Chapter: The intercourse of the two families was at this period more nearly
restored to what it had been in the autumn, than any member of the
old intimacy had thought ever likely to be again. The return of Henry
Crawford, and the arrival of William Price, had much to do with it,
but much was still owing to Sir Thomas's more than toleration of the
neighbourly attempts at the Parsonage. His mind, now disengaged from
the cares which had pressed on him at first, was at leisure to find
the Grants and their young inmates really worth visiting; and though
infinitely above scheming or contriving for any the most advantageous
matrimonial establishment that could be among the apparent possibilities
of any one most dear to him, and disdaining even as a littleness the
being quick-sighted on such points, he could not avoid perceiving, in
a grand and careless way, that Mr. Crawford was somewhat distinguishing
his niece--nor perhaps refrain (though unconsciously) from giving a more
willing assent to invitations on that account.

His readiness, however, in agreeing to dine at the Parsonage, when the
general invitation was at last hazarded, after many debates and many
doubts as to whether it were worth while, "because Sir Thomas seemed
so ill inclined, and Lady Bertram was so indolent!" proceeded from
good-breeding and goodwill alone, and had nothing to do with Mr.
Crawford, but as being one in an agreeable group: for it was in the
course of that very visit that he first began to think that any one in
the habit of such idle observations _would_ _have_ _thought_ that Mr.
Crawford was the admirer of Fanny Price.

The meeting was generally felt to be a pleasant one, being composed in a
good proportion of those who would talk and those who would listen;
and the dinner itself was elegant and plentiful, according to the usual
style of the Grants, and too much according to the usual habits of
all to raise any emotion except in Mrs. Norris, who could never behold
either the wide table or the number of dishes on it with patience, and
who did always contrive to experience some evil from the passing of the
servants behind her chair, and to bring away some fresh conviction of
its being impossible among so many dishes but that some must be cold.

In the evening it was found, according to the predetermination of Mrs.
Grant and her sister, that after making up the whist-table there would
remain sufficient for a round game, and everybody being as perfectly
complying and without a choice as on such occasions they always are,
speculation was decided on almost as soon as whist; and Lady Bertram
soon found herself in the critical situation of being applied to for her
own choice between the games, and being required either to draw a card
for whist or not. She hesitated. Luckily Sir Thomas was at hand.

"What shall I do, Sir Thomas? Whist and speculation; which will amuse me
most?"

Sir Thomas, after a moment's thought, recommended speculation. He was
a whist player himself, and perhaps might feel that it would not much
amuse him to have her for a partner.

"Very well," was her ladyship's contented answer; "then speculation, if
you please, Mrs. Grant. I know nothing about it, but Fanny must teach
me."

Here Fanny interposed, however, with anxious protestations of her own
equal ignorance; she had never played the game nor seen it played in
her life; and Lady Bertram felt a moment's indecision again; but upon
everybody's assuring her that nothing could be so easy, that it was the
easiest game on the cards, and Henry Crawford's stepping forward with a
most earnest request to be allowed to sit between her ladyship and Miss
Price, and teach them both, it was so settled; and Sir Thomas, Mrs.
Norris, and Dr. and Mrs. Grant being seated at the table of prime
intellectual state and dignity, the remaining six, under Miss Crawford's
direction, were arranged round the other. It was a fine arrangement
for Henry Crawford, who was close to Fanny, and with his hands full of
business, having two persons' cards to manage as well as his own; for
though it was impossible for Fanny not to feel herself mistress of the
rules of the game in three minutes, he had yet to inspirit her play,
sharpen her avarice, and harden her heart, which, especially in any
competition with William, was a work of some difficulty; and as for Lady
Bertram, he must continue in charge of all her fame and fortune through
the whole evening; and if quick enough to keep her from looking at her
cards when the deal began, must direct her in whatever was to be done
with them to the end of it.

He was in high spirits, doing everything with happy ease, and preeminent
in all the lively turns, quick resources, and playful impudence that
could do honour to the game; and the round table was altogether a very
comfortable contrast to the steady sobriety and orderly silence of the
other.

Twice had Sir Thomas inquired into the enjoyment and success of his
lady, but in vain; no pause was long enough for the time his measured
manner needed; and very little of her state could be known till Mrs.
Grant was able, at the end of the first rubber, to go to her and pay her
compliments.

"I hope your ladyship is pleased with the game."

"Oh dear, yes! very entertaining indeed. A very odd game. I do not know
what it is all about. I am never to see my cards; and Mr. Crawford does
all the rest."

"Bertram," said Crawford, some time afterwards, taking the opportunity
of a little languor in the game, "I have never told you what happened to
me yesterday in my ride home." They had been hunting together, and were
in the midst of a good run, and at some distance from Mansfield, when
his horse being found to have flung a shoe, Henry Crawford had been
obliged to give up, and make the best of his way back. "I told you I
lost my way after passing that old farmhouse with the yew-trees, because
I can never bear to ask; but I have not told you that, with my usual
luck--for I never do wrong without gaining by it--I found myself in due
time in the very place which I had a curiosity to see. I was suddenly,
upon turning the corner of a steepish downy field, in the midst of
a retired little village between gently rising hills; a small stream
before me to be forded, a church standing on a sort of knoll to my
right--which church was strikingly large and handsome for the place, and
not a gentleman or half a gentleman's house to be seen excepting one--to
be presumed the Parsonage--within a stone's throw of the said knoll and
church. I found myself, in short, in Thornton Lacey."

"It sounds like it," said Edmund; "but which way did you turn after
passing Sewell's farm?"

"I answer no such irrelevant and insidious questions; though were I to
answer all that you could put in the course of an hour, you would never
be able to prove that it was _not_ Thornton Lacey--for such it certainly
was."

"You inquired, then?"

"No, I never inquire. But I _told_ a man mending a hedge that it was
Thornton Lacey, and he agreed to it."

"You have a good memory. I had forgotten having ever told you half so
much of the place."

Thornton Lacey was the name of his impending living, as Miss Crawford
well knew; and her interest in a negotiation for William Price's knave
increased.

"Well," continued Edmund, "and how did you like what you saw?"

"Very much indeed. You are a lucky fellow. There will be work for five
summers at least before the place is liveable."

"No, no, not so bad as that. The farmyard must be moved, I grant you;
but I am not aware of anything else. The house is by no means bad, and
when the yard is removed, there may be a very tolerable approach to it."

"The farmyard must be cleared away entirely, and planted up to shut
out the blacksmith's shop. The house must be turned to front the east
instead of the north--the entrance and principal rooms, I mean, must be
on that side, where the view is really very pretty; I am sure it may be
done. And _there_ must be your approach, through what is at present the
garden. You must make a new garden at what is now the back of the house;
which will be giving it the best aspect in the world, sloping to the
south-east. The ground seems precisely formed for it. I rode fifty yards
up the lane, between the church and the house, in order to look about
me; and saw how it might all be. Nothing can be easier. The meadows
beyond what _will_ _be_ the garden, as well as what now _is_, sweeping
round from the lane I stood in to the north-east, that is, to the
principal road through the village, must be all laid together, of
course; very pretty meadows they are, finely sprinkled with timber. They
belong to the living, I suppose; if not, you must purchase them. Then
the stream--something must be done with the stream; but I could not
quite determine what. I had two or three ideas."

"And I have two or three ideas also," said Edmund, "and one of them is,
that very little of your plan for Thornton Lacey will ever be put in
practice. I must be satisfied with rather less ornament and beauty. I
think the house and premises may be made comfortable, and given the air
of a gentleman's residence, without any very heavy expense, and that
must suffice me; and, I hope, may suffice all who care about me."

Miss Crawford, a little suspicious and resentful of a certain tone of
voice, and a certain half-look attending the last expression of his
hope, made a hasty finish of her dealings with William Price; and
securing his knave at an exorbitant rate, exclaimed, "There, I will
stake my last like a woman of spirit. No cold prudence for me. I am not
born to sit still and do nothing. If I lose the game, it shall not be
from not striving for it."

The game was hers, and only did not pay her for what she had given
to secure it. Another deal proceeded, and Crawford began again about
Thornton Lacey.

"My plan may not be the best possible: I had not many minutes to form
it in; but you must do a good deal. The place deserves it, and you
will find yourself not satisfied with much less than it is capable of.
(Excuse me, your ladyship must not see your cards. There, let them lie
just before you.) The place deserves it, Bertram. You talk of giving it
the air of a gentleman's residence. _That_ will be done by the removal
of the farmyard; for, independent of that terrible nuisance, I never saw
a house of the kind which had in itself so much the air of a
gentleman's residence, so much the look of a something above a mere
parsonage-house--above the expenditure of a few hundreds a year. It is
not a scrambling collection of low single rooms, with as many roofs
as windows; it is not cramped into the vulgar compactness of a square
farmhouse: it is a solid, roomy, mansion-like looking house, such as
one might suppose a respectable old country family had lived in from
generation to generation, through two centuries at least, and were now
spending from two to three thousand a year in." Miss Crawford listened,
and Edmund agreed to this. "The air of a gentleman's residence,
therefore, you cannot but give it, if you do anything. But it is capable
of much more. (Let me see, Mary; Lady Bertram bids a dozen for that
queen; no, no, a dozen is more than it is worth. Lady Bertram does not
bid a dozen. She will have nothing to say to it. Go on, go on.) By some
such improvements as I have suggested (I do not really require you to
proceed upon my plan, though, by the bye, I doubt anybody's striking out
a better) you may give it a higher character. You may raise it into
a _place_. From being the mere gentleman's residence, it becomes, by
judicious improvement, the residence of a man of education, taste,
modern manners, good connexions. All this may be stamped on it; and that
house receive such an air as to make its owner be set down as the
great landholder of the parish by every creature travelling the road;
especially as there is no real squire's house to dispute the point--a
circumstance, between ourselves, to enhance the value of such a
situation in point of privilege and independence beyond all calculation.
_You_ think with me, I hope" (turning with a softened voice to Fanny).
"Have you ever seen the place?"

Fanny gave a quick negative, and tried to hide her interest in the
subject by an eager attention to her brother, who was driving as hard a
bargain, and imposing on her as much as he could; but Crawford pursued
with "No, no, you must not part with the queen. You have bought her too
dearly, and your brother does not offer half her value. No, no, sir,
hands off, hands off. Your sister does not part with the queen. She is
quite determined. The game will be yours," turning to her again; "it
will certainly be yours."

"And Fanny had much rather it were William's," said Edmund, smiling at
her. "Poor Fanny! not allowed to cheat herself as she wishes!"

"Mr. Bertram," said Miss Crawford, a few minutes afterwards, "you know
Henry to be such a capital improver, that you cannot possibly engage in
anything of the sort at Thornton Lacey without accepting his help. Only
think how useful he was at Sotherton! Only think what grand things were
produced there by our all going with him one hot day in August to drive
about the grounds, and see his genius take fire. There we went, and
there we came home again; and what was done there is not to be told!"

Fanny's eyes were turned on Crawford for a moment with an expression
more than grave--even reproachful; but on catching his, were instantly
withdrawn. With something of consciousness he shook his head at his
sister, and laughingly replied, "I cannot say there was much done at
Sotherton; but it was a hot day, and we were all walking after each
other, and bewildered." As soon as a general buzz gave him shelter, he
added, in a low voice, directed solely at Fanny, "I should be sorry to
have my powers of _planning_ judged of by the day at Sotherton. I see
things very differently now. Do not think of me as I appeared then."

Sotherton was a word to catch Mrs. Norris, and being just then in the
happy leisure which followed securing the odd trick by Sir Thomas's
capital play and her own against Dr. and Mrs. Grant's great hands,
she called out, in high good-humour, "Sotherton! Yes, that is a place,
indeed, and we had a charming day there. William, you are quite out of
luck; but the next time you come, I hope dear Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth
will be at home, and I am sure I can answer for your being kindly
received by both. Your cousins are not of a sort to forget their
relations, and Mr. Rushworth is a most amiable man. They are at Brighton
now, you know; in one of the best houses there, as Mr. Rushworth's fine
fortune gives them a right to be. I do not exactly know the distance,
but when you get back to Portsmouth, if it is not very far off, you
ought to go over and pay your respects to them; and I could send a
little parcel by you that I want to get conveyed to your cousins."

"I should be very happy, aunt; but Brighton is almost by Beachey Head;
and if I could get so far, I could not expect to be welcome in such a
smart place as that--poor scrubby midshipman as I am."

Mrs. Norris was beginning an eager assurance of the affability he might
depend on, when she was stopped by Sir Thomas's saying with authority,
"I do not advise your going to Brighton, William, as I trust you may
soon have more convenient opportunities of meeting; but my daughters
would be happy to see their cousins anywhere; and you will find Mr.
Rushworth most sincerely disposed to regard all the connexions of our
family as his own."

"I would rather find him private secretary to the First Lord than
anything else," was William's only answer, in an undervoice, not meant
to reach far, and the subject dropped.

As yet Sir Thomas had seen nothing to remark in Mr. Crawford's
behaviour; but when the whist-table broke up at the end of the second
rubber, and leaving Dr. Grant and Mrs. Norris to dispute over their last
play, he became a looker-on at the other, he found his niece the
object of attentions, or rather of professions, of a somewhat pointed
character.

Henry Crawford was in the first glow of another scheme about Thornton
Lacey; and not being able to catch Edmund's ear, was detailing it to his
fair neighbour with a look of considerable earnestness. His scheme was
to rent the house himself the following winter, that he might have a
home of his own in that neighbourhood; and it was not merely for the use
of it in the hunting-season (as he was then telling her), though _that_
consideration had certainly some weight, feeling as he did that, in
spite of all Dr. Grant's very great kindness, it was impossible for him
and his horses to be accommodated where they now were without material
inconvenience; but his attachment to that neighbourhood did not depend
upon one amusement or one season of the year: he had set his heart upon
having a something there that he could come to at any time, a little
homestall at his command, where all the holidays of his year might be
spent, and he might find himself continuing, improving, and _perfecting_
that friendship and intimacy with the Mansfield Park family which was
increasing in value to him every day. Sir Thomas heard and was not
offended. There was no want of respect in the young man's address;
and Fanny's reception of it was so proper and modest, so calm and
uninviting, that he had nothing to censure in her. She said little,
assented only here and there, and betrayed no inclination either of
appropriating any part of the compliment to herself, or of strengthening
his views in favour of Northamptonshire. Finding by whom he was
observed, Henry Crawford addressed himself on the same subject to Sir
Thomas, in a more everyday tone, but still with feeling.

"I want to be your neighbour, Sir Thomas, as you have, perhaps, heard me
telling Miss Price. May I hope for your acquiescence, and for your not
influencing your son against such a tenant?"

Sir Thomas, politely bowing, replied, "It is the only way, sir, in which
I could _not_ wish you established as a permanent neighbour; but I hope,
and believe, that Edmund will occupy his own house at Thornton Lacey.
Edmund, am I saying too much?"

Edmund, on this appeal, had first to hear what was going on; but, on
understanding the question, was at no loss for an answer.

"Certainly, sir, I have no idea but of residence. But, Crawford, though
I refuse you as a tenant, come to me as a friend. Consider the house as
half your own every winter, and we will add to the stables on your own
improved plan, and with all the improvements of your improved plan that
may occur to you this spring."

"We shall be the losers," continued Sir Thomas. "His going, though only
eight miles, will be an unwelcome contraction of our family circle; but
I should have been deeply mortified if any son of mine could reconcile
himself to doing less. It is perfectly natural that you should not have
thought much on the subject, Mr. Crawford. But a parish has wants and
claims which can be known only by a clergyman constantly resident, and
which no proxy can be capable of satisfying to the same extent. Edmund
might, in the common phrase, do the duty of Thornton, that is, he might
read prayers and preach, without giving up Mansfield Park: he might ride
over every Sunday, to a house nominally inhabited, and go through divine
service; he might be the clergyman of Thornton Lacey every seventh day,
for three or four hours, if that would content him. But it will not.
He knows that human nature needs more lessons than a weekly sermon can
convey; and that if he does not live among his parishioners, and prove
himself, by constant attention, their well-wisher and friend, he does
very little either for their good or his own."

Mr. Crawford bowed his acquiescence.

"I repeat again," added Sir Thomas, "that Thornton Lacey is the only
house in the neighbourhood in which I should _not_ be happy to wait on
Mr. Crawford as occupier."

Mr. Crawford bowed his thanks.

"Sir Thomas," said Edmund, "undoubtedly understands the duty of a parish
priest. We must hope his son may prove that _he_ knows it too."

Whatever effect Sir Thomas's little harangue might really produce on Mr.
Crawford, it raised some awkward sensations in two of the others, two
of his most attentive listeners--Miss Crawford and Fanny. One of
whom, having never before understood that Thornton was so soon and so
completely to be his home, was pondering with downcast eyes on what it
would be _not_ to see Edmund every day; and the other, startled from the
agreeable fancies she had been previously indulging on the strength of
her brother's description, no longer able, in the picture she had
been forming of a future Thornton, to shut out the church, sink the
clergyman, and see only the respectable, elegant, modernised, and
occasional residence of a man of independent fortune, was considering
Sir Thomas, with decided ill-will, as the destroyer of all this, and
suffering the more from that involuntary forbearance which his character
and manner commanded, and from not daring to relieve herself by a single
attempt at throwing ridicule on his cause.

All the agreeable of _her_ speculation was over for that hour. It was
time to have done with cards, if sermons prevailed; and she was glad to
find it necessary to come to a conclusion, and be able to refresh her
spirits by a change of place and neighbour.

The chief of the party were now collected irregularly round the
fire, and waiting the final break-up. William and Fanny were the most
detached. They remained together at the otherwise deserted card-table,
talking very comfortably, and not thinking of the rest, till some of the
rest began to think of them. Henry Crawford's chair was the first to be
given a direction towards them, and he sat silently observing them for a
few minutes; himself, in the meanwhile, observed by Sir Thomas, who was
standing in chat with Dr. Grant.

"This is the assembly night," said William. "If I were at Portsmouth I
should be at it, perhaps."

"But you do not wish yourself at Portsmouth, William?"

"No, Fanny, that I do not. I shall have enough of Portsmouth and of
dancing too, when I cannot have you. And I do not know that there would
be any good in going to the assembly, for I might not get a partner.
The Portsmouth girls turn up their noses at anybody who has not a
commission. One might as well be nothing as a midshipman. One _is_
nothing, indeed. You remember the Gregorys; they are grown up amazing
fine girls, but they will hardly speak to _me_, because Lucy is courted
by a lieutenant."

"Oh! shame, shame! But never mind it, William" (her own cheeks in a
glow of indignation as she spoke). "It is not worth minding. It is no
reflection on _you_; it is no more than what the greatest admirals have
all experienced, more or less, in their time. You must think of that,
you must try to make up your mind to it as one of the hardships which
fall to every sailor's share, like bad weather and hard living, only
with this advantage, that there will be an end to it, that there will
come a time when you will have nothing of that sort to endure. When you
are a lieutenant! only think, William, when you are a lieutenant, how
little you will care for any nonsense of this kind."

"I begin to think I shall never be a lieutenant, Fanny. Everybody gets
made but me."

"Oh! my dear William, do not talk so; do not be so desponding. My uncle
says nothing, but I am sure he will do everything in his power to get
you made. He knows, as well as you do, of what consequence it is."

She was checked by the sight of her uncle much nearer to them than she
had any suspicion of, and each found it necessary to talk of something
else.

"Are you fond of dancing, Fanny?"

"Yes, very; only I am soon tired."

"I should like to go to a ball with you and see you dance. Have you
never any balls at Northampton? I should like to see you dance, and I'd
dance with you if you _would_, for nobody would know who I was here,
and I should like to be your partner once more. We used to jump about
together many a time, did not we? when the hand-organ was in the street?
I am a pretty good dancer in my way, but I dare say you are a better."
And turning to his uncle, who was now close to them, "Is not Fanny a
very good dancer, sir?"

Fanny, in dismay at such an unprecedented question, did not know which
way to look, or how to be prepared for the answer. Some very grave
reproof, or at least the coldest expression of indifference, must be
coming to distress her brother, and sink her to the ground. But, on the
contrary, it was no worse than, "I am sorry to say that I am unable
to answer your question. I have never seen Fanny dance since she was a
little girl; but I trust we shall both think she acquits herself like
a gentlewoman when we do see her, which, perhaps, we may have an
opportunity of doing ere long."

"I have had the pleasure of seeing your sister dance, Mr. Price,"
said Henry Crawford, leaning forward, "and will engage to answer every
inquiry which you can make on the subject, to your entire satisfaction.
But I believe" (seeing Fanny looked distressed) "it must be at some
other time. There is _one_ person in company who does not like to have
Miss Price spoken of."

True enough, he had once seen Fanny dance; and it was equally true
that he would now have answered for her gliding about with quiet, light
elegance, and in admirable time; but, in fact, he could not for the life
of him recall what her dancing had been, and rather took it for granted
that she had been present than remembered anything about her.

He passed, however, for an admirer of her dancing; and Sir Thomas, by no
means displeased, prolonged the conversation on dancing in general, and
was so well engaged in describing the balls of Antigua, and listening to
what his nephew could relate of the different modes of dancing which
had fallen within his observation, that he had not heard his carriage
announced, and was first called to the knowledge of it by the bustle of
Mrs. Norris.

"Come, Fanny, Fanny, what are you about? We are going. Do not you see
your aunt is going? Quick, quick! I cannot bear to keep good old Wilcox
waiting. You should always remember the coachman and horses. My dear Sir
Thomas, we have settled it that the carriage should come back for you,
and Edmund and William."

Sir Thomas could not dissent, as it had been his own arrangement,
previously communicated to his wife and sister; but _that_ seemed
forgotten by Mrs. Norris, who must fancy that she settled it all
herself.

Fanny's last feeling in the visit was disappointment: for the shawl
which Edmund was quietly taking from the servant to bring and put round
her shoulders was seized by Mr. Crawford's quicker hand, and she was
obliged to be indebted to his more prominent attention.



William's desire of seeing Fanny dance made more than a momentary
impression on his uncle. The hope of an opportunity, which Sir Thomas
had then given, was not given to be thought of no more. He remained
steadily inclined to gratify so amiable a feeling; to gratify anybody
else who might wish to see Fanny dance, and to give pleasure to the
young people in general; and having thought the matter over, and taken
his resolution in quiet independence, the result of it appeared the
next morning at breakfast, when, after recalling and commending what
his nephew had said, he added, "I do not like, William, that you
should leave Northamptonshire without this indulgence. It would give me
pleasure to see you both dance. You spoke of the balls at Northampton.
Your cousins have occasionally attended them; but they would not
altogether suit us now. The fatigue would be too much for your aunt. I
believe we must not think of a Northampton ball. A dance at home would
be more eligible; and if--"

"Ah, my dear Sir Thomas!" interrupted Mrs. Norris, "I knew what was
coming. I knew what you were going to say. If dear Julia were at home,
or dearest Mrs. Rushworth at Sotherton, to afford a reason, an occasion
for such a thing, you would be tempted to give the young people a dance
at Mansfield. I know you would. If _they_ were at home to grace the
ball, a ball you would have this very Christmas. Thank your uncle,
William, thank your uncle!"

"My daughters," replied Sir Thomas, gravely interposing, "have their
pleasures at Brighton, and I hope are very happy; but the dance which I
think of giving at Mansfield will be for their cousins. Could we be all
assembled, our satisfaction would undoubtedly be more complete, but the
absence of some is not to debar the others of amusement."

Mrs. Norris had not another word to say. She saw decision in his looks,
and her surprise and vexation required some minutes' silence to be
settled into composure. A ball at such a time! His daughters absent and
herself not consulted! There was comfort, however, soon at hand. _She_
must be the doer of everything: Lady Bertram would of course be spared
all thought and exertion, and it would all fall upon _her_. She should
have to do the honours of the evening; and this reflection quickly
restored so much of her good-humour as enabled her to join in with the
others, before their happiness and thanks were all expressed.

Edmund, William, and Fanny did, in their different ways, look and speak
as much grateful pleasure in the promised ball as Sir Thomas could
desire. Edmund's feelings were for the other two. His father had never
conferred a favour or shewn a kindness more to his satisfaction.

Lady Bertram was perfectly quiescent and contented, and had no
objections to make. Sir Thomas engaged for its giving her very little
trouble; and she assured him "that she was not at all afraid of the
trouble; indeed, she could not imagine there would be any."

Mrs. Norris was ready with her suggestions as to the rooms he would
think fittest to be used, but found it all prearranged; and when she
would have conjectured and hinted about the day, it appeared that the
day was settled too. Sir Thomas had been amusing himself with shaping a
very complete outline of the business; and as soon as she would listen
quietly, could read his list of the families to be invited, from whom
he calculated, with all necessary allowance for the shortness of the
notice, to collect young people enough to form twelve or fourteen
couple: and could detail the considerations which had induced him to
fix on the 22nd as the most eligible day. William was required to be at
Portsmouth on the 24th; the 22nd would therefore be the last day of his
visit; but where the days were so few it would be unwise to fix on any
earlier. Mrs. Norris was obliged to be satisfied with thinking just the
same, and with having been on the point of proposing the 22nd herself,
as by far the best day for the purpose.

The ball was now a settled thing, and before the evening a proclaimed
thing to all whom it concerned. Invitations were sent with despatch,
and many a young lady went to bed that night with her head full of happy
cares as well as Fanny. To her the cares were sometimes almost beyond
the happiness; for young and inexperienced, with small means of choice
and no confidence in her own taste, the "how she should be dressed" was
a point of painful solicitude; and the almost solitary ornament in her
possession, a very pretty amber cross which William had brought her from
Sicily, was the greatest distress of all, for she had nothing but a bit
of ribbon to fasten it to; and though she had worn it in that manner
once, would it be allowable at such a time in the midst of all the rich
ornaments which she supposed all the other young ladies would appear in?
And yet not to wear it! William had wanted to buy her a gold chain too,
but the purchase had been beyond his means, and therefore not to wear
the cross might be mortifying him. These were anxious considerations;
enough to sober her spirits even under the prospect of a ball given
principally for her gratification.

The preparations meanwhile went on, and Lady Bertram continued to sit on
her sofa without any inconvenience from them. She had some extra visits
from the housekeeper, and her maid was rather hurried in making up a new
dress for her: Sir Thomas gave orders, and Mrs. Norris ran about; but
all this gave _her_ no trouble, and as she had foreseen, "there was, in
fact, no trouble in the business."

Edmund was at this time particularly full of cares: his mind being
deeply occupied in the consideration of two important events now
at hand, which were to fix his fate in life--ordination and
matrimony--events of such a serious character as to make the ball, which
would be very quickly followed by one of them, appear of less moment in
his eyes than in those of any other person in the house. On the 23rd
he was going to a friend near Peterborough, in the same situation
as himself, and they were to receive ordination in the course of the
Christmas week. Half his destiny would then be determined, but the
other half might not be so very smoothly wooed. His duties would be
established, but the wife who was to share, and animate, and reward
those duties, might yet be unattainable. He knew his own mind, but he
was not always perfectly assured of knowing Miss Crawford's. There were
points on which they did not quite agree; there were moments in which
she did not seem propitious; and though trusting altogether to her
affection, so far as to be resolved--almost resolved--on bringing it to
a decision within a very short time, as soon as the variety of business
before him were arranged, and he knew what he had to offer her, he
had many anxious feelings, many doubting hours as to the result. His
conviction of her regard for him was sometimes very strong; he could
look back on a long course of encouragement, and she was as perfect in
disinterested attachment as in everything else. But at other times
doubt and alarm intermingled with his hopes; and when he thought of
her acknowledged disinclination for privacy and retirement, her decided
preference of a London life, what could he expect but a determined
rejection? unless it were an acceptance even more to be deprecated,
demanding such sacrifices of situation and employment on his side as
conscience must forbid.

The issue of all depended on one question. Did she love him well enough
to forego what had used to be essential points? Did she love him well
enough to make them no longer essential? And this question, which he was
continually repeating to himself, though oftenest answered with a "Yes,"
had sometimes its "No."

Miss Crawford was soon to leave Mansfield, and on this circumstance the
"no" and the "yes" had been very recently in alternation. He had seen
her eyes sparkle as she spoke of the dear friend's letter, which claimed
a long visit from her in London, and of the kindness of Henry, in
engaging to remain where he was till January, that he might convey her
thither; he had heard her speak of the pleasure of such a journey with
an animation which had "no" in every tone. But this had occurred on the
first day of its being settled, within the first hour of the burst of
such enjoyment, when nothing but the friends she was to visit was before
her. He had since heard her express herself differently, with other
feelings, more chequered feelings: he had heard her tell Mrs. Grant that
she should leave her with regret; that she began to believe neither the
friends nor the pleasures she was going to were worth those she left
behind; and that though she felt she must go, and knew she should enjoy
herself when once away, she was already looking forward to being at
Mansfield again. Was there not a "yes" in all this?

With such matters to ponder over, and arrange, and re-arrange, Edmund
could not, on his own account, think very much of the evening which the
rest of the family were looking forward to with a more equal degree of
strong interest. Independent of his two cousins' enjoyment in it, the
evening was to him of no higher value than any other appointed meeting
of the two families might be. In every meeting there was a hope of
receiving farther confirmation of Miss Crawford's attachment; but the
whirl of a ballroom, perhaps, was not particularly favourable to the
excitement or expression of serious feelings. To engage her early for
the two first dances was all the command of individual happiness which
he felt in his power, and the only preparation for the ball which he
could enter into, in spite of all that was passing around him on the
subject, from morning till night.

Thursday was the day of the ball; and on Wednesday morning Fanny, still
unable to satisfy herself as to what she ought to wear, determined to
seek the counsel of the more enlightened, and apply to Mrs. Grant and
her sister, whose acknowledged taste would certainly bear her blameless;
and as Edmund and William were gone to Northampton, and she had reason
to think Mr. Crawford likewise out, she walked down to the Parsonage
without much fear of wanting an opportunity for private discussion;
and the privacy of such a discussion was a most important part of it to
Fanny, being more than half-ashamed of her own solicitude.

She met Miss Crawford within a few yards of the Parsonage, just setting
out to call on her, and as it seemed to her that her friend, though
obliged to insist on turning back, was unwilling to lose her walk, she
explained her business at once, and observed, that if she would be so
kind as to give her opinion, it might be all talked over as well without
doors as within. Miss Crawford appeared gratified by the application,
and after a moment's thought, urged Fanny's returning with her in a much
more cordial manner than before, and proposed their going up into her
room, where they might have a comfortable coze, without disturbing Dr.
and Mrs. Grant, who were together in the drawing-room. It was just the
plan to suit Fanny; and with a great deal of gratitude on her side for
such ready and kind attention, they proceeded indoors, and upstairs, and
were soon deep in the interesting subject. Miss Crawford, pleased with
the appeal, gave her all her best judgment and taste, made everything
easy by her suggestions, and tried to make everything agreeable by her
encouragement. The dress being settled in all its grander parts--"But
what shall you have by way of necklace?" said Miss Crawford. "Shall not
you wear your brother's cross?" And as she spoke she was undoing a
small parcel, which Fanny had observed in her hand when they met. Fanny
acknowledged her wishes and doubts on this point: she did not know
how either to wear the cross, or to refrain from wearing it. She was
answered by having a small trinket-box placed before her, and being
requested to chuse from among several gold chains and necklaces. Such
had been the parcel with which Miss Crawford was provided, and such the
object of her intended visit: and in the kindest manner she now urged
Fanny's taking one for the cross and to keep for her sake, saying
everything she could think of to obviate the scruples which were making
Fanny start back at first with a look of horror at the proposal.

"You see what a collection I have," said she; "more by half than I ever
use or think of. I do not offer them as new. I offer nothing but an old
necklace. You must forgive the liberty, and oblige me."

Fanny still resisted, and from her heart. The gift was too valuable. But
Miss Crawford persevered, and argued the case with so much affectionate
earnestness through all the heads of William and the cross, and the
ball, and herself, as to be finally successful. Fanny found
herself obliged to yield, that she might not be accused of pride
or indifference, or some other littleness; and having with modest
reluctance given her consent, proceeded to make the selection. She
looked and looked, longing to know which might be least valuable; and
was determined in her choice at last, by fancying there was one necklace
more frequently placed before her eyes than the rest. It was of gold,
prettily worked; and though Fanny would have preferred a longer and a
plainer chain as more adapted for her purpose, she hoped, in fixing
on this, to be chusing what Miss Crawford least wished to keep. Miss
Crawford smiled her perfect approbation; and hastened to complete the
gift by putting the necklace round her, and making her see how well
it looked. Fanny had not a word to say against its becomingness, and,
excepting what remained of her scruples, was exceedingly pleased with
an acquisition so very apropos. She would rather, perhaps, have been
obliged to some other person. But this was an unworthy feeling. Miss
Crawford had anticipated her wants with a kindness which proved her a
real friend. "When I wear this necklace I shall always think of you,"
said she, "and feel how very kind you were."

"You must think of somebody else too, when you wear that necklace,"
replied Miss Crawford. "You must think of Henry, for it was his choice
in the first place. He gave it to me, and with the necklace I make over
to you all the duty of remembering the original giver. It is to be
a family remembrancer. The sister is not to be in your mind without
bringing the brother too."

Fanny, in great astonishment and confusion, would have returned the
present instantly. To take what had been the gift of another person,
of a brother too, impossible! it must not be! and with an eagerness
and embarrassment quite diverting to her companion, she laid down the
necklace again on its cotton, and seemed resolved either to take another
or none at all. Miss Crawford thought she had never seen a prettier
consciousness. "My dear child," said she, laughing, "what are you afraid
of? Do you think Henry will claim the necklace as mine, and fancy you
did not come honestly by it? or are you imagining he would be too much
flattered by seeing round your lovely throat an ornament which his money
purchased three years ago, before he knew there was such a throat in the
world? or perhaps"--looking archly--"you suspect a confederacy between
us, and that what I am now doing is with his knowledge and at his
desire?"

With the deepest blushes Fanny protested against such a thought.

"Well, then," replied Miss Crawford more seriously, but without at all
believing her, "to convince me that you suspect no trick, and are as
unsuspicious of compliment as I have always found you, take the necklace
and say no more about it. Its being a gift of my brother's need not make
the smallest difference in your accepting it, as I assure you it makes
none in my willingness to part with it. He is always giving me something
or other. I have such innumerable presents from him that it is quite
impossible for me to value or for him to remember half. And as for this
necklace, I do not suppose I have worn it six times: it is very pretty,
but I never think of it; and though you would be most heartily welcome
to any other in my trinket-box, you have happened to fix on the very
one which, if I have a choice, I would rather part with and see in your
possession than any other. Say no more against it, I entreat you. Such a
trifle is not worth half so many words."

Fanny dared not make any farther opposition; and with renewed but less
happy thanks accepted the necklace again, for there was an expression in
Miss Crawford's eyes which she could not be satisfied with.

It was impossible for her to be insensible of Mr. Crawford's change of
manners. She had long seen it. He evidently tried to please her: he was
gallant, he was attentive, he was something like what he had been to her
cousins: he wanted, she supposed, to cheat her of her tranquillity as
he had cheated them; and whether he might not have some concern in this
necklace--she could not be convinced that he had not, for Miss Crawford,
complaisant as a sister, was careless as a woman and a friend.

Reflecting and doubting, and feeling that the possession of what she had
so much wished for did not bring much satisfaction, she now walked
home again, with a change rather than a diminution of cares since her
treading that path before.



On reaching home Fanny went immediately upstairs to deposit this
unexpected acquisition, this doubtful good of a necklace, in some
favourite box in the East room, which held all her smaller treasures;
but on opening the door, what was her surprise to find her cousin Edmund
there writing at the table! Such a sight having never occurred before,
was almost as wonderful as it was welcome.

"Fanny," said he directly, leaving his seat and his pen, and meeting her
with something in his hand, "I beg your pardon for being here. I came
to look for you, and after waiting a little while in hope of your coming
in, was making use of your inkstand to explain my errand. You will find
the beginning of a note to yourself; but I can now speak my business,
which is merely to beg your acceptance of this little trifle--a chain
for William's cross. You ought to have had it a week ago, but there has
been a delay from my brother's not being in town by several days so soon
as I expected; and I have only just now received it at Northampton. I
hope you will like the chain itself, Fanny. I endeavoured to consult the
simplicity of your taste; but, at any rate, I know you will be kind to
my intentions, and consider it, as it really is, a token of the love of
one of your oldest friends."

And so saying, he was hurrying away, before Fanny, overpowered by a
thousand feelings of pain and pleasure, could attempt to speak; but
quickened by one sovereign wish, she then called out, "Oh! cousin, stop
a moment, pray stop!"

He turned back.

"I cannot attempt to thank you," she continued, in a very agitated
manner; "thanks are out of the question. I feel much more than I can
possibly express. Your goodness in thinking of me in such a way is
beyond--"

"If that is all you have to say, Fanny" smiling and turning away again.

"No, no, it is not. I want to consult you."

Almost unconsciously she had now undone the parcel he had just put
into her hand, and seeing before her, in all the niceness of jewellers'
packing, a plain gold chain, perfectly simple and neat, she could not
help bursting forth again, "Oh, this is beautiful indeed! This is the
very thing, precisely what I wished for! This is the only ornament I
have ever had a desire to possess. It will exactly suit my cross. They
must and shall be worn together. It comes, too, in such an acceptable
moment. Oh, cousin, you do not know how acceptable it is."

"My dear Fanny, you feel these things a great deal too much. I am most
happy that you like the chain, and that it should be here in time for
to-morrow; but your thanks are far beyond the occasion. Believe me, I
have no pleasure in the world superior to that of contributing to yours.
No, I can safely say, I have no pleasure so complete, so unalloyed. It
is without a drawback."

Upon such expressions of affection Fanny could have lived an hour
without saying another word; but Edmund, after waiting a moment, obliged
her to bring down her mind from its heavenly flight by saying, "But what
is it that you want to consult me about?"

It was about the necklace, which she was now most earnestly longing to
return, and hoped to obtain his approbation of her doing. She gave the
history of her recent visit, and now her raptures might well be over;
for Edmund was so struck with the circumstance, so delighted with what
Miss Crawford had done, so gratified by such a coincidence of conduct
between them, that Fanny could not but admit the superior power of one
pleasure over his own mind, though it might have its drawback. It was
some time before she could get his attention to her plan, or any answer
to her demand of his opinion: he was in a reverie of fond reflection,
uttering only now and then a few half-sentences of praise; but when
he did awake and understand, he was very decided in opposing what she
wished.

"Return the necklace! No, my dear Fanny, upon no account. It would be
mortifying her severely. There can hardly be a more unpleasant sensation
than the having anything returned on our hands which we have given with
a reasonable hope of its contributing to the comfort of a friend. Why
should she lose a pleasure which she has shewn herself so deserving of?"

"If it had been given to me in the first instance," said Fanny, "I
should not have thought of returning it; but being her brother's
present, is not it fair to suppose that she would rather not part with
it, when it is not wanted?"

"She must not suppose it not wanted, not acceptable, at least: and its
having been originally her brother's gift makes no difference; for as
she was not prevented from offering, nor you from taking it on that
account, it ought not to prevent you from keeping it. No doubt it is
handsomer than mine, and fitter for a ballroom."

"No, it is not handsomer, not at all handsomer in its way, and, for
my purpose, not half so fit. The chain will agree with William's cross
beyond all comparison better than the necklace."

"For one night, Fanny, for only one night, if it _be_ a sacrifice; I am
sure you will, upon consideration, make that sacrifice rather than give
pain to one who has been so studious of your comfort. Miss Crawford's
attentions to you have been--not more than you were justly entitled
to--I am the last person to think that _could_ _be_, but they have been
invariable; and to be returning them with what must have something the
_air_ of ingratitude, though I know it could never have the _meaning_,
is not in your nature, I am sure. Wear the necklace, as you are engaged
to do, to-morrow evening, and let the chain, which was not ordered with
any reference to the ball, be kept for commoner occasions. This is my
advice. I would not have the shadow of a coolness between the two whose
intimacy I have been observing with the greatest pleasure, and in whose
characters there is so much general resemblance in true generosity
and natural delicacy as to make the few slight differences, resulting
principally from situation, no reasonable hindrance to a perfect
friendship. I would not have the shadow of a coolness arise," he
repeated, his voice sinking a little, "between the two dearest objects I
have on earth."

He was gone as he spoke; and Fanny remained to tranquillise herself as
she could. She was one of his two dearest--that must support her. But
the other: the first! She had never heard him speak so openly before,
and though it told her no more than what she had long perceived, it was
a stab, for it told of his own convictions and views. They were
decided. He would marry Miss Crawford. It was a stab, in spite of every
long-standing expectation; and she was obliged to repeat again and
again, that she was one of his two dearest, before the words gave her
any sensation. Could she believe Miss Crawford to deserve him, it would
be--oh, how different would it be--how far more tolerable! But he was
deceived in her: he gave her merits which she had not; her faults were
what they had ever been, but he saw them no longer. Till she had shed
many tears over this deception, Fanny could not subdue her agitation;
and the dejection which followed could only be relieved by the influence
of fervent prayers for his happiness.

It was her intention, as she felt it to be her duty, to try to overcome
all that was excessive, all that bordered on selfishness, in her
affection for Edmund. To call or to fancy it a loss, a disappointment,
would be a presumption for which she had not words strong enough to
satisfy her own humility. To think of him as Miss Crawford might be
justified in thinking, would in her be insanity. To her he could be
nothing under any circumstances; nothing dearer than a friend. Why did
such an idea occur to her even enough to be reprobated and forbidden? It
ought not to have touched on the confines of her imagination. She would
endeavour to be rational, and to deserve the right of judging of Miss
Crawford's character, and the privilege of true solicitude for him by a
sound intellect and an honest heart.

She had all the heroism of principle, and was determined to do her duty;
but having also many of the feelings of youth and nature, let her not
be much wondered at, if, after making all these good resolutions on the
side of self-government, she seized the scrap of paper on which Edmund
had begun writing to her, as a treasure beyond all her hopes, and
reading with the tenderest emotion these words, "My very dear Fanny,
you must do me the favour to accept" locked it up with the chain, as the
dearest part of the gift. It was the only thing approaching to a letter
which she had ever received from him; she might never receive another;
it was impossible that she ever should receive another so perfectly
gratifying in the occasion and the style. Two lines more prized had
never fallen from the pen of the most distinguished author--never
more completely blessed the researches of the fondest biographer. The
enthusiasm of a woman's love is even beyond the biographer's. To her,
the handwriting itself, independent of anything it may convey, is a
blessedness. Never were such characters cut by any other human being as
Edmund's commonest handwriting gave! This specimen, written in haste
as it was, had not a fault; and there was a felicity in the flow of the
first four words, in the arrangement of "My very dear Fanny," which she
could have looked at for ever.

Having regulated her thoughts and comforted her feelings by this happy
mixture of reason and weakness, she was able in due time to go down
and resume her usual employments near her aunt Bertram, and pay her the
usual observances without any apparent want of spirits.

Thursday, predestined to hope and enjoyment, came; and opened with
more kindness to Fanny than such self-willed, unmanageable days often
volunteer, for soon after breakfast a very friendly note was brought
from Mr. Crawford to William, stating that as he found himself obliged
to go to London on the morrow for a few days, he could not help trying
to procure a companion; and therefore hoped that if William could
make up his mind to leave Mansfield half a day earlier than had been
proposed, he would accept a place in his carriage. Mr. Crawford meant to
be in town by his uncle's accustomary late dinner-hour, and William
was invited to dine with him at the Admiral's. The proposal was a very
pleasant one to William himself, who enjoyed the idea of travelling post
with four horses, and such a good-humoured, agreeable friend; and, in
likening it to going up with despatches, was saying at once everything
in favour of its happiness and dignity which his imagination could
suggest; and Fanny, from a different motive, was exceedingly pleased;
for the original plan was that William should go up by the mail from
Northampton the following night, which would not have allowed him an
hour's rest before he must have got into a Portsmouth coach; and though
this offer of Mr. Crawford's would rob her of many hours of his company,
she was too happy in having William spared from the fatigue of such
a journey, to think of anything else. Sir Thomas approved of it for
another reason. His nephew's introduction to Admiral Crawford might be
of service. The Admiral, he believed, had interest. Upon the whole, it
was a very joyous note. Fanny's spirits lived on it half the morning,
deriving some accession of pleasure from its writer being himself to go
away.

As for the ball, so near at hand, she had too many agitations and fears
to have half the enjoyment in anticipation which she ought to have had,
or must have been supposed to have by the many young ladies looking
forward to the same event in situations more at ease, but under
circumstances of less novelty, less interest, less peculiar
gratification, than would be attributed to her. Miss Price, known
only by name to half the people invited, was now to make her first
appearance, and must be regarded as the queen of the evening. Who could
be happier than Miss Price? But Miss Price had not been brought up to
the trade of _coming_ _out_; and had she known in what light this ball
was, in general, considered respecting her, it would very much have
lessened her comfort by increasing the fears she already had of doing
wrong and being looked at. To dance without much observation or any
extraordinary fatigue, to have strength and partners for about half the
evening, to dance a little with Edmund, and not a great deal with Mr.
Crawford, to see William enjoy himself, and be able to keep away
from her aunt Norris, was the height of her ambition, and seemed to
comprehend her greatest possibility of happiness. As these were the best
of her hopes, they could not always prevail; and in the course of a long
morning, spent principally with her two aunts, she was often under the
influence of much less sanguine views. William, determined to make this
last day a day of thorough enjoyment, was out snipe-shooting; Edmund,
she had too much reason to suppose, was at the Parsonage; and left
alone to bear the worrying of Mrs. Norris, who was cross because the
housekeeper would have her own way with the supper, and whom _she_ could
not avoid though the housekeeper might, Fanny was worn down at last to
think everything an evil belonging to the ball, and when sent off with
a parting worry to dress, moved as languidly towards her own room, and
felt as incapable of happiness as if she had been allowed no share in
it.

As she walked slowly upstairs she thought of yesterday; it had been
about the same hour that she had returned from the Parsonage, and
found Edmund in the East room. "Suppose I were to find him there again
to-day!" said she to herself, in a fond indulgence of fancy.

"Fanny," said a voice at that moment near her. Starting and looking up,
she saw, across the lobby she had just reached, Edmund himself, standing
at the head of a different staircase. He came towards her. "You look
tired and fagged, Fanny. You have been walking too far."

"No, I have not been out at all."

"Then you have had fatigues within doors, which are worse. You had
better have gone out."

Fanny, not liking to complain, found it easiest to make no answer; and
though he looked at her with his usual kindness, she believed he had
soon ceased to think of her countenance. He did not appear in spirits:
something unconnected with her was probably amiss. They proceeded
upstairs together, their rooms being on the same floor above.

"I come from Dr. Grant's," said Edmund presently. "You may guess my
errand there, Fanny." And he looked so conscious, that Fanny could think
but of one errand, which turned her too sick for speech. "I wished to
engage Miss Crawford for the two first dances," was the explanation that
followed, and brought Fanny to life again, enabling her, as she found
she was expected to speak, to utter something like an inquiry as to the
result.

"Yes," he answered, "she is engaged to me; but" (with a smile that did
not sit easy) "she says it is to be the last time that she ever will
dance with me. She is not serious. I think, I hope, I am sure she is
not serious; but I would rather not hear it. She never has danced with a
clergyman, she says, and she never _will_. For my own sake, I could wish
there had been no ball just at--I mean not this very week, this very
day; to-morrow I leave home."

Fanny struggled for speech, and said, "I am very sorry that anything has
occurred to distress you. This ought to be a day of pleasure. My uncle
meant it so."

"Oh yes, yes! and it will be a day of pleasure. It will all end right. I
am only vexed for a moment. In fact, it is not that I consider the ball
as ill-timed; what does it signify? But, Fanny," stopping her, by taking
her hand, and speaking low and seriously, "you know what all this means.
You see how it is; and could tell me, perhaps better than I could tell
you, how and why I am vexed. Let me talk to you a little. You are a
kind, kind listener. I have been pained by her manner this morning, and
cannot get the better of it. I know her disposition to be as sweet and
faultless as your own, but the influence of her former companions
makes her seem--gives to her conversation, to her professed opinions,
sometimes a tinge of wrong. She does not _think_ evil, but she speaks
it, speaks it in playfulness; and though I know it to be playfulness, it
grieves me to the soul."

"The effect of education," said Fanny gently.

Edmund could not but agree to it. "Yes, that uncle and aunt! They have
injured the finest mind; for sometimes, Fanny, I own to you, it does
appear more than manner: it appears as if the mind itself was tainted."

Fanny imagined this to be an appeal to her judgment, and therefore,
after a moment's consideration, said, "If you only want me as a
listener, cousin, I will be as useful as I can; but I am not qualified
for an adviser. Do not ask advice of _me_. I am not competent."

"You are right, Fanny, to protest against such an office, but you need
not be afraid. It is a subject on which I should never ask advice; it
is the sort of subject on which it had better never be asked; and few,
I imagine, do ask it, but when they want to be influenced against their
conscience. I only want to talk to you."

"One thing more. Excuse the liberty; but take care _how_ you talk to me.
Do not tell me anything now, which hereafter you may be sorry for. The
time may come--"

The colour rushed into her cheeks as she spoke.

"Dearest Fanny!" cried Edmund, pressing her hand to his lips with
almost as much warmth as if it had been Miss Crawford's, "you are all
considerate thought! But it is unnecessary here. The time will never
come. No such time as you allude to will ever come. I begin to think it
most improbable: the chances grow less and less; and even if it should,
there will be nothing to be remembered by either you or me that we need
be afraid of, for I can never be ashamed of my own scruples; and if they
are removed, it must be by changes that will only raise her character
the more by the recollection of the faults she once had. You are the
only being upon earth to whom I should say what I have said; but you
have always known my opinion of her; you can bear me witness, Fanny,
that I have never been blinded. How many a time have we talked over
her little errors! You need not fear me; I have almost given up every
serious idea of her; but I must be a blockhead indeed, if, whatever
befell me, I could think of your kindness and sympathy without the
sincerest gratitude."

He had said enough to shake the experience of eighteen. He had said
enough to give Fanny some happier feelings than she had lately known,
and with a brighter look, she answered, "Yes, cousin, I am convinced
that _you_ would be incapable of anything else, though perhaps some
might not. I cannot be afraid of hearing anything you wish to say. Do
not check yourself. Tell me whatever you like."

They were now on the second floor, and the appearance of a housemaid
prevented any farther conversation. For Fanny's present comfort it was
concluded, perhaps, at the happiest moment: had he been able to talk
another five minutes, there is no saying that he might not have talked
away all Miss Crawford's faults and his own despondence. But as it was,
they parted with looks on his side of grateful affection, and with
some very precious sensations on hers. She had felt nothing like it for
hours. Since the first joy from Mr. Crawford's note to William had worn
away, she had been in a state absolutely the reverse; there had been
no comfort around, no hope within her. Now everything was smiling.
William's good fortune returned again upon her mind, and seemed of
greater value than at first. The ball, too--such an evening of pleasure
before her! It was now a real animation; and she began to dress for it
with much of the happy flutter which belongs to a ball. All went well:
she did not dislike her own looks; and when she came to the necklaces
again, her good fortune seemed complete, for upon trial the one given
her by Miss Crawford would by no means go through the ring of the cross.
She had, to oblige Edmund, resolved to wear it; but it was too large for
the purpose. His, therefore, must be worn; and having, with delightful
feelings, joined the chain and the cross--those memorials of the two
most beloved of her heart, those dearest tokens so formed for each other
by everything real and imaginary--and put them round her neck, and seen
and felt how full of William and Edmund they were, she was able, without
an effort, to resolve on wearing Miss Crawford's necklace too. She
acknowledged it to be right. Miss Crawford had a claim; and when it was
no longer to encroach on, to interfere with the stronger claims, the
truer kindness of another, she could do her justice even with pleasure
to herself. The necklace really looked very well; and Fanny left her
room at last, comfortably satisfied with herself and all about her.

Her aunt Bertram had recollected her on this occasion with an unusual
degree of wakefulness. It had really occurred to her, unprompted, that
Fanny, preparing for a ball, might be glad of better help than the upper
housemaid's, and when dressed herself, she actually sent her own maid to
assist her; too late, of course, to be of any use. Mrs. Chapman had just
reached the attic floor, when Miss Price came out of her room completely
dressed, and only civilities were necessary; but Fanny felt her aunt's
attention almost as much as Lady Bertram or Mrs. Chapman could do
themselves.



Her uncle and both her aunts were in the drawing-room when Fanny went
down. To the former she was an interesting object, and he saw with
pleasure the general elegance of her appearance, and her being in
remarkably good looks. The neatness and propriety of her dress was all
that he would allow himself to commend in her presence, but upon her
leaving the room again soon afterwards, he spoke of her beauty with very
decided praise.

"Yes," said Lady Bertram, "she looks very well. I sent Chapman to her."

"Look well! Oh, yes!" cried Mrs. Norris, "she has good reason to look
well with all her advantages: brought up in this family as she has been,
with all the benefit of her cousins' manners before her. Only think, my
dear Sir Thomas, what extraordinary advantages you and I have been the
means of giving her. The very gown you have been taking notice of is
your own generous present to her when dear Mrs. Rushworth married. What
would she have been if we had not taken her by the hand?"

Sir Thomas said no more; but when they sat down to table the eyes of
the two young men assured him that the subject might be gently touched
again, when the ladies withdrew, with more success. Fanny saw that she
was approved; and the consciousness of looking well made her look still
better. From a variety of causes she was happy, and she was soon made
still happier; for in following her aunts out of the room, Edmund, who
was holding open the door, said, as she passed him, "You must dance
with me, Fanny; you must keep two dances for me; any two that you like,
except the first." She had nothing more to wish for. She had hardly
ever been in a state so nearly approaching high spirits in her life. Her
cousins' former gaiety on the day of a ball was no longer surprising to
her; she felt it to be indeed very charming, and was actually practising
her steps about the drawing-room as long as she could be safe from the
notice of her aunt Norris, who was entirely taken up at first in fresh
arranging and injuring the noble fire which the butler had prepared.

Half an hour followed that would have been at least languid under any
other circumstances, but Fanny's happiness still prevailed. It was but
to think of her conversation with Edmund, and what was the restlessness
of Mrs. Norris? What were the yawns of Lady Bertram?

The gentlemen joined them; and soon after began the sweet expectation of
a carriage, when a general spirit of ease and enjoyment seemed diffused,
and they all stood about and talked and laughed, and every moment had
its pleasure and its hope. Fanny felt that there must be a struggle
in Edmund's cheerfulness, but it was delightful to see the effort so
successfully made.

When the carriages were really heard, when the guests began really to
assemble, her own gaiety of heart was much subdued: the sight of so
many strangers threw her back into herself; and besides the gravity and
formality of the first great circle, which the manners of neither Sir
Thomas nor Lady Bertram were of a kind to do away, she found herself
occasionally called on to endure something worse. She was introduced
here and there by her uncle, and forced to be spoken to, and to curtsey,
and speak again. This was a hard duty, and she was never summoned to
it without looking at William, as he walked about at his ease in the
background of the scene, and longing to be with him.

The entrance of the Grants and Crawfords was a favourable epoch. The
stiffness of the meeting soon gave way before their popular manners and
more diffused intimacies: little groups were formed, and everybody grew
comfortable. Fanny felt the advantage; and, drawing back from the toils
of civility, would have been again most happy, could she have kept her
eyes from wandering between Edmund and Mary Crawford. _She_ looked all
loveliness--and what might not be the end of it? Her own musings
were brought to an end on perceiving Mr. Crawford before her, and
her thoughts were put into another channel by his engaging her almost
instantly for the first two dances. Her happiness on this occasion was
very much _a_ _la_ _mortal_, finely chequered. To be secure of a partner
at first was a most essential good--for the moment of beginning was now
growing seriously near; and she so little understood her own claims as
to think that if Mr. Crawford had not asked her, she must have been the
last to be sought after, and should have received a partner only through
a series of inquiry, and bustle, and interference, which would have been
terrible; but at the same time there was a pointedness in his manner of
asking her which she did not like, and she saw his eye glancing for
a moment at her necklace, with a smile--she thought there was a
smile--which made her blush and feel wretched. And though there was no
second glance to disturb her, though his object seemed then to be only
quietly agreeable, she could not get the better of her embarrassment,
heightened as it was by the idea of his perceiving it, and had no
composure till he turned away to some one else. Then she could gradually
rise up to the genuine satisfaction of having a partner, a voluntary
partner, secured against the dancing began.

When the company were moving into the ballroom, she found herself
for the first time near Miss Crawford, whose eyes and smiles were
immediately and more unequivocally directed as her brother's had been,
and who was beginning to speak on the subject, when Fanny, anxious
to get the story over, hastened to give the explanation of the second
necklace: the real chain. Miss Crawford listened; and all her intended
compliments and insinuations to Fanny were forgotten: she felt only one
thing; and her eyes, bright as they had been before, shewing they could
yet be brighter, she exclaimed with eager pleasure, "Did he? Did Edmund?
That was like himself. No other man would have thought of it. I honour
him beyond expression." And she looked around as if longing to tell him
so. He was not near, he was attending a party of ladies out of the room;
and Mrs. Grant coming up to the two girls, and taking an arm of each,
they followed with the rest.

Fanny's heart sunk, but there was no leisure for thinking long even of
Miss Crawford's feelings. They were in the ballroom, the violins were
playing, and her mind was in a flutter that forbade its fixing on
anything serious. She must watch the general arrangements, and see how
everything was done.

In a few minutes Sir Thomas came to her, and asked if she were engaged;
and the "Yes, sir; to Mr. Crawford," was exactly what he had intended
to hear. Mr. Crawford was not far off; Sir Thomas brought him to her,
saying something which discovered to Fanny, that _she_ was to lead the
way and open the ball; an idea that had never occurred to her before.
Whenever she had thought of the minutiae of the evening, it had been as
a matter of course that Edmund would begin with Miss Crawford; and the
impression was so strong, that though _her_ _uncle_ spoke the contrary,
she could not help an exclamation of surprise, a hint of her unfitness,
an entreaty even to be excused. To be urging her opinion against Sir
Thomas's was a proof of the extremity of the case; but such was her
horror at the first suggestion, that she could actually look him in
the face and say that she hoped it might be settled otherwise; in vain,
however: Sir Thomas smiled, tried to encourage her, and then looked too
serious, and said too decidedly, "It must be so, my dear," for her to
hazard another word; and she found herself the next moment conducted by
Mr. Crawford to the top of the room, and standing there to be joined by
the rest of the dancers, couple after couple, as they were formed.

She could hardly believe it. To be placed above so many elegant young
women! The distinction was too great. It was treating her like her
cousins! And her thoughts flew to those absent cousins with most
unfeigned and truly tender regret, that they were not at home to take
their own place in the room, and have their share of a pleasure which
would have been so very delightful to them. So often as she had heard
them wish for a ball at home as the greatest of all felicities! And
to have them away when it was given--and for _her_ to be opening the
ball--and with Mr. Crawford too! She hoped they would not envy her that
distinction _now_; but when she looked back to the state of things in
the autumn, to what they had all been to each other when once dancing
in that house before, the present arrangement was almost more than she
could understand herself.

The ball began. It was rather honour than happiness to Fanny, for the
first dance at least: her partner was in excellent spirits, and tried to
impart them to her; but she was a great deal too much frightened to have
any enjoyment till she could suppose herself no longer looked at. Young,
pretty, and gentle, however, she had no awkwardnesses that were not
as good as graces, and there were few persons present that were not
disposed to praise her. She was attractive, she was modest, she was Sir
Thomas's niece, and she was soon said to be admired by Mr. Crawford. It
was enough to give her general favour. Sir Thomas himself was watching
her progress down the dance with much complacency; he was proud of his
niece; and without attributing all her personal beauty, as Mrs. Norris
seemed to do, to her transplantation to Mansfield, he was pleased with
himself for having supplied everything else: education and manners she
owed to him.

Miss Crawford saw much of Sir Thomas's thoughts as he stood, and having,
in spite of all his wrongs towards her, a general prevailing desire of
recommending herself to him, took an opportunity of stepping aside to
say something agreeable of Fanny. Her praise was warm, and he
received it as she could wish, joining in it as far as discretion, and
politeness, and slowness of speech would allow, and certainly appearing
to greater advantage on the subject than his lady did soon afterwards,
when Mary, perceiving her on a sofa very near, turned round before she
began to dance, to compliment her on Miss Price's looks.

"Yes, she does look very well," was Lady Bertram's placid reply.
"Chapman helped her to dress. I sent Chapman to her." Not but that
she was really pleased to have Fanny admired; but she was so much more
struck with her own kindness in sending Chapman to her, that she could
not get it out of her head.

Miss Crawford knew Mrs. Norris too well to think of gratifying _her_
by commendation of Fanny; to her, it was as the occasion offered--"Ah!
ma'am, how much we want dear Mrs. Rushworth and Julia to-night!" and
Mrs. Norris paid her with as many smiles and courteous words as she had
time for, amid so much occupation as she found for herself in making
up card-tables, giving hints to Sir Thomas, and trying to move all the
chaperons to a better part of the room.

Miss Crawford blundered most towards Fanny herself in her intentions
to please. She meant to be giving her little heart a happy flutter,
and filling her with sensations of delightful self-consequence; and,
misinterpreting Fanny's blushes, still thought she must be doing so when
she went to her after the two first dances, and said, with a significant
look, "Perhaps _you_ can tell me why my brother goes to town to-morrow?
He says he has business there, but will not tell me what. The first time
he ever denied me his confidence! But this is what we all come to.
All are supplanted sooner or later. Now, I must apply to you for
information. Pray, what is Henry going for?"

Fanny protested her ignorance as steadily as her embarrassment allowed.

"Well, then," replied Miss Crawford, laughing, "I must suppose it to be
purely for the pleasure of conveying your brother, and of talking of you
by the way."

Fanny was confused, but it was the confusion of discontent; while Miss
Crawford wondered she did not smile, and thought her over-anxious,
or thought her odd, or thought her anything rather than insensible of
pleasure in Henry's attentions. Fanny had a good deal of enjoyment in
the course of the evening; but Henry's attentions had very little to
do with it. She would much rather _not_ have been asked by him again so
very soon, and she wished she had not been obliged to suspect that his
previous inquiries of Mrs. Norris, about the supper hour, were all for
the sake of securing her at that part of the evening. But it was not to
be avoided: he made her feel that she was the object of all; though she
could not say that it was unpleasantly done, that there was indelicacy
or ostentation in his manner; and sometimes, when he talked of William,
he was really not unagreeable, and shewed even a warmth of heart
which did him credit. But still his attentions made no part of her
satisfaction. She was happy whenever she looked at William, and saw how
perfectly he was enjoying himself, in every five minutes that she could
walk about with him and hear his account of his partners; she was happy
in knowing herself admired; and she was happy in having the two dances
with Edmund still to look forward to, during the greatest part of the
evening, her hand being so eagerly sought after that her indefinite
engagement with _him_ was in continual perspective. She was happy even
when they did take place; but not from any flow of spirits on his side,
or any such expressions of tender gallantry as had blessed the morning.
His mind was fagged, and her happiness sprung from being the friend with
whom it could find repose. "I am worn out with civility," said he. "I
have been talking incessantly all night, and with nothing to say. But
with _you_, Fanny, there may be peace. You will not want to be talked
to. Let us have the luxury of silence." Fanny would hardly even speak
her agreement. A weariness, arising probably, in great measure, from the
same feelings which he had acknowledged in the morning, was peculiarly
to be respected, and they went down their two dances together with such
sober tranquillity as might satisfy any looker-on that Sir Thomas had
been bringing up no wife for his younger son.

The evening had afforded Edmund little pleasure. Miss Crawford had
been in gay spirits when they first danced together, but it was not her
gaiety that could do him good: it rather sank than raised his comfort;
and afterwards, for he found himself still impelled to seek her
again, she had absolutely pained him by her manner of speaking of the
profession to which he was now on the point of belonging. They had
talked, and they had been silent; he had reasoned, she had ridiculed;
and they had parted at last with mutual vexation. Fanny, not able to
refrain entirely from observing them, had seen enough to be tolerably
satisfied. It was barbarous to be happy when Edmund was suffering. Yet
some happiness must and would arise from the very conviction that he did
suffer.

When her two dances with him were over, her inclination and strength for
more were pretty well at an end; and Sir Thomas, having seen her walk
rather than dance down the shortening set, breathless, and with her hand
at her side, gave his orders for her sitting down entirely. From that
time Mr. Crawford sat down likewise.

"Poor Fanny!" cried William, coming for a moment to visit her, and
working away his partner's fan as if for life, "how soon she is knocked
up! Why, the sport is but just begun. I hope we shall keep it up these
two hours. How can you be tired so soon?"

"So soon! my good friend," said Sir Thomas, producing his watch with all
necessary caution; "it is three o'clock, and your sister is not used to
these sort of hours."

"Well, then, Fanny, you shall not get up to-morrow before I go. Sleep as
long as you can, and never mind me."

"Oh! William."

"What! Did she think of being up before you set off?"

"Oh! yes, sir," cried Fanny, rising eagerly from her seat to be nearer
her uncle; "I must get up and breakfast with him. It will be the last
time, you know; the last morning."

"You had better not. He is to have breakfasted and be gone by half-past
nine. Mr. Crawford, I think you call for him at half-past nine?"

Fanny was too urgent, however, and had too many tears in her eyes for
denial; and it ended in a gracious "Well, well!" which was permission.

"Yes, half-past nine," said Crawford to William as the latter was
leaving them, "and I shall be punctual, for there will be no kind sister
to get up for _me_." And in a lower tone to Fanny, "I shall have only
a desolate house to hurry from. Your brother will find my ideas of time
and his own very different to-morrow."

After a short consideration, Sir Thomas asked Crawford to join the early
breakfast party in that house instead of eating alone: he should himself
be of it; and the readiness with which his invitation was accepted
convinced him that the suspicions whence, he must confess to himself,
this very ball had in great measure sprung, were well founded. Mr.
Crawford was in love with Fanny. He had a pleasing anticipation of what
would be. His niece, meanwhile, did not thank him for what he had just
done. She had hoped to have William all to herself the last morning. It
would have been an unspeakable indulgence. But though her wishes
were overthrown, there was no spirit of murmuring within her. On the
contrary, she was so totally unused to have her pleasure consulted, or
to have anything take place at all in the way she could desire, that she
was more disposed to wonder and rejoice in having carried her point so
far, than to repine at the counteraction which followed.

Shortly afterward, Sir Thomas was again interfering a little with her
inclination, by advising her to go immediately to bed. "Advise" was his
word, but it was the advice of absolute power, and she had only to
rise, and, with Mr. Crawford's very cordial adieus, pass quietly away;
stopping at the entrance-door, like the Lady of Branxholm Hall, "one
moment and no more," to view the happy scene, and take a last look at
the five or six determined couple who were still hard at work; and then,
creeping slowly up the principal staircase, pursued by the ceaseless
country-dance, feverish with hopes and fears, soup and negus,
sore-footed and fatigued, restless and agitated, yet feeling, in spite
of everything, that a ball was indeed delightful.

In thus sending her away, Sir Thomas perhaps might not be thinking
merely of her health. It might occur to him that Mr. Crawford had been
sitting by her long enough, or he might mean to recommend her as a wife
by shewing her persuadableness.



The ball was over, and the breakfast was soon over too; the last kiss
was given, and William was gone. Mr. Crawford had, as he foretold, been
very punctual, and short and pleasant had been the meal.

After seeing William to the last moment, Fanny walked back to the
breakfast-room with a very saddened heart to grieve over the melancholy
change; and there her uncle kindly left her to cry in peace, conceiving,
perhaps, that the deserted chair of each young man might exercise her
tender enthusiasm, and that the remaining cold pork bones and mustard in
William's plate might but divide her feelings with the broken egg-shells
in Mr. Crawford's. She sat and cried _con_ _amore_ as her uncle
intended, but it was _con_ _amore_ fraternal and no other. William was
gone, and she now felt as if she had wasted half his visit in idle cares
and selfish solicitudes unconnected with him.

Fanny's disposition was such that she could never even think of her
aunt Norris in the meagreness and cheerlessness of her own small house,
without reproaching herself for some little want of attention to her
when they had been last together; much less could her feelings acquit
her of having done and said and thought everything by William that was
due to him for a whole fortnight.

It was a heavy, melancholy day. Soon after the second breakfast, Edmund
bade them good-bye for a week, and mounted his horse for Peterborough,
and then all were gone. Nothing remained of last night but remembrances,
which she had nobody to share in. She talked to her aunt Bertram--she
must talk to somebody of the ball; but her aunt had seen so little of
what had passed, and had so little curiosity, that it was heavy work.
Lady Bertram was not certain of anybody's dress or anybody's place at
supper but her own. "She could not recollect what it was that she had
heard about one of the Miss Maddoxes, or what it was that Lady Prescott
had noticed in Fanny: she was not sure whether Colonel Harrison had been
talking of Mr. Crawford or of William when he said he was the finest
young man in the room--somebody had whispered something to her; she had
forgot to ask Sir Thomas what it could be." And these were her longest
speeches and clearest communications: the rest was only a languid "Yes,
yes; very well; did you? did he? I did not see _that_; I should not know
one from the other." This was very bad. It was only better than Mrs.
Norris's sharp answers would have been; but she being gone home with
all the supernumerary jellies to nurse a sick maid, there was peace
and good-humour in their little party, though it could not boast much
beside.

The evening was heavy like the day. "I cannot think what is the matter
with me," said Lady Bertram, when the tea-things were removed. "I feel
quite stupid. It must be sitting up so late last night. Fanny, you must
do something to keep me awake. I cannot work. Fetch the cards; I feel so
very stupid."

The cards were brought, and Fanny played at cribbage with her aunt till
bedtime; and as Sir Thomas was reading to himself, no sounds were
heard in the room for the next two hours beyond the reckonings of the
game--"And _that_ makes thirty-one; four in hand and eight in crib. You
are to deal, ma'am; shall I deal for you?" Fanny thought and thought
again of the difference which twenty-four hours had made in that room,
and all that part of the house. Last night it had been hope and smiles,
bustle and motion, noise and brilliancy, in the drawing-room, and out
of the drawing-room, and everywhere. Now it was languor, and all but
solitude.

A good night's rest improved her spirits. She could think of William the
next day more cheerfully; and as the morning afforded her an opportunity
of talking over Thursday night with Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford, in a
very handsome style, with all the heightenings of imagination, and
all the laughs of playfulness which are so essential to the shade of a
departed ball, she could afterwards bring her mind without much effort
into its everyday state, and easily conform to the tranquillity of the
present quiet week.

They were indeed a smaller party than she had ever known there for
a whole day together, and _he_ was gone on whom the comfort and
cheerfulness of every family meeting and every meal chiefly depended.
But this must be learned to be endured. He would soon be always gone;
and she was thankful that she could now sit in the same room with her
uncle, hear his voice, receive his questions, and even answer them,
without such wretched feelings as she had formerly known.

"We miss our two young men," was Sir Thomas's observation on both the
first and second day, as they formed their very reduced circle after
dinner; and in consideration of Fanny's swimming eyes, nothing more was
said on the first day than to drink their good health; but on the
second it led to something farther. William was kindly commended and
his promotion hoped for. "And there is no reason to suppose," added Sir
Thomas, "but that his visits to us may now be tolerably frequent. As to
Edmund, we must learn to do without him. This will be the last winter of
his belonging to us, as he has done."

"Yes," said Lady Bertram, "but I wish he was not going away. They are
all going away, I think. I wish they would stay at home."

This wish was levelled principally at Julia, who had just applied for
permission to go to town with Maria; and as Sir Thomas thought it best
for each daughter that the permission should be granted, Lady Bertram,
though in her own good-nature she would not have prevented it, was
lamenting the change it made in the prospect of Julia's return, which
would otherwise have taken place about this time. A great deal of good
sense followed on Sir Thomas's side, tending to reconcile his wife to
the arrangement. Everything that a considerate parent _ought_ to feel
was advanced for her use; and everything that an affectionate mother
_must_ feel in promoting her children's enjoyment was attributed to her
nature. Lady Bertram agreed to it all with a calm "Yes"; and at the end
of a quarter of an hour's silent consideration spontaneously observed,
"Sir Thomas, I have been thinking--and I am very glad we took Fanny as
we did, for now the others are away we feel the good of it."

Sir Thomas immediately improved this compliment by adding, "Very true.
We shew Fanny what a good girl we think her by praising her to her face,
she is now a very valuable companion. If we have been kind to _her_, she
is now quite as necessary to _us_."

"Yes," said Lady Bertram presently; "and it is a comfort to think that
we shall always have _her_."

Sir Thomas paused, half smiled, glanced at his niece, and then gravely
replied, "She will never leave us, I hope, till invited to some other
home that may reasonably promise her greater happiness than she knows
here."

"And _that_ is not very likely to be, Sir Thomas. Who should invite her?
Maria might be very glad to see her at Sotherton now and then, but she
would not think of asking her to live there; and I am sure she is better
off here; and besides, I cannot do without her."

The week which passed so quietly and peaceably at the great house in
Mansfield had a very different character at the Parsonage. To the young
lady, at least, in each family, it brought very different feelings. What
was tranquillity and comfort to Fanny was tediousness and vexation to
Mary. Something arose from difference of disposition and habit: one so
easily satisfied, the other so unused to endure; but still more might be
imputed to difference of circumstances. In some points of interest they
were exactly opposed to each other. To Fanny's mind, Edmund's absence
was really, in its cause and its tendency, a relief. To Mary it was
every way painful. She felt the want of his society every day, almost
every hour, and was too much in want of it to derive anything but
irritation from considering the object for which he went. He could not
have devised anything more likely to raise his consequence than this
week's absence, occurring as it did at the very time of her brother's
going away, of William Price's going too, and completing the sort of
general break-up of a party which had been so animated. She felt it
keenly. They were now a miserable trio, confined within doors by a
series of rain and snow, with nothing to do and no variety to hope for.
Angry as she was with Edmund for adhering to his own notions, and acting
on them in defiance of her (and she had been so angry that they had
hardly parted friends at the ball), she could not help thinking of
him continually when absent, dwelling on his merit and affection, and
longing again for the almost daily meetings they lately had. His absence
was unnecessarily long. He should not have planned such an absence--he
should not have left home for a week, when her own departure from
Mansfield was so near. Then she began to blame herself. She wished she
had not spoken so warmly in their last conversation. She was afraid she
had used some strong, some contemptuous expressions in speaking of the
clergy, and that should not have been. It was ill-bred; it was wrong.
She wished such words unsaid with all her heart.

Her vexation did not end with the week. All this was bad, but she had
still more to feel when Friday came round again and brought no Edmund;
when Saturday came and still no Edmund; and when, through the slight
communication with the other family which Sunday produced, she learned
that he had actually written home to defer his return, having promised
to remain some days longer with his friend.

If she had felt impatience and regret before--if she had been sorry for
what she said, and feared its too strong effect on him--she now felt
and feared it all tenfold more. She had, moreover, to contend with one
disagreeable emotion entirely new to her--jealousy. His friend Mr.
Owen had sisters; he might find them attractive. But, at any rate, his
staying away at a time when, according to all preceding plans, she was
to remove to London, meant something that she could not bear. Had Henry
returned, as he talked of doing, at the end of three or four days, she
should now have been leaving Mansfield. It became absolutely necessary
for her to get to Fanny and try to learn something more. She could not
live any longer in such solitary wretchedness; and she made her way
to the Park, through difficulties of walking which she had deemed
unconquerable a week before, for the chance of hearing a little in
addition, for the sake of at least hearing his name.

The first half-hour was lost, for Fanny and Lady Bertram were together,
and unless she had Fanny to herself she could hope for nothing. But
at last Lady Bertram left the room, and then almost immediately Miss
Crawford thus began, with a voice as well regulated as she could--"And
how do _you_ like your cousin Edmund's staying away so long? Being the
only young person at home, I consider _you_ as the greatest sufferer.
You must miss him. Does his staying longer surprise you?"

"I do not know," said Fanny hesitatingly. "Yes; I had not particularly
expected it."

"Perhaps he will always stay longer than he talks of. It is the general
way all young men do."

"He did not, the only time he went to see Mr. Owen before."

"He finds the house more agreeable _now_. He is a very--a very pleasing
young man himself, and I cannot help being rather concerned at not
seeing him again before I go to London, as will now undoubtedly be the
case. I am looking for Henry every day, and as soon as he comes there
will be nothing to detain me at Mansfield. I should like to have seen
him once more, I confess. But you must give my compliments to him. Yes;
I think it must be compliments. Is not there a something wanted,
Miss Price, in our language--a something between compliments and--and
love--to suit the sort of friendly acquaintance we have had together? So
many months' acquaintance! But compliments may be sufficient here.
Was his letter a long one? Does he give you much account of what he is
doing? Is it Christmas gaieties that he is staying for?"

"I only heard a part of the letter; it was to my uncle; but I believe
it was very short; indeed I am sure it was but a few lines. All that I
heard was that his friend had pressed him to stay longer, and that he
had agreed to do so. A _few_ days longer, or _some_ days longer; I am
not quite sure which."

"Oh! if he wrote to his father; but I thought it might have been to Lady
Bertram or you. But if he wrote to his father, no wonder he was concise.
Who could write chat to Sir Thomas? If he had written to you, there
would have been more particulars. You would have heard of balls
and parties. He would have sent you a description of everything and
everybody. How many Miss Owens are there?"

"Three grown up."

"Are they musical?"

"I do not at all know. I never heard."

"That is the first question, you know," said Miss Crawford, trying to
appear gay and unconcerned, "which every woman who plays herself is sure
to ask about another. But it is very foolish to ask questions about
any young ladies--about any three sisters just grown up; for one knows,
without being told, exactly what they are: all very accomplished and
pleasing, and one very pretty. There is a beauty in every family; it is
a regular thing. Two play on the pianoforte, and one on the harp; and
all sing, or would sing if they were taught, or sing all the better for
not being taught; or something like it."

"I know nothing of the Miss Owens," said Fanny calmly.

"You know nothing and you care less, as people say. Never did tone
express indifference plainer. Indeed, how can one care for those one has
never seen? Well, when your cousin comes back, he will find Mansfield
very quiet; all the noisy ones gone, your brother and mine and myself. I
do not like the idea of leaving Mrs. Grant now the time draws near. She
does not like my going."

Fanny felt obliged to speak. "You cannot doubt your being missed by
many," said she. "You will be very much missed."

Miss Crawford turned her eye on her, as if wanting to hear or see more,
and then laughingly said, "Oh yes! missed as every noisy evil is missed
when it is taken away; that is, there is a great difference felt. But I
am not fishing; don't compliment me. If I _am_ missed, it will appear.
I may be discovered by those who want to see me. I shall not be in any
doubtful, or distant, or unapproachable region."

Now Fanny could not bring herself to speak, and Miss Crawford was
disappointed; for she had hoped to hear some pleasant assurance of her
power from one who she thought must know, and her spirits were clouded
again.

"The Miss Owens," said she, soon afterwards; "suppose you were to have
one of the Miss Owens settled at Thornton Lacey; how should you like it?
Stranger things have happened. I dare say they are trying for it. And
they are quite in the right, for it would be a very pretty establishment
for them. I do not at all wonder or blame them. It is everybody's duty
to do as well for themselves as they can. Sir Thomas Bertram's son is
somebody; and now he is in their own line. Their father is a clergyman,
and their brother is a clergyman, and they are all clergymen together.
He is their lawful property; he fairly belongs to them. You don't speak,
Fanny; Miss Price, you don't speak. But honestly now, do not you rather
expect it than otherwise?"

"No," said Fanny stoutly, "I do not expect it at all."

"Not at all!" cried Miss Crawford with alacrity. "I wonder at that. But
I dare say you know exactly--I always imagine you are--perhaps you do
not think him likely to marry at all--or not at present."

"No, I do not," said Fanny softly, hoping she did not err either in the
belief or the acknowledgment of it.

Her companion looked at her keenly; and gathering greater spirit from
the blush soon produced from such a look, only said, "He is best off as
he is," and turned the subject.



Miss Crawford's uneasiness was much lightened by this conversation, and
she walked home again in spirits which might have defied almost another
week of the same small party in the same bad weather, had they been put
to the proof; but as that very evening brought her brother down from
London again in quite, or more than quite, his usual cheerfulness, she
had nothing farther to try her own. His still refusing to tell her what
he had gone for was but the promotion of gaiety; a day before it might
have irritated, but now it was a pleasant joke--suspected only of
concealing something planned as a pleasant surprise to herself. And the
next day _did_ bring a surprise to her. Henry had said he should just
go and ask the Bertrams how they did, and be back in ten minutes, but
he was gone above an hour; and when his sister, who had been waiting for
him to walk with her in the garden, met him at last most impatiently in
the sweep, and cried out, "My dear Henry, where can you have been
all this time?" he had only to say that he had been sitting with Lady
Bertram and Fanny.

"Sitting with them an hour and a half!" exclaimed Mary.

But this was only the beginning of her surprise.

"Yes, Mary," said he, drawing her arm within his, and walking along
the sweep as if not knowing where he was: "I could not get away sooner;
Fanny looked so lovely! I am quite determined, Mary. My mind is entirely
made up. Will it astonish you? No: you must be aware that I am quite
determined to marry Fanny Price."

The surprise was now complete; for, in spite of whatever his
consciousness might suggest, a suspicion of his having any such views
had never entered his sister's imagination; and she looked so truly the
astonishment she felt, that he was obliged to repeat what he had said,
and more fully and more solemnly. The conviction of his determination
once admitted, it was not unwelcome. There was even pleasure with the
surprise. Mary was in a state of mind to rejoice in a connexion with the
Bertram family, and to be not displeased with her brother's marrying a
little beneath him.

"Yes, Mary," was Henry's concluding assurance. "I am fairly caught.
You know with what idle designs I began; but this is the end of them.
I have, I flatter myself, made no inconsiderable progress in her
affections; but my own are entirely fixed."

"Lucky, lucky girl!" cried Mary, as soon as she could speak; "what a
match for her! My dearest Henry, this must be my _first_ feeling; but
my _second_, which you shall have as sincerely, is, that I approve your
choice from my soul, and foresee your happiness as heartily as I wish
and desire it. You will have a sweet little wife; all gratitude and
devotion. Exactly what you deserve. What an amazing match for her! Mrs.
Norris often talks of her luck; what will she say now? The delight
of all the family, indeed! And she has some _true_ friends in it! How
_they_ will rejoice! But tell me all about it! Talk to me for ever. When
did you begin to think seriously about her?"

Nothing could be more impossible than to answer such a question, though
nothing could be more agreeable than to have it asked. "How the pleasing
plague had stolen on him" he could not say; and before he had expressed
the same sentiment with a little variation of words three times over,
his sister eagerly interrupted him with, "Ah, my dear Henry, and this
is what took you to London! This was your business! You chose to consult
the Admiral before you made up your mind."

But this he stoutly denied. He knew his uncle too well to consult him on
any matrimonial scheme. The Admiral hated marriage, and thought it never
pardonable in a young man of independent fortune.

"When Fanny is known to him," continued Henry, "he will doat on her.
She is exactly the woman to do away every prejudice of such a man as
the Admiral, for she he would describe, if indeed he has now delicacy
of language enough to embody his own ideas. But till it is absolutely
settled--settled beyond all interference, he shall know nothing of the
matter. No, Mary, you are quite mistaken. You have not discovered my
business yet."

"Well, well, I am satisfied. I know now to whom it must relate, and am
in no hurry for the rest. Fanny Price! wonderful, quite wonderful! That
Mansfield should have done so much for--that _you_ should have found
your fate in Mansfield! But you are quite right; you could not have
chosen better. There is not a better girl in the world, and you do not
want for fortune; and as to her connexions, they are more than good. The
Bertrams are undoubtedly some of the first people in this country. She
is niece to Sir Thomas Bertram; that will be enough for the world. But
go on, go on. Tell me more. What are your plans? Does she know her own
happiness?"

"No."

"What are you waiting for?"

"For--for very little more than opportunity. Mary, she is not like her
cousins; but I think I shall not ask in vain."

"Oh no! you cannot. Were you even less pleasing--supposing her not to
love you already (of which, however, I can have little doubt)--you would
be safe. The gentleness and gratitude of her disposition would secure
her all your own immediately. From my soul I do not think she would
marry you _without_ love; that is, if there is a girl in the world
capable of being uninfluenced by ambition, I can suppose it her; but ask
her to love you, and she will never have the heart to refuse."

As soon as her eagerness could rest in silence, he was as happy to tell
as she could be to listen; and a conversation followed almost as deeply
interesting to her as to himself, though he had in fact nothing to
relate but his own sensations, nothing to dwell on but Fanny's charms.
Fanny's beauty of face and figure, Fanny's graces of manner and goodness
of heart, were the exhaustless theme. The gentleness, modesty, and
sweetness of her character were warmly expatiated on; that sweetness
which makes so essential a part of every woman's worth in the judgment
of man, that though he sometimes loves where it is not, he can never
believe it absent. Her temper he had good reason to depend on and
to praise. He had often seen it tried. Was there one of the family,
excepting Edmund, who had not in some way or other continually exercised
her patience and forbearance? Her affections were evidently strong. To
see her with her brother! What could more delightfully prove that the
warmth of her heart was equal to its gentleness? What could be more
encouraging to a man who had her love in view? Then, her understanding
was beyond every suspicion, quick and clear; and her manners were the
mirror of her own modest and elegant mind. Nor was this all. Henry
Crawford had too much sense not to feel the worth of good principles
in a wife, though he was too little accustomed to serious reflection to
know them by their proper name; but when he talked of her having such a
steadiness and regularity of conduct, such a high notion of honour, and
such an observance of decorum as might warrant any man in the fullest
dependence on her faith and integrity, he expressed what was inspired by
the knowledge of her being well principled and religious.

"I could so wholly and absolutely confide in her," said he; "and _that_
is what I want."

Well might his sister, believing as she really did that his opinion of
Fanny Price was scarcely beyond her merits, rejoice in her prospects.

"The more I think of it," she cried, "the more am I convinced that you
are doing quite right; and though I should never have selected Fanny
Price as the girl most likely to attach you, I am now persuaded she is
the very one to make you happy. Your wicked project upon her peace turns
out a clever thought indeed. You will both find your good in it."

"It was bad, very bad in me against such a creature; but I did not know
her then; and she shall have no reason to lament the hour that first put
it into my head. I will make her very happy, Mary; happier than she has
ever yet been herself, or ever seen anybody else. I will not take her
from Northamptonshire. I shall let Everingham, and rent a place in this
neighbourhood; perhaps Stanwix Lodge. I shall let a seven years' lease
of Everingham. I am sure of an excellent tenant at half a word. I could
name three people now, who would give me my own terms and thank me."

"Ha!" cried Mary; "settle in Northamptonshire! That is pleasant! Then we
shall be all together."

When she had spoken it, she recollected herself, and wished it unsaid;
but there was no need of confusion; for her brother saw her only as the
supposed inmate of Mansfield parsonage, and replied but to invite her in
the kindest manner to his own house, and to claim the best right in her.

"You must give us more than half your time," said he. "I cannot admit
Mrs. Grant to have an equal claim with Fanny and myself, for we shall
both have a right in you. Fanny will be so truly your sister!"

Mary had only to be grateful and give general assurances; but she was
now very fully purposed to be the guest of neither brother nor sister
many months longer.

"You will divide your year between London and Northamptonshire?"

"Yes."

"That's right; and in London, of course, a house of your own: no longer
with the Admiral. My dearest Henry, the advantage to you of getting away
from the Admiral before your manners are hurt by the contagion of his,
before you have contracted any of his foolish opinions, or learned to
sit over your dinner as if it were the best blessing of life! _You_ are
not sensible of the gain, for your regard for him has blinded you; but,
in my estimation, your marrying early may be the saving of you. To have
seen you grow like the Admiral in word or deed, look or gesture, would
have broken my heart."

"Well, well, we do not think quite alike here. The Admiral has his
faults, but he is a very good man, and has been more than a father to
me. Few fathers would have let me have my own way half so much. You must
not prejudice Fanny against him. I must have them love one another."

Mary refrained from saying what she felt, that there could not be two
persons in existence whose characters and manners were less accordant:
time would discover it to him; but she could not help _this_ reflection
on the Admiral. "Henry, I think so highly of Fanny Price, that if I
could suppose the next Mrs. Crawford would have half the reason which
my poor ill-used aunt had to abhor the very name, I would prevent the
marriage, if possible; but I know you: I know that a wife you _loved_
would be the happiest of women, and that even when you ceased to
love, she would yet find in you the liberality and good-breeding of a
gentleman."

The impossibility of not doing everything in the world to make Fanny
Price happy, or of ceasing to love Fanny Price, was of course the
groundwork of his eloquent answer.

"Had you seen her this morning, Mary," he continued, "attending with
such ineffable sweetness and patience to all the demands of her aunt's
stupidity, working with her, and for her, her colour beautifully
heightened as she leant over the work, then returning to her seat to
finish a note which she was previously engaged in writing for that
stupid woman's service, and all this with such unpretending gentleness,
so much as if it were a matter of course that she was not to have a
moment at her own command, her hair arranged as neatly as it always is,
and one little curl falling forward as she wrote, which she now and then
shook back, and in the midst of all this, still speaking at intervals to
_me_, or listening, and as if she liked to listen, to what I said. Had
you seen her so, Mary, you would not have implied the possibility of her
power over my heart ever ceasing."

"My dearest Henry," cried Mary, stopping short, and smiling in his face,
"how glad I am to see you so much in love! It quite delights me. But
what will Mrs. Rushworth and Julia say?"

"I care neither what they say nor what they feel. They will now see what
sort of woman it is that can attach me, that can attach a man of sense.
I wish the discovery may do them any good. And they will now see their
cousin treated as she ought to be, and I wish they may be heartily
ashamed of their own abominable neglect and unkindness. They will be
angry," he added, after a moment's silence, and in a cooler tone; "Mrs.
Rushworth will be very angry. It will be a bitter pill to her; that is,
like other bitter pills, it will have two moments' ill flavour, and then
be swallowed and forgotten; for I am not such a coxcomb as to suppose
her feelings more lasting than other women's, though _I_ was the object
of them. Yes, Mary, my Fanny will feel a difference indeed: a daily,
hourly difference, in the behaviour of every being who approaches her;
and it will be the completion of my happiness to know that I am the doer
of it, that I am the person to give the consequence so justly her due.
Now she is dependent, helpless, friendless, neglected, forgotten."

"Nay, Henry, not by all; not forgotten by all; not friendless or
forgotten. Her cousin Edmund never forgets her."

"Edmund! True, I believe he is, generally speaking, kind to her, and
so is Sir Thomas in his way; but it is the way of a rich, superior,
long-worded, arbitrary uncle. What can Sir Thomas and Edmund together
do, what do they _do_ for her happiness, comfort, honour, and dignity in
the world, to what I _shall_ do?"

 Fanny is overjoyed to see her brother William when he visits Mansfield Park, and spends every possible moment with him. Henry Crawford is impressed with their mutual devotion, and comes to view Fanny in a new light. He thinks how wonderful it must be to be loved like that, and soon falls in love with her. Fanny remains oblivious to Henry's feelings for her, but Sir Thomas becomes aware of the amount of attention that the infatuated Henry has been paying her. Henry does everything he can to get Fanny to notice him, including teaching her a card game called "Speculation" after a dinner party, in which Henry recounts for Edmund his accidental visit to Thornton Lacey, where Edmund is set to take on the job as pastor. Mary is crestfallen: she cannot believe that Edmund is actually becoming a pastor, and the thought of having him living away from Mansfield is too much for her to bear. Fanny also is saddened by Edmund's looming departure. At this point, William voices disappointment over the fact that he has not yet attained the rank of lieutenant, telling Fanny, "The Portsmouth girls turn up their noses at anyone who has not a commission. One might as well be nothing as a midshipman." William is leaving shortly, and he tells Fanny how much he would enjoy seeing her dance before he goes. Sir Thomas overhears this and immediately sets about organizing a ball for the Prices, Fanny, and William. The whole house is busy preparing for the ball and for Edmund and William's departure. Edmund vacillates back and forth about Mary: he wants to ask her to marry him before he leaves, but is fearful: "the issue all depended upon one thing. Did she love him well enough to forgo what used to be essential points-did she love him well enough to make them no longer essential? And this question, which he was continually repeating to himself, though oftenest answered with a 'Yes,' had sometimes its 'No'." Fanny is also worried about how to properly wear the amber cross William has given her as a gift, since she has no chain for it. On the way to ask Mary for advice, she runs into Mary, who coincidently was on her way to offer Fanny her choice of chains. Stunned by her kindness, Fanny accepts one, only to learn that it was a gift from Henry to his sister. She hesitates, but Mary insists that she accept it. Later, Edmund also presents Fanny with a chain, and she is overwhelmed by such a display of goodness. He tells her that she should accept Mary's chain so as not to hurt her feelings. However, when she realizes the depth of Edmund's feelings for Mary, she is heartbroken. Edmund visits the parsonage to ask Mary to keep the first two dances open for him, and once again she denigrates his choice of occupation. In response to her attitude, he withholds his proposal of marriage. The problem concerning the chain is solved when Fanny discovers that the cross will not fit through the ring of Mary's chain. She must use Edmund's chain for the cross, but ultimately decides to wear both chains. Lady Bertram makes a fuss over Fanny by sending her personal maid, Mrs. Chapman, to help Fanny dress even though Fanny has already finished dressing herself. To Fanny's great consternation, she has been selected to open the ball. She must lead the dancers, and is extremely intimidated by the importance of the task that has been assigned her. Fanny is, after all, shy, and prefers to remain on the margin rather than take center stage. Although everyone at Mansfield misses Maria and Julia, Fanny for once feels that she is being treated as well as her missing cousins. To Fanny's extreme delight, Henry has made arrangements for William to share his own carriage to return to his ship, the Thrush, which is ready to set sail out of Portsmouth. Henry also has surprised William by arranging an interview for him with his uncle, the Admiral. Naturally, both Fanny and William are overwhelmed with gratitude towards Henry. Fanny sadly leaves the ball early so that she can be up early and have breakfast with William. Sir Thomas peruses the crowd, and cannot help but become aware of Henry's affections for Fanny. Fanny is saddened by William's departure, but heartened by Henry's absence. Sir Thomas assumes that some of her tears are for Henry Crawford, but Fanny feels only relief that he has left: "William was gone, and she now felt as if she had wasted half his visit in idle cares and selfish solicitudes unconnected with him." Everyone, however, misses Edmund, who has gone off to take his orders. Fanny becomes ever more dear to the Bertrams, who discuss her remarkable qualities and marvel at how well she turned out. Meanwhile, Mary Crawford misses Edmund enormously, and wonders why he is staying away longer than expected. She visits Fanny for information about him and learns that he is staying with another clergyman, who happens to have two attractive, single sisters. Fanny realizes the depth of Mary's feelings for Edmund, and is once more saddened. That night, Henry returns from London. After visiting Mansfield for an hour and a half, he returns to the parsonage to tell Mary that he has decided to marry Fanny. She is delighted with the news, believing Fanny to be the perfect woman for Henry, and sees the union as a way for her to be close to Edmund. However, she recalls how her brother tinkered with the hearts of Maria and Julia, and wonders at their reaction. Henry dismisses her reservations, but she doesn't for a single moment consider the possibility that Fanny might not accept Henry.

