherton 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 of our
two dear girls and myself without her. Sotherton 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, as 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's 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 Sotherton 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
seeing Sotherton. 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 Sotherton, 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 half-way 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 Bertrams laughed at the idea, assuring her that
the barouche would hold four 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
chaise? I could not, when the scheme was first mentioned 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 boxed up three in a postchaise in this weather,
when we may have seats in a barouche! No, my dear Edmund, that will not
quite do."

"Besides," said Maria, "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
Sotherton: 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."

"That would not be a very handsome reason for using Mr. Crawford's,"
said Maria; "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 Maria: "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."

"There can be no objection, then, to Fanny's going with you; there can
be no doubt of your having room for her."

"Fanny!" repeated 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, madam," 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 was 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 a gratification of the kind, and I am sure, ma'am, 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--their 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 chuse, settle it your own way, I am sure I do not care about it."

"It seems very odd," said Maria, "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 dropt.

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 Sotherton
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 Maria! 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, inanimate 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," etc.; 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 Sotherton 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 Sotherton the former had considerable effect. Mr.
Rushworth's consequence was hers. She could not tell Miss Crawford that
"those woods belonged to Sotherton," 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 manorial residence of the family, with all its rights of
court-leet 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 almshouses,
built by some of the family. To the right is the steward's house; he
is a very respectable man. Now we are coming to the lodge-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 down hill 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 guessed 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, and
ascends for half a mile to the extremity of the grounds. You may see
something of it here--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.

 The family flourishes in Sir Thomas's absence. Edmund takes over as leader of the family and proves to be just and kind. Maria and Julia are the toast of the neighborhood, and Mrs. Norris supervises their social outings and screens potential suitors. Lady Bertram rarely goes out, and Fanny becomes her companion and helpmate. Edmund once again does Fanny a great kindness, ignoring the objections of Mrs. Norris to get her a horse to ride for her health. Tom soon returns from Antigua; the business there has not gone well, and Sir Thomas will be staying longer than expected. Maria is soon engaged to Mr. Rushworth, an incredibly wealthy but also incredibly stupid young man with a large estate nearby. Sir Thomas sends his consent from abroad, and everyone is quite content. Shortly after Fanny's eighteenth birthday, Mansfield Park receives two newcomers--the brother and sister of Mrs. Grant, the parish priest's wife. Mary Crawford is beautiful and charming, while her brother Henry, though not handsome, is heir to a large estate and shares his sister's charisma. Mary Crawford immediately sets her sights on Tom Bertram and his large estate, although she finds him dull. Mrs. Grant decides to play matchmaker for Henry and Julia Bertram, despite Henry's aversion to marriage. The Bertrams and the Crawfords are immediate friends, and Henry seems attracted to Maria despite her engagement. He explains to his sister that, engaged or married, women are "safe" and therefore more fun. Fanny is a puzzle to the Crawfords, who are unsure of her status in the family; after a somewhat convoluted explanation, Mary decides that Fanny is simply not "out" yet . Despite her best efforts, Mary has made no progress with Tom, and she is disappointed when he leaves Mansfield to carouse with friends. She expects dullness under Edmund. Mr. Rushworth's visits have become more frequent; in the course of one of those visits, he begins to talk of the remodeling and landscaping he wants to do at his estate, Sotherton. The whole party becomes involved in a discussion of estates and style, and they resolve to visit the place. Meanwhile, Mary and Edmund are becoming acquainted, and she finds herself attracted to him. She complains of the difficulty she has had in getting her harp delivered--it is harvest time, and the farmers are not willing to use their carts for hauling. Despite her vanity and her obviously corrupted sense of the world, Edmund is fascinated by her, and speaks to Fanny of her the next day. They agree on her improprieties, but Fanny does not find her as charming as Edmund does. The conversation troubles Fanny, who cannot admit to herself that she is jealous of Mary as a rival for Edmund's affections. Soon Edmund and Mary are spending a great deal of time together, and eventually Mary is using Fanny's horse almost every day to ride out with Edmund and his sisters. Fanny is neglected and left almost entirely to her two aunts, who abuse her and force her to do their errands. Finally, Edmund discovers Fanny ill after a long day with the two women. He berates them, and himself, and the horse is restored to Fanny. Plans are finalized for visiting Sotherton. Seats in the carriages are limited, and it is decided that Fanny must stay home with Lady Bertram, although Edmund intervenes on her behalf. Finally, Edmund declares that he will stay home so that Fanny can go. In the end, Mrs. Grant volunteers to stay with Lady Bertram, and all the young people are free to go. The carriage ride to Sotherton is tempestuous. Maria and Julia are now competing more or less openly for Henry Crawford's affections, despite Maria's engagement to Mr. Rushworth. Mrs. Grant instructs Henry to allow Julia to ride on the carriage's open seat for a driving lesson with him, and Maria is furious. Fanny is simply pleased with the view from the carriage. Maria takes solace in bragging of Rushworth's holdings, and is in a much better mood when they arrive at Sotherton.

